We arrived at the place where we had been secreted the evening before, just as the Indians were breaking camp. They started toward the road, and I watched them till they struck the road and headed toward the train.

I then dispatched one of my assistants to the train, which was nearly four miles distant, telling him to spare no horseflesh, but make the trip as quick as his horse was able to carry him and notify Jim of the Indians' movements. The other scout and I stayed to watch the Indians. They traveled along the road at their leisure until they got in sight of the train, but Jim had all in readiness for them. He had raised the tongues of the two lead wagons—which in forming a corrall always stood face to face— about six feet high and had the nine scalps we had taken the day before, strung on a line and swung under the wagon tongues so as to be readily seen by the Indians. As soon as the Indians came in sight of the train he had all the men form in single line on the outside of the corrall, while all the women and children and all the stock were on the inside.

They circled around the entire train, taking in the situation but keeping out of gunshot. Seeing that the emigrants, much to their surprise, were ready to receive them, and seeing no chance to stampede their stock, they rode off on the hillside about half a mile away and held a council for about half an hour, after which they all mounted and rode away. They were not disposed to tackle a greater number than they had, especially when their antagonists were armed with guns, while they had only bows, and arrows, and tomahawks.

Our men were well armed with such hand-guns as were then in existence. Some had squirrel rifles, others yager's, shotguns and pistols. In fact, about all makes of firearms were represented in that emigrant train.

This was the first big band of hostile Indians that any of the people had ever seen, and Jim said there was the "wust" hubbub inside that corrall he had ever heard, notwithstanding he had cautioned them to be quiet.

The most nervous of the women, at sight of the Indians, commenced crying and screaming, while those more brave tried to reconcile those that were half frenzied from fright, and keep them quiet. Some were afraid to have their husbands stand outside the corrall for fear they would be killed by the redskins; but had it not been for that line of men standing on the outside of the wagons, and those scalps dangling from the wagon tongues all of which led the Indians to believe that the pale-faces were anxious to entertain them for awhile at least, they undoubtedly would have attacked that train that morning.

My assistants and I watched them all that day, and the train, after the Indians had gone, moved on. The Indians went back and took the trail of the nine scouts that they had sent out the morning before, tracked them to where their dead bodies lay, and taking four of the bodies with them, moved on eastward. We selected a high point and watched them until they had gone about ten miles, and then we turned and followed up the train, which camped that night at the head of Rock Creek. When we arrived and reported that the Indians had left the county they were the happiest lot of people I ever saw. It seemed that they thought this was the only band of Indians in the country.

The next day being Sunday Jim proposed that we lay over and rest, saying that he was about worn out himself and that he was satisfied that the scouts were in the same condition. This was satisfactory to all, so we did not move camp that day.

Up to this time we had not killed any game, although we had seen plenty, there being considerable buffalo in this part of the country yet, but it had been contrary to orders to shoot while traveling, and I want to say right here that the people of this train were always obedient to our orders during our travels with them.

I told them I would go out and kill a buffalo that day provided I could find one not too far from camp. A number of men in the train wanted to go with me for a buffalo hunt. "The more the merrier," I said, so we and started, six of us together.

About two miles from camp we saw a band of fifteen that had not yet seen us. We at once dropped back over the hill and taking a circuitous route, we rode on the opposite side of them from camp, and cautiously to within about a hundred and fifty yards, when they raised their heads, took a good look at us and started off toward the train. I told Saunders as he was on a fast horse to take one side and I would take the other and let the other boys bring up the rear, as by so doing we could drive them near camp and save packing the meat so far. When we were in the valley just below camp I told each man to select his buffalo and fire, which they did, when within a quarter of a mile from camp. We then all commenced yelling like Indians, and Jim Bridger said that he never saw a crowd of men get to their guns as quick as the men in the train did, for they actually thought we were Indians.

We succeeded in killing four buffalo out of the band, the last one being within a hundred yards of camp. We dressed them and all hands volunteered to carry the meat to camp where it was turned over to the committee to be distributed among the people of the entire train.

This was a great treat to them, for they had been living on bacon for a long time, having no fresh meat whatever.

It was twenty-five miles from here to the next place where we could find water and a suitable camping place where we would also have a good chance to protect ourselves from Indians. So we pulled out early, I distributing my scouts as usual, only that I went alone and had a hard ride for nothing.

After I had gone quite a distance I saw what I supposed to be Indians; but they were a long way off. The thought struck me that it was the was the same band we had seen before and that they were sneaking around intending to steal a march on us and attack the train while traveling and stampede the stock, which was often done when no scouts were kept out for their protection. I started to follow them up and did not find out my mistake until I struck the trail of my supposed band of Indians which to my surprise proved to be a buffalo trail and instead of Indians I had been following a band of buffalo all day.

That night I laid out and the people in camp were very uneasy about me, thinking I never would return, as they thought I must have been killed by Indians. Jim told them not to be alarmed as I would turn up all right the next day.

On a trip of this kind I usually took a lunch along with me; but not expecting to be out long this time I did not take anything to eat, so I had to starve it out until I got back to the train, which was the next day at noon.

I did not see any fresh Indian sign on the entire trip; neither did the other scouts see any sign of them, and we concluded that if we did not have any trouble for three days, we would be out of danger of the Sioux, for by that time we would be out in the Bitter Creek country and there was no fear of Indians there.

All went along smoothly and we did not see or hear of any more Indians until we got to Fort Bridger. Here I met one of Gen. Connor's men who told me that the Utes were very bad in the vicinity of Fort Douglas near Salt Lake, that being the place where Gen. Connor was stationed at that time. He said that they had not been able to get a fight out of the Indians yet, although they had followed them around a great deal.

We decided to take Sublet's Cutoff, leaving Salt Lake City about one hundred miles south, as Jim said he would rather fight Indians than Mormons.

Six days after leaving Fort Bridger I met two of Gen. Connor's scouts in Cash valley, and they told us the Utes were very bad farther West, and advised us to take the Goose Creek route to avoid the Indians. We took their advice.

Here was a scope of country that neither Jim nor I had ever been over, it being a new road just made the year previous.

After traveling four days on this road, late in the evening of the fourth, I discovered a little band of Indians about six or eight miles from the road on a stream that I have since heard called Raft river, which is a tributary of the Snake.

We watched the band until dark and then rode as near as we thought safe. I then left my horse with my two assistants and crawled up near the Indian camp and tried to get a count on them. When I got near them I found that they were Bannocks and were not warriors, but apparently a hunting and fishing party, and were an old men and women. I went away without molesting or even allowing them to know that I had been there.

Four days' travel from here brought us into a section of country where I had done my first scouting, on the waters of the Humboldt. The first day after striking the Humboldt, three of my men and I late in the afternoon, ran on to a small band of Utes, eleven in number. I thought we had discovered them and got away without being noticed, so I told the boys that by making a circuit of about one and a half miles we would have the advantage of the ground and would be on to them before they knew it.

On arriving at the place where I expected to make the charge I was disappointed to find that they were mounted and on the move, they having no doubt gotten sight of us when we first saw them. We gave chase but they had too far the start of us, and after running about two miles we ended the pursuit.

There was no more trouble until we got to where Wadsworth now stands. Here, one morning about sunrise, as the herders were bringing in the stock, five Indians rushed in and tried to stampede the animals, but the herders happened to see them in time to give the alarm. Jim and I having our horses tied near the camp, were out after them quicker than I can tell it. We got two of them, and I think the other three must have thought themselves extremely lucky that they got away with their scalps.

The only damage done by them was that they scared the herders out of a year's growth, and just where those Indians came from I never have been able to tell, for I made it a rule to circle the camp every evening and look for Indians and Indian signs.

This was the only time on the trip that I had an Indian steal a march on me, and this was the last trouble we had with Indians on this trip. Ten days travel brought us to the foot of the Sierra Nevada Mountains at the head of Eagle Valley.

Jim knowing that they wanted to lay over the next day, it being Sunday, he selected a lovely camping ground in a pleasant pine grove and went into camp about the middle of the afternoon.

As soon as we had got into camp, Jim and I went to the committee and told them they did not need our services any longer as there would be no danger whatever from here on of Indians, they being now out of the hostile country entirely.

When the women folks learned that we were going to leave they proposed giving a farewell party that night. Having musicians in the train, they selected a nice level spot, and all who desired to participate congregated there and had an enjoyable time. I think they enjoyed that dance out in that lovely forest as much as though they had been dancing in the finest hall in San Francisco; and I think even the old people who were religious were so overjoyed to know that they were once more safe from the much dreaded and barbarous red men of the plains, that they almost felt like dancing themselves.

Although I had been with this train just two and one half months I had been in company with the ladies but very little, for I had never been in in daylight only just long enough to eat my meals and change horses, consequently I was but slightly acquainted with any of them. This was the first dance on the trip, and it was surprising to me to see how sociable the ladies were with me, and had it not been that I was so bashful, I might have had a pleasant time.

When the dance was over, about ten o'clock that night, one of the committee got up and made us quite a speech in behalf of the people in the train, telling us how much they appreciated the interest we had taken in guarding their train through safely, and after he was through talking he gave each of us a letter of recommendation, which had been drawn up that evening while the dance was going on. I think those letters were signed by every man in the train, and a great many of the ladies had signed them too. The speaker concluded his remarks by asking us to remain with the train as long as we desired, and our provisions should not cost us a cent, nor for having our horses herded with theirs. It being too late in the fall to return to Fort Kearney, we accepted their kind and liberal offer and concluded to travel with them a few days.

We remained with them until near Sacramento, and here I met my old friend Johnnie West. He was beginning to look very old, considering his age. He told me he had quit drinking and was going to lead a different life from this on; that he had taken up a ranch five miles from Sacramento on the river and invited us home with him.

We accepted the invitation, and bidding the people that we had been traveling with nearly three months, good-bye, we left them and went with Johnnie to his ranch.

When we were ready to leave, I think every person in the train shook hands with us.



CHAPTER XXIII.

BRIDGER AND WEST GIVE CHRISTMAS A HIGH OLD WELCOME IN SACRAMENTO. —CALIFORNIA GULCH.—MEETING WITH BUFFALO BILL.—THIRTY-THREE SCALPS WITH ONE KNIFE.

On our arrival at Johnnie West's ranch we found that he had quite a comfortable house, considering that it had been built by an old trapper. He had five acres under cultivation, and had raised a promiscuous lot of very desirable produce, especially in the way of vegetable truck.

We remained with West two months, putting in our time hunting, fishing and loafing. It being near Christmas now, the question arose as to what we would do to celebrate that festive season. Jim was for going to San Francisco and Johnnie wanted to go to Sacramento. I told them it was immaterial to me where I went. But all this time I was afraid that if John West got to town in company with Jim Bridger that West would break his oft-repeated resolutions and there would be a big run on the reddest kind of paint. I told Jim my fears and proposed that we remain at home and take our Christmas there. But Jim couldn't see it in that light, and said one little spree wouldn't hurt Johnnie, so the day before Christmas we pulled out for Sacramento. That same evening Jim and Johnnie both got loads that they ought to have gone after about nine times, if they just had to pack them, and the result was that it was my busy day keeping them out of the calaboose. I promised the police I would put them to bed and make them stay there until morning.

Next morning, the first thing after we had dressed, Jim said: "Well boys, let's go and have a Christmas drink." I said: "Boys, I will take one drink with you and then quit. Now if you fellows want to make brutes of yourselves and get into the lock-up, just go ahead, but I am going to go home as soon as I get my breakfast." So we went down the street and into the first saloon we came to and called for egg-nogg. I remained with them until they were drinking their fifth drink. I could not do anything with them, so I told them I was going to breakfast, and they could do as they pleased. This was the first time in my life that I had ever been placed in a position where I was actually ashamed of my associates. I was so disgusted when I left them that morning to go to my breakfast that I thought I would go home and leave them. But after eating my breakfast, being, perhaps, in a better humor, I started out to hunt for them. I do not wish to try for a moment to lead the reader to believe that I do not like the taste of liquor, for I am confident at that time I really liked it better than either of my associates, but I always despise the effect, and that seemed to be what they, like thousands of other, drink it for. It always seemed to me that when a man is drunk he is more disposed to show the brute that is in him than to act a gentleman.

After looking around some little time I found Jim Bridger in a saloon so drunk that he could scarcely walk. I asked him where Johnny West was, and the bar-keeper told me that the police had taken him to the station-house. I asked what for, and he said for trying to shoot some one.

I watched for an opportunity and took both of Jim's pistols and knife away from him and gave them to the clerk at the hotel. Afterwards I walked to the station-house to see what the charge was against Johnny West. The man told me the charge was drunk and disorderly and shooting a pistol inside of a house. I asked him if he would let Johnny out if I would pay the fine. He said: "Yes. As soon as he is sober to-morrow morning, you can come around. The charges will be twenty dollars."

If the reader ever had any experience with a drunken man, which to me is the most disgusting thing on earth, he can realize something of the time I had with those two men, for it took me all the next day to get Johnny West home and get him reconciled.

He was determined to return to Sacramento, and it took me two more days hard work and coaxing to get Jim Bridger home. I have it by good authority that this was the last drunken spree that Johnnie West ever took. He remained on his ranch some six years longer and having accumulated considerable wealth, sold out for a good price and returned home to his relations in Texas, and there died a short time afterwards;

Jim Bridger and myself stayed at Johnny's until about the middle of January. This now being 1861, we started for New Mexico, via Los Angeles, with the intention of laying over in Los Angeles until we could cross the Rocky Mountains. There was a good wagon road from Sacramento to San Jose, and from San Jose to Los Angeles.

At this time the Indians were all peaceable through California, the only trouble with them was their begging. At that I think, beyond any doubt, that they could beat any class of people it has ever been my misfortune to meet.

We arrived at Los Angeles on the fifth of February. It being one of the Spanish feast days, they were having a great time. The Spanish population of this place having now become reconciled, we were treated with due respect while we remained here, being about one week, during which time we lived on fruit. For here were fruits and flowers, world without end. Beyond any doubt, this is the greatest place for flowers that I have ever seen.

Soon we pulled out for New Mexico, keeping on the north side of the Colorado river until above the head of the Grand Canyon, this being pretty well up in the Rocky Mountains, and here near the head of the Grand Canyon we began to see more or less Indian sign, but we were undecided as to what tribe of Indians they belonged.

The second day after crossing the Colorado river we ran on to a band of Indians, but to our satisfaction they were of the Pima tribe, and the same young Indian whose sister had assisted me in rescuing the white girl Olive Oatman, was with them.

As soon as he saw me, he ran to meet me and shouted "Kain, igo,"— meaning "Hello, friend,"—and shook hands with me.

The Pimas were out on their annual hunt for that season, and we had to remain with them two days. Being acquainted with them all, and as I have said before, when one is out in a hostile Indian country, sometimes the company of friendly Indians is quite acceptable.

After leaving here we would be compelled to pass over a small portion of the Ute country, and game being plentiful at this time, we feared they might be out on a hunt, and just at present we were not hankering after sport of the Indian fighting kind. So I proposed to Jim Bridger that we hire four of these young Pimas to accompany us through the Ute country, knowing that the Pimas were on good terms with all their neighboring tribes. Jim said that we had nothing to give them, having neither jewelry or beads with us.

I told him that I would spare them a horse if we could get them to go, I had four horses with me, while Jim only had three. He told me to go ahead and make any kind of a bargain with them I liked and he would stand his portion.

That night after supper while we were sitting around the camp fire, smoking and cracking jokes—for an Indian enjoys a joke as well as any one—I got up and told them that we would, after leaving their country, have to travel over a small portion of the Ute country, and they being hostile towards the white people, we did not feel safe to try to cross their country alone, I told them we were very poor, having no beads nor blankets to spare, but if four of their men would accompany us for three days, I would give them a good horse.

The young Indian said: "You have been a good friend to me, and me and my friend will go with you across the Ute country. We don't want your horse, but when you come back you can bring us some beads."

This we agreed to do, and the next morning we started early, accompanied by four young Pima Indians.

During the first two days' travel from the Pima camp we saw not less than two hundred Indians of the Ute tribe, camping the second night within a quarter of a mile of a large village of them, but having those Pimas with us they did not offer to molest us.

When we were approaching a village two of the Pimas would ride ahead and tell the Utes that we were their friends. They traveled with us four days, when we concluded we were safe and they returned to their crowd of hunters, and we proceeded on our journey, crossing the main divide of the Rocky Mountains at the head of the Blue river, striking the head of the Arkansas river as soon as we were across the main divide.

The day we crossed the divide we went into camp as soon as we were out of the snow on the east side. That night when it was dark we could see down the Arkansas river a great number of camp fires, and what this all meant was a mystery to us. We knew that we were then in the Comanche country, but we could not think that they were up in that region so early in the season. We were both somewhat restless that night, sleeping but very little, fearing that these were camp-fires of the Utes, and if so we were sure to have trouble with them before we could get out of this part of the country.

We were not in much of a hurry to start next morning, but I took my glasses and selecting a high point for a general look, was agreeably surprised to see that the camp was one of wagons and tents. That made us feel considerably better. We packed up at once and went down to see what it all meant.

On arriving we found a company of miners. The gold in California Gulch had just recently been discovered, and that was attracting them. As soon as we learned the cause of the excitement, we struck camp and walked up the canyon to where they were at work. They were taking out gold in great quantities, but we only remained until next morning, when we packed up and started for Taos, going via the place where Colorado City now stands—a deserted village near the present city of Colorado Springs. We were now in a country where we were perfectly safe, so far as Indians were concerned, and we could travel at our ease.

On our first day's travel, after leaving the mining we passed through the country where I did my first trapping in company with Uncle Kit Carson and Mr. Hughes, and as we were riding along I pointed out to Jim the place where I took my first Indian scalp. This was the first time I had ever mentioned it to him and he said that Uncle Kit had told him all about it a long time ago.

On our arrival at Taos we found Uncle Kit suffering severely from the effects of the arrow wound that has twice before been mentioned in this history. He and his wife were glad to see us, and Uncle Kit insisted on my remaining with him and taking charge of his stock. He now had several bands of sheep and some four hundred head of cattle, and not being able to ride and look after the camps, he wanted me to ride from one camp to the other and look after the business in general, for which he offered to pay me well. I agreed to work for him at least two or three months and perhaps longer, provided I liked the business.

After I had been one month at work a wholesale butcher came over from Denver to buy cattle and sheep. I went out and showed him Uncle Kit's, after which we returned to Taos and he closed a trade with Uncle Kit, agreeing to take one hundred head of cattle and one thousand head of sheep. The price to be paid for them I never knew, but he paid a certain portion down and the balance was to be paid the coming October, in Denver City.

I remained with Uncle Kit until the first of October, looking after things in general, when he asked me to accompany him to Denver City, which was one hundred and eighty miles from Taos.

About the middle of the afternoon of the sixth day we rode into Denver, from the southwest. When near where Cherry creek runs through the city we saw an immense crowd of people in the streets, so we pushed on to see what the excitement was.

When near the crowd we met three or four men on horseback riding up the street. We asked what was causing the excitement. One of them replied: "Oh, nothing, only they are going to hang a man down there in a few minutes."

This being the first opportunity I had ever had to see a man hung, we stayed and saw it through. We rode up to the edge of the crowd, which was about forty yards from the scaffold where the hanging was to take place, and had been there but a few moments when we saw the sheriff coming with the prisoner, having a very strong guard of some two hundred men all well armed. As soon as the prisoner stepped on to the platform some one handed him a chair to sit down in.

The sheriff turned to the prisoner and said: "Mr. Gordon if you have anything to say, now you have the opportunity. I will give you all the time necessary to say what you wish."

The prisoner rose to his feet and brushed his hair back, apparently cool, but the moment he commenced to talk I could see the tears begin to trickle down his cheeks.

I thought it a most pitiful sight. He did not talk long, but briefly thanked his friends for their kindness towards him during his confinement, and said: "Gentlemen, I think you did very wrong in holding out the idea to me that I would come clear, when you knew very well that there was no show whatever for me," and took his seat.

A gospel minister then stepped upon the platform and engaged in prayer. When he rose from praying the prisoner was weeping bitterly. The sheriff then stepped up to him and said: "Come, Mr. Gordon, your time is up," and he took him by one arm and another man by the other, and when he raised to his feet they tied his hands behind him, tied a cloth over his face, led him on to the trap and the sheriff placed the rope around his neck and started down the steps to spring the trap, when the prisoner sang out: "Come back, Meadows, come back!"

The sheriff turned and walked up to where the prisoner was, and he said:

"Meadows, fix the rope good so it will break my neck, for I want to die quick."

After the sheriff had fixed the rope he stepped down and sprung the trap, and from where I was I could not see that Gordon made the least struggle after he dropped.

Just as we were ready to leave here who should step up but our old friend Mr. Joe Favor, whom we had not seen for a long time. He insisted on us going to his store, telling us where to put our horses. So, after putting our horses up, we went around with him.

On arriving at Favor's place we found that he had a number of his St. Louis friends with him, who had only arrived a few days previous to this. After introducing us all around, he said: "I want you two men to come over and take supper with me. I have just ordered supper at the Jefferson House."

Uncle Kit tried to excuse himself on the grounds that we were not dressed well enough to go into company, we having on our buckskin suits. But his answer was:

"I would not have you dressed otherwise if I could, so be sure and come with your side arms on" having reference to our revolvers and knives. He then addressed his conversation to me for a few moments by asking what I would take to tell him the honest truth as to how many Indians I had scalped with the knife that he gave me, seeing that I still carried it.

I said: "Mr. Favor, I could tell you just the number, but it would be out of place for me to do so." He asked why, and I said: "Mr. Favor, up to this time I don't think I have ever given you any reason to doubt my word, but if I should tell you the honest truth as to the number of Indians I have scalped with that knife I fear you would doubt me."

By this time a number of his St. Louis friends had flocked around me, and it seemed as if they would look through me. Mr. Favor assured me that he would not doubt my word for a moment, but I told him his friends would. They assured me that they would not, saying from what they had heard of me from Mr. Favor before seeing me, they felt satisfied that I would tell them the truth.

I said: "Gentlemen, if I had gotten one more scalp I would just have even thirty-four, but as it is I have just taken thirty-three scalps with this knife. I mean from Indians that I killed myself. I have taken a number that were killed by others, but I did not count them."

The crowd then turned their attention to Uncle Kit Carson, and while at the supper table those St. Louis parties asked him what he would take to sit down and give them a true history of his life and let them write it up and have it published. To this he would not hear. They then came at him in a different manner by asking what per cent, of the net proceeds he would take. To this he said: "Gentlemen, if there is anything on earth that I do dislike it surely is this thing called notoriety," and he continued by saying, "There is a part of my life that I hate to think of myself, and a book written without the whole of my life would not amount to anything."

After supper we returned to the store and those men talked with Uncle Kit until near midnight about this matter. By this time he had become impatient and said: "Gentlemen, there is no use talking, for I will not submit to a thing of this kind, and you will oblige me very much by not mentioning it any more." So that ended the conversation concerning the matter, for the time being, and Uncle Kit and I retired for the night.

The morning following I walked down to the store and Mr. Favor told me there had been some parties looking for me, and left word for me to meet them at the store at ten o'clock.

I sat down and waited until they came at the hour appointed. A gentleman in the crowd named Green Campbell seemed to be their spokesman. And, by the way, this same Mr. Campbell has since grown to be very wealthy and now resides in Salt Lake City, and a few years ago was nominated on the Gentile ticket for Governor, but was defeated.

Mr. Campbell said to me: "There are five of us that have been mining here this summer and have done very well, but we are not satisfied. We want to go on to the waters of the Gila river and prospect this winter, and have been trying for several days to find some one that could guide us to that country, and Mr. Favor having recommended you to us very highly, we wish to make some kind of a bargain with you if we can, to guide us to that part of the country. Is it safe for a small party to go in there?"

I said: "Mr. Campbell, it depends altogether in what part of the country you want to go. I could take you on the waters of the Gila river where you would be perfectly safe, but whether it would be where you want to go or not is the question." I drew a diagram of that part of the country as best I could, showing the different tributaries to the river, pointing out the region where they would be safe and also that which they would not dare enter on account of the hostile Apache Indians.

Mr. Campbell asked me if I would remain with them until spring. I told him I would, and they made me a proposition, which I accepted. They were to furnish all the pack animals necessary for the outfit and to board me, I to furnish my own saddle-horses. I advised them to go to Taos with a wagon and team, and buy their pack animals there as they would be able to get them much cheaper than in Denver. They proposed that I go to Taos and buy the pack animals and have everything ready by the time they would arrive, as they had business which would necessarily detain them for at least two weeks. This I agreed to do.

That afternoon I was walking down the street near the Planters House when I met a policeman in great haste, making his way for the hotel mentioned. As he approached me he said: "I deputize you to assist me in making the arrest of those stage drivers in the Planters' House." This was a crowd of men who were driving stage at that time for the notorious Slade, of whom more will be said later on.

I had left my side arms at Mr. Favor's store, not thinking I would have any occasion to use them, but at the request of the policeman, I entered the hotel and found a general row proceeding. As soon as we entered the door two or three of the crowd made for me, I backed off and defended myself the best that I could, until I had backed to the end of the hall. The door at the end of the hall being shut, I could back no farther. Here I sparred with them for some time, when one of them struck at me with all vengeance and just grazed the side of my face. As I threw my head and shoulders back to dodge the blow I knocked the whole upper portion of the glass door out. Just at that instant Wm. F. Cody, better known as Buffalo Bill, seeing the predicament I was in, and seeing that I was unarmed, caught me by the shoulders and jerked me through that window much quicker than I could tell it. He handed me one of his pistols and said: "Come on pard, and we will take them fellows or know the reason why."

When we entered the door they had the policeman and bar-keeper both cornered behind the bar, but seeing that we were prepared for them, strange to say, not one of them drew his pistol, but all surrendered at once, and the entire crowd, six in number, were escorted to the cooler.

The name of this policeman was William Deecy, and he is now living in Boulder, Montana. I saw him less than one year ago, and we enjoyed a good laugh as we rehearsed the affair of the Planters' House.

That afternoon after having his business attended to, Uncle Kit went to Mr. Favor and said: "Joe, I want you and your friends from St. Louis to come and take supper with me this evening at the same hotel where we had supper last evening."

When Uncle Kit spoke in this manner Mr. Favor felt sure that he had changed his mind in regard to having his life written up, and before going to supper, in the absence of Uncle Kit, Mr. Favor asked me about it. I told him he had not. Whereupon he proposed betting me a new hat that those parties would write up his, Kit Carson's, life. I said; "Not by his consent." "Yes," said he, "by his own consent."

This bet I accepted, and that night Mr. Favor and all of his St. Louis friends accompanied us from the store down to the hotel for supper. There was one gentleman in the crowd who was a splendid talker, and apparently an intelligent man, and when at the supper table that night, he mentioned the matter to Uncle Kit again of having his life published. On turning his eyes to the refined gentleman, he said: "I would have you understand that when I say anything I mean it. I told you in plain English last evening that I would not submit to anything of that kind, and now don't compel me to talk too harsh, but please drop the subject at once."

Mr. Favor, who had been watching very close all this time, could see at once there was no use in talking any more about the subject and turned the conversation as quickly as possible and there was no more said about it.

That night while in a conversation with Buffalo Bill he told Uncle Kit and I that he would be going out to Bent's Fort in a few days and proposed that we join him there and have a buffalo hunt before I went away. We promised that we would meet him.

The next morning Uncle Kit and I mounted our horses to start on our return trip to Taos, and when we rode up in front of the store, Mr. Favor told me to come in and get my hat. I told him no, that I would not take it now, but let it go until next spring when I returned. He said to call and get it any time, saying: "You won it fair."

After we had ridden but a short distance I told Uncle Kit how I came to win the hat, and he said: "I think them St. Louis men are gentlemen, but I don't propose to have any one write up my life. I have got plenty to keep me as long as I live and I do not like notoriety." And just here I would say, that to a man that roughed it out on the plains in those days as we old frontiersmen had to do, they did not feel that a history of their lives would be fit to go before the public, for as Uncle Kit said: "A man on the frontier had to undergo many hardships, that if written up true, just as they occurred, people in the civilized countries would not believe them when they read it."

On my arrival at Taos I bought ten Mexican jacks or burros to use for pack animals on the trip that we were about to start upon. After that we started for Bent's Fort where we joined Buffalo Bill and Col. Bent and struck out for the "Picket Wire"—Purgatoire—on a buffalo hunt.

Here we found buffalo plenty and enjoyed two days successful hunting, and I must say that a more jolly crowd I was never out with than those three men were on a trip of this kind. Buffalo Bill, who was as good-natured a man as a person would wish to meet, was able to furnish amusement for the entire crowd. Col. Bent himself was no mean Nimrod, and Uncle Kit did not take a back seat on such occasions.

This was the last hunting expedition that it was ever my pleasure to go upon in company with Mr. Cody, and it was not my pleasure to meet him again for a number of years afterwards.

From here Uncle Kit and I returned to Taos, and I commenced making preparations for the trip to the waters of the Gila.



CHAPTER XXIV.

FACE TO FACE WITH A BAND OF APACHES.—THE DEATH OF PINTO.—THE CLOSEST CALL I EVER HAD.—A NIGHT ESCAPE.—BACK AT FORT DOUGLAS.

On the arrival of Mr. Campbell and party we packed up and were off to the waters of the Gila. Our crowd consisted of Green Campbell, of Missouri; Thomas Freeman and David Roberts, of Illinois, and Marlow Pease, of Massachusetts.

I took three saddle horses with me and they each took a saddle horse and three extra horses belonging to the company. We did not lose any time getting across the main divide. Being late in the fall we had great fear of becoming snow-bound on the trip. We left the head of the Arkansas river some fifty miles to the north so as to be able to cross the river without having the snow to encounter. After we were across the main divide I told them there would be no danger of being snowed in now. So they would stop occasionally from half a day to three days in a place to prospect what they called the most favorable looking places for the yellow metal and most generally finding a little gold, but not as they considered in paying quantities, and while they were prospecting it was my business to scout all around the camp to prevent a surprise party by the reds and to kill game to live on.

We arrived at the Gila, striking the middle fork a little more southwest than I had ever been before. I told them we were now in the Apache country and that those were the worst Indians we had to contend with. We found a nice place for a camp and Mr. Campbell proposed to build a log cabin in order to protect ourselves against the Indians, but I told them I thought they had better prospect a week or ten days first, and if they found it to pay them we could build a cabin, and in the mean time I would try and locate the Indians and watch their movements.

The first four or five days I didn't go very far away, but made an entire circuit of the camp every day. After being here five or six days, I struck out in a southwesterly direction, intending to go about ten or fifteen miles from camp.

Up to this time I had not seen any fresh Indian sign whatever, and had about concluded that we would not have any trouble this winter with them. After riding about ten miles or so I came to a nice little brook, and there being fine grass, I stopped and let my horse feed for an hour or more. I was riding my old Pinto that day and he was also feeling fine.

About one o'clock I mounted Pinto and started south, striking for a high mountain, from which if I could once reach the top, I could, with the aid of my glasses, see all over the entire country. While climbing this mountain I ran on to a bear cub. Seeing that he was very fat, I shot him and lashed him behind my saddle, and was soon climbing the mountain again, which was, in places, steep and very rocky, with scattering pine trees here and there. After going about a half a mile and just as I came to the top of a steep little pitch, I came face to face with a band of Apache Indians. I did not take time to count them, but thought there were about eighteen or twenty of them, I fired four shots in quick succession. The first two shots I killed two Indians, but the other two I could not tell whether I got my men or not, as I was just in the act of turning my horse when I fired. They fired a perfect shower of arrows at me. To run back down the mountain the way I came was a matter of impossibility, as it was both steep and rocky, so I took around the side of the mountain, thinking that I would be able in a few moments' run to reach the top of the mountain, where I could have a better show to defend myself.

I had to ride all over my horse to avoid the arrows, first on one side, hanging by one foot and one hand, then on the other side.

I had not run more than one hundred yards until I knew there was something wrong with my horse, for he had always before seemed to know when I was in a tight place and seemed eager to carry me out of danger. I gave him the spurs three or four times but he did not increase his speed in the least, and then I knew well that he had been shot, and it always seemed a miracle to me that I went through all that and did not get shot also.

It is quite useless for me to say I thought my time had come. On looking ahead some fifty yards I saw a pile of rocks about four or five feet high, which I made a bee line for. Getting to the rock pile I dismounted and ran between two large rocks where poor old Pinto tried to follow me, but he received two more arrows in his hip and one in his flank. He fell to the ground, and after falling raised his head, and looking toward me, whinnied.

The poor faithful old fellow lay there and would whinny for me at intervals as long as he lived, which was perhaps half an hour. The reader can fancy my condition just at this time. Here I was almost surrounded by hostile Indians and the only friend that I had with me dead. I did not expect to ever get away from there, for I expected that while a part of the Indians guarded me the balance would go off and rally reinforcements.

I had made up my mind to fight them to the last and kill as many as I could before they got me. They made three desperate charges for me before dark, but as luck would have it I was always loaded for them. I piled up rocks as I could get them loose in a manner to give me protection from every quarter, but expected they would reinforce and attempt to starve me out.

Just as it was getting dark, two of the Indians crawled up to within thirty feet of my rock pen. I was watching them, and just as they rose up to fire I fired and brought one of them to the ground, thereby making another good Apache. The other one ran away, and it being somewhat dark, I did not get him.

This made the fifth Indian I had killed since I had been in my little rock pen and I had fired eleven shots. After it was good and dark I made up my mind that I would get out of there sometime during the night, for to remain there till the morrow only meant death, and I might as well lose my life in trying to get away that night as to remain there and be killed the next day. I felt sure they had a guard around me, but I made up my mind to make a desperate effort to get away. I crawled to where my dead horse was laying, which was only a few feet from my rock house, cut the latigo, removed my saddle from the dead horse, lashed it to my back, taking the mochilar or covering for a saddle, which I have described heretofore, I took my knife and cut a hole in the front portion of the mochila where the pommel of the saddle protrudes, so that I was able to stick my head through. The mochila was good as a shield, for an arrow would not go through it except at very short range. I cut the reins off of the bridle, and as the bit was a very heavy one, I thought it would answer pretty well as a sling shot in close quarters.

I had no idea of getting out without a desperate fight with ninety-nine chances against me to one in my favor. After I had my rig complete I started to crawl away flat on the ground like a snake, I would crawl for a short distance, then stop and listen. It was very dark, there being no moon in the fore part of the night. I was expecting every minute to feel an arrow or a tomahawk in my head. After working my way down the hill some hundred yards or so, I came to a tree and raised up by the side of it. I stood and listened for some time, but could not hear anything of the Indians, so I struck out in the direction of camp, walking very cautiously for some little distance.

After traveling about six miles I felt comparatively safe, knowing they could not do anything toward tracking me until morning and did not think they would even be able to track me then.

I passed over a great deal of rocky country where there was but little vegetation. Finally I laid down to wait until morning, and I must say that I never had been out in all my life when I actually longed for daylight to come as I did that long and lonely night, and I believe that I would freely have given five hundred dollars to have had a man there with me that night; not that I was afraid of Indians, for I considered that I had given them the slip, and did not believe they would be able to overtake me before I would reach camp even though they should be able to track me the next morning.

I thought of my dying horse who had been such a faithful servant and carried me out of so many tight places, and when I would think of him I could fancy that I could see him raise his head and whinny at me as he had done that evening in his dying moments, seemingly asking me for help, and I could not keep the tears from my eyes. As soon as it was light I started for camp, arriving there about ten o'clock that morning. The men in camp had given me up and did not expect to ever see me any more, thinking that the Apaches had got me. I told the men that we would have to leave this part of the country now, and that too, just as soon as I could get a bite to eat and get my saddle repaired. While the boys pulled up and started to move camp I saddled up another horse and took my back track, traveling very cautiously, thinking they would try to follow me out, and I wanted to watch their movements and see whether they had reinforced or not. I told the boys to move northeast and where to camp, the place being ten miles from where we were then, and not to build any fire that night, also that I would be in camp some time before morning this time, I was very cautious not to be surprised the second time. I rode back within a mile of where my dead horse lay, but could not see any Indians, so I finally concluded that it had been a small hunting party, and seeing that they could not scare me out of my rock pen by their ferocious charges, accompanied by a war-whoop that would make the hair stand on the bravest mountaineer's head, they had abandoned the idea altogether and had no doubt left the ground before I started to crawl away from my rock pen, which had been the means of saving me from falling their victim.

I returned to camp, arriving shortly after dark. We moved north, the men prospecting the country as we went and I scouting, keeping a sharp lookout to prevent a surprise party, but we did not see any more Indians during the entire winter. We struck the Colorado river at the mouth of the Green river.

Mr. Campbell concluded that he would go to southern Nevada; taking a southwesterly course from Green river, I piloted them about one hundred miles and they now being in a country where they were perfectly safe as far as hostile Indians were concerned, I left the party, and the most of them it has never been my pleasure to meet since. I met one of the party by the name of Freeman in Seattle in the year of 1889. At that time he was settled down in his old neighborhood in Illinois and had a wife and five children. I can truthfully say that I never met five better and more agreeable men to travel with in all my career than those men were. While with them I never saw one of them apparently out of humor with his companions or heard one use any kind of language than that of a gentleman. Leaving the party I struck for Salt Lake City. I had no trouble in finding the way, or otherwise, and arrived at Fort Douglas about the first of March.

On arriving here I found General Connor just making preparations to move with almost his entire force against the Ute Indians, who at this time were concentrating their forces in Cash Valley, and committing a great many depredations in that part of the country.



CHAPTER XXV.

THREE THOUSAND DEAD INDIANS.—A DETECTIVE FROM CHICAGO.—HE GOES HOME WITH AN OLD MORMON'S YOUNGEST WIFE AND GETS INTO TROUBLE.— THE FLIGHT.

Gen. Connor offered me a position as scout, which I accepted, and on the sixth day after my arrival at Fort Douglas, in company with two other scouts, I struck out in advance of the command. In the forenoon of the eighth day from the fort we found the Indians on a tributary of Cash Valley in a deep canyon and fortified. They had cut logs and rolled them down the hill, piling them on each side of the canyon, several feet high and had intermingled them with brush. This was the first fortification I had ever seen built by Indians.

We returned and met the command that night, and when we were making our report to the General he asked me what the fortifications looked like. I told him that I could not think of anything to compare them to, but that I thought they could be swept very easily by a Howitzer from above and below. He asked me if I would accompany one of his commissioned officers that night to see the fortifications, and I told him I would. After supper that evening a Captain came to me, whose name I am sorry to say I have forgotten, and asked me if I was the man that was to accompany him to the Indian fortifications. I told him that I was, and he asked what time we had better start. I told him we had better start at once as there would be a moon in the fore part of the night, but that the after part would be very dark. So we mounted our horses and were off.

We rode to within about three-quarters of a mile of the fortifications and there we remained until it was light enough to see, and then the Captain took out his glasses and scanned the whole country as well as the fortifications. After looking about half an hour the Captain asked me what I thought of it, and what would be my plan of attack. I told him that I had no idea, as I had never seen Indians fortified before. He said it would be a bloody fight, I said yes, but I thought the blood would all be on one side. "Yes," replied the Captain, "we ought to clean them out without losing ten men."

We went to our horses, mounted, and rode back to the command as quick as we could, meeting it about four miles from the fortifications, piloted by the two scouts that had been out with me the day before.

The Captain and Gen. Connor had a long conversation as we moved along. When within a mile of the mouth of this canyon Gen. Connor formed his men in line, one half to go on each side of the canyon in which the Indians were fortified, and the cannon were placed at the mouth of the canyon.

I did not see any Indians of any account until the command to fire was given. When the soldiers commenced to fire—there being about twelve hundred—it frightened the Indians so that they came running out from under those logs and brush like jack rabbits and were shot down like sheep. In all my experience in the Western wilds I never saw such a slaughtering as there.

The Indians had been taught by the Mormons that if they would fortify themselves in that way the whites could not harm them, teaching them also, that the Lord would protect them, which was a great thing for the white people, for it came so near cleaning the Utes up that there was only a little remnant left, and they never gave the white people any more trouble. Thus white people were enabled to pass through that country unmolested. Heretofore it had been one of the most dangerous parts of the country. For all this I have ever since believed that the Mormons, unintentionally, did the Gentiles a great favor.

After the battle was over, and as scouts are at liberty to go where they please, I rode over the battle-field in company with the other scouts and I never in all my life saw such a mangled up mass as was there. Men, women and children were actually lying in heaps, and I think all that got away were a few that hid among the logs and brush.

I n this battle the Captain told me they did not lose a man, and had only four wounded, while he counted over three thousand dead Indians.

When I returned to Salt Lake City I was astonished to see the manner in which the Salt Lake papers abused Gen. Connor for slaughtering the Indians in the manner he had, when they (the Mormons) had planned the slaughter, although not meaning for it to be a slaughter of Indians.

Gen. Connor said that the Mormons had thought that the Indians would fortify themselves, and when attacked by the soldiers, they would wipe them (the soldiers) off the face of the earth. The idea had been so thoroughly instilled into the minds of the Indians by the Mormons that the Lord would protect them if only fortified in this manner that they depended most altogether on the Lord to protect them.

The third day on our return trip we came to a little place called Ogden. Here the General made preparations to leave the command and go ahead, accompanied by one company, of cavalry. When they were ready I was directed to accompany him, which I did. He and I rode in the rear of the company. After riding some little distance Gen. Connor said: "Drannan, I think I can put you on the track of a good thing if it would suit you." I asked him in what way. He asked me if I had not heard of the Mountain Meadow massacre in Utah. I said: "Certainly, many times." He said: "Now be honest with me and tell me who you think did that horrible work." I told him the Mormons, and the Mormons alone.

He then told me there was a man at the fort from Chicago trying to work up the case and if possible to find out just by whose authority the Mormons had massacred those emigrants, and he said: "From what I have seen of you, I think you would be just the man to help him work up the case."

I said: "General, I think you are mistaken. I never did any detective work among the white people, and I fear I am not good enough a talker to obtain the desired information." The General said: "All right, we'll see."

We reached the Fort that night at dark, having ridden forty miles that day. That evening the General told me to come to his quarters the following day at ten o'clock and he would introduce me to the gentleman referred to.

I went to the General's quarters and the gentleman was present. His name was Howard. By whose authority he was working up this case I never learned, but, however, after questioning me for some time as to what I knew of the Mormons, he asked me what I would charge him per month to go along with him, play the hypocrite, and try to help work up the case. I told him it was all new work to me; that I knew nothing of detective work whatever. I said that if it were a case of Indians it would be quite different, but I did not think I would be of much service to him working among the Mormons.

He proposed that he would furnish me a suit of clothes suitable for the part I was to play, furnish money to pay my expenses, such as hotel bills, whiskey bills, ball-room bills, and pay me fifty dollars per month, I to do as he told me, or as near as I could. "And, at the end of one month," said he, "if your work does not suit me, or if I don't suit you, I can pay you off and you can go your way; or if you stay and we work up this case as I anticipate, as soon as the work is completed I will pay you one hundred dollars per month instead of fifty."

Under these conditions I went to work for him, and the next two days were spent in drilling me on Mormon phrases, their customs And so on, he having been there some three months, had got pretty well posted on the Mormon doctrine.

When I got my new suit of clothes on and he got my hair fixed up just to suit him I looked in the mirror, and I could hardly believe that it was Will Drannan.

The third day we mounted our horses and started across the country to a little town called Provo, which is about forty miles from Salt Lake, if I have not forgotten. Here, we are both Mormons, are brothers, and our business buying cattle; looking around to see who has cattle to sell. We arrived at Provo on Sunday evening and made the acquaintance of two young men who were Mormons. They asked us to go to church with them. "All right," said Mr. Howard, "but where will my brother and I stay to-night?" The eldest of the two young men said: "One of you can stay with me and the other can stay with Jim," referring to his chum. So it fell to my lot to go with Jim after church.

On our way to church, naturally enough the boys asked our names, and Howard spoke up and said: "My name is George Howard, and this is my brother Frank." And I will tell you now with all candor I did not feel right over this, for it was the first time in my life that I had ever lived under an assumed name, but I had agreed to do what I could, and although I would have given the best horse I had to have been out of the scrape, yet I was into it and I was determined to go through with it if possible. That evening when we came out of church Jim gave me an introduction to his two sisters and they asked me to walk home with them from church, and I did so.

After conversing with them for some time and getting a little acquainted with them, I asked the girl on my left how old she was, and she said she was seventeen. I asked her how long she had lived in this country. She said: "My father was one of the first settlers in this country. He came here among the first emigrants and I was raised here in this country."

"Is that so?" I asked. "Then you were here in this part of the country at the time of the Mountain Meadow massacre?" "Yes," said she, "but you know we must not talk about that." "Well," said I, "you know they were all Gentiles that were killed and what's the difference?" "Well," she said, "I think it was all wrong any way."

I asked her if her father was in that fight and she said: "Let's don't talk about that, please don't ask me any more questions about it."

By this time we had reached the gate, and the conversation stopped for that time. The next day I tried to get a chance to talk to her, but my efforts were all in vain. That afternoon I met Howard and told him of the conversation I had with the young lady, and he insisted on my working on her father if I could get a chance to have a private conversation with her.

On Wednesday night there was to be a big dance at the church, and it being free to all, we attended it. In the mean time I had engaged the company of those two young ladies for the dance. I paid all due respect to the young lady, but did not mention the affair of which I was desirous of obtaining information until we were returning from supper to the church, when I again made mention of the affair in such a manner that I did not think she would suspect anything wrong. But she gave me to understand in plain language that she would not converse on that subject under any circumstances.

I saw there was no use to waste any more time with her and did not mention the subject again.

We remained in this place ten days, during which time I formed the acquaintance of an old man by the name of Snyder, who had five wives, three of them living at his residence in the town and the other two on his farm in the country. Being a brother Mormon, Mr. Snyder one day during my stay there invited me home with him for dinner, and on entering the dining room he introduced me to his three wives, the youngest of the three being about twenty years old, while Snyder was sixty-one years old.

That afternoon Howard and myself were taking a walk, and by chance met this young Mrs. Snyder, whom I introduced to my brother. He asked to accompany her on her walk, to which proposition she unhesitatingly assented, and he walked on home with him.

Her husband was not at home, but before Howard left the gate he heard one of Snyder's other wives say to her: "I'll tell on you, and you will not get to go out again."

This convinced him that there was a great deal of jealousy existing between Mr. Snyder's wives. He said she was well posted in everything pertaining to the Mormon doctrine, and at the same time bitterly opposed to their proceedings.

The afternoon following George Howard and I took a stroll down to Salt Lake City, which was a distance of three miles.

We had been in the city but a short time and were walking up Main street, when on casting my eyes across the street I saw old man Snyder standing talking to Porter Rockwell and Bill Hickman. They were just across Main street immediately opposite us, and George had not yet got sight of them. Those two men were supposed to be Brigham Young's "destroying angels," and their business was to put any one out of the way who had fallen under the ban of the Mormon Church.

These two men had been pointed out to me before, and as soon as I got sight of them I said in a low tone: "There are the leaders of the Danites."

When he looked across at them old man Snyder was pointing his finger direct at us, and Rockwell and Hickman seemed to be very eager to get a good look at us.

George said: "This is no place for us. Let's get back to the Fort." And all the talking I could do I could not make him believe that we were perfectly safe there in the city in broad daylight. His very countenance showed uneasiness to extremity. He had been there long enough to be thoroughly posted in all their laws, customs, etc., and didn't seem to think it would be healthy for us there from that time on. However, I can truthfully say that we made the trip to the Fort in much less time than we did from the Fort to town, notwithstanding it was all up grade.

On our arrival at the Fort we went to Gen. Connor's quarters and told him the whole story just as it occurred. The General said: "The thing is up with you now Howard, you might as well quit and go home. You can do no more good here now. You are perfectly safe here in the Fort, but the moment you are out of sight of it you are in danger of your life. But you will have one company of cavalry to protect you when you go to leave the Fort."

It was really laughable to see the way Howard would tremble and shake while Gen. Connor was talking to him, and he was anxious to get out of the country and wanted me to go with him, it being the wrong time of year to catch a train going East. He thought if he could get to Fort Bridger, which was one hundred miles east of Fort Douglas, he would be safe from the Mormons, and would stand equally as good a show to strike a train going eastward as he would at Salt Lake.

Before we were ready to start for Fort Bridger there came a man to Fort Douglas who had been wagon boss for Maj. Russell the year before. He had just received a letter from his former employer requesting him to come at once to Fort Kearney. He was anxious to find some one to travel with, as it was not safe for one to travel alone in that country, and it was a long and tedious trip this time of year.

The Pony Express was then running, but outside of that we were not likely to see any one on the trip.

They insisted on me accompanying them, and being anxious to cross over on the other side of the mountains, I agreed to join them. Having two saddle horses myself I told them three horses between them would be enough, for in case of emergency I would use one of my horses for a pack animal. The next two days were spent in getting ready for the trip, Mr. Damson, the wagon boss, having procured three horses for himself and Howard, Mr. Howard thinking it might not be conducive to his health to leave the Fort to look for horses.

Getting everything in readiness, we made the start just at dark, going the Emigrant canyon route, striking Echo canyon fifty miles from Salt Lake City, making the trip that far without stopping to let our horses feed or even to eat anything ourselves. We did this because we wished to get beyond the Mormon settlements without being discovered by them. We reached Fort Bridget the third day and there took in two more companions, John Scudder and John Korigo, who had been at work at the Fort all winter hauling wood for the Government. They had earned a little money and were returning to their respective homes, one living in Missouri and the other in Pennsylvania. We were now five in number and calculated to make Fort Kearney in fifteen days, which, if I remember rightly, is called six hundred miles from Fort Bridger.

We crossed Green river and took the Bitter creek route, thinking that would be the safest from hostile Indians; but when we got to the head of Bitter creek the Pony Express rider informed us that the Indians were very bad on the North Platte river, having killed two express riders the week before.

This frightened the boys badly, for not one of them had ever been engaged in an Indian fight, and all were free to admit that they were not hankering after experience of that kind.

After we struck North Platte we saw considerable Indian sign every day, but it was evident that the reds were in little bands.

From now on we made a dry camp every night, always stopping in the middle of the afternoon to let our horses graze while we did our cooking to avoid building our fire after dark. Then we would mount and ride until after dark and make a dry camp. This was done in order to avoid an attack while in camp, but we made the entire trip without seeing an Indian.

On my arrival at Fort Kearney I met my old friend Jim Bridger, who was waiting there for a man by the name of Jim Boseman, who was on his way with a large train of emigrants to the eastern part of Montana, the same country that Bridger, Kit Carson, Beckwith and I passed through in 1856 when the Indians were so bad.

Jim Bridger had met Boseman the fall before and had promised to pilot him through to that part of Montana, for which he was to receive five hundred dollars, it also being understood that, there would be at least fifty men in the train and all well armed.

Bridger was just in receipt of a letter from Boseman stating that he would be there on or about a certain date with two hundred men, most all of whom had families.

Jim was very anxious to have me join him, offering to divide the spoils.

I told him it would be folly for me to accompany him, as he would be able to handle the train alone and would then have the five hundred dollars himself, and furthermore, I did not care for work of that kind that summer, as I would rather return to Taos and buy a band of sheep and settle down, for I thought I had enough money, if properly handled, to make me a good living.

At this Jim laughed heartily and said: "Yes, you'll settle down with a band of sheep when you are too old to straddle a horse and your eyes too dim to take in an Indian. I have often thought of the same thing," he continued. "I have a place picked out now about fifteen miles east of Fort Bridger on Black's Fork, near the lone tree. There is where I am going to settle down after I make this trip. I can then sit in my door and with a good glass I can see Fort Bridger that was named for me and which I feel proud of to-day."

Jim Bridger made this trip north with Boseman's train into the valley where the town of Boseman now stands, without the loss of a man or beast on the entire trip, and returning to South Platte, married an Indian woman of the Arappahoe tribe, went to Black's Fork and took up a ranch within five miles of the lone pine tree. Here he lived with his Indian wife for about five years, when she died, leaving two children, a girl and a boy, which I have been told he sent to school, gave them a good education, and they now live, I think, in the state of Missouri.



CHAPTER XXVI.

THROUGH TO BANNOCK.—A DANCE OF PEACE.—FRIGHT OF THE NEGROES.—A FREIGHT TRAIN SNOWED IN AND A TRIP ON SNOW-SHOES.—SOME VERY TOUGH ROAD AGENTS.

While I was at Fort Kearney another long train of emigrants came along, en-route for Bannock, Montana. They did not know just where Bannock was, and through the influence of Jim Bridger and Gen. Kearney, I was offered employment in guiding them at seventy-five dollars per month, with provisions.

I told them I did not know where Bannock was, but that I could take them to any portion of Montana they asked to go, I was not long making the bargain and making preparations to get started. We went back over the same road as far as Fort Bridger that I had come only a short time before. There was not a person in the entire train that had ever seen a hostile Indian, and very few of them had ever traveled outside of their own state. The most of them were from Indiana, and most of the men had families, and I presume they were fleeing from the draft; that being the time of the late war.

I experienced a great deal of trouble in getting those people organized and trained in a manner to enable us to protect ourselves against the hostile Indians.

In this train there were two negros, whose names were Joe and Bab. Joe was driving a team for his grub and Bab was cooking for two families for his grub. The people of the train fell into the habit of calling me Captain, and every time I would ride along where this Joe or Bab were, they would invariably salute me by lifting their hats or by taking them off entirely and then they would say: "Marse Capting, de ye see any Injuns?"

One day my scouts came in from the south and reported seeing a band of Indians, about ten or fifteen in number, two miles away and coming direct for the train. I struck out alone at full speed in that direction to ascertain what kind of Indians they were, there being another man whose business it was to take charge of the train at any time I was away, and in case of an attack or danger of such, it was his business to corral the train and prepare for battle.

I had only gone a half mile when I met the Indians, and they proved to be Arapahoes. I was personally acquainted with all of them and asked them to go to the train with me, telling them it was just over the ridge. This they agreed to do, saying: "We will go to the train and then all will go out and kill some buffalo this evening."

We rode leisurely along until in sight of the train, and the moment the people saw me riding with the Indians on each side of me, they felt sure that I had been taken prisoner, and all the hustling and bustling around to get those wagons corralled, beat anything I had ever seen, and they were all so badly excited that it was no use to try to hello at them.

They were afraid to shoot at the Indians for fear they might shoot me, or if they did not shoot me, they were afraid that if they should shoot the Indians they would retaliate by shooting me down.

The wagons being corralled, we rode around the entire train. I left the Indians and rode inside of the corral and told the people that these were peaceable Indians and were all friends of mine, and that I wanted every man, woman and child to come out and shake hands with them. Quite a number hesitated, believing that I had been taken prisoner by the Indians and had been compelled to do this in order to save my own life, and believing that those Indians wanted to murder the entire train.

But after reasoning with them for a while I succeeded in convincing them that the Indians were peaceable. Then they all went out and shook hands except the two darkies, who were not to be found any where about the train at that time. I then told the man whose duty it was to look after the train in my absence, to drive about three miles and camp, describing the place, and that I would go with the Indians and kill some buffalo, so that we might have fresh meat, telling him to have each family cook a little bread extra for the Indians, and that they would furnish meat enough to do to-night and to-morrow, and was off for the buffalo hunt.

The Indians told me there was a band of buffalo about two or three miles ahead of us near the road.

We pushed on, on the main road, and sure enough right in the little valley where I had told the captain to camp, we saw a band of buffalo feeding. We all made a dash for them, and succeeded in killing five fat buffalo, and on the ground, enough for the entire train.

As soon as the train was corralled and the stock turned loose, we appointed four men, who claimed to know something of butchering, to cut up and distribute the meat among the people of the train. Up to this time the darkey cook had not been seen since I came over the hill in company with those Indians. A certain lady in the train said she thought that when he saw the Indians coming he had run off and hid in the sage brush, but after the fires were started he crawled out of one of the wagons where he had been hid, and claimed that he had been asleep all this time and did not know anything about any "Injuns," but it was a difficult matter to make the people in the train believe this yarn. I had the Indians build their fire outside of the corral, and while they were preparing their meat I went around and collected bread enough of different ones in the train for them, also a bowl of molasses. After all had their supper over I proposed to the Indians that we have a dance.

This dance is what they call a dance of peace, and is carried on in a manner like this: They—or all that wish to participate in the dance—form in a circle around the camp-fire, singing, or rather humming, a certain tune. I went to the people of the train and told them that the Indians and myself were going to have a peace dance, and all that wished to see it could come to the camp- fire and look on. I think every man, woman and child came out to see the dance, which lasted about two hours. After the dance was over one of the young Indians in the crowd came to me and said if I would interpret for him he would be pleased to make a speech for my friends, providing they were willing for him to do so. When he told the other Indians he was going to make a speech they all sat down in a circle around the camp-fire, seventeen in number, and were perfectly silent. I told them that this young Indian wanted to know if they would care to hear him make a speech. All were anxious to hear him, which would be something new to them. I told them that he would make the speech in his own language and I would interpret it word for word as near as I knew how.

When I told him they would be pleased to hear from him he walked up to me, laid his hand on my shoulder, and said:

"I have known this friend of mine a great many years. A long time ago when he use to come to our village, we always killed a dog, and after we would have a feast on dog meat, we always smoked the pipe of peace, and all of the Arapahoes are his friends."

He continued this manner of speaking about fifteen minutes, to the amusement of the entire train, and when he took his seat he wanted some one else to speak, but no one would attempt to respond to him, thus winding up the amusements for the evening.

In a conversation that evening with the Indians, they told me their business out there, which was to keep the Sioux Indians off of their hunting ground.

The Sioux and they were on friendly terms, but sometimes the Sioux would steal over on their hunting ground. They proposed to accompany us through the dangerous part of the country.

The morning following I told the men in the train of the generous proposition which the Indians had made me, and told them if they would furnish the Indians with bread they would keep them in meat. I also told them that we were now in the most dangerous part of the Sioux country, and that as long as those Indians were with us we were in no danger whatever from the fact that when the Sioux saw those Indians with us we were supposed to be their friends, and they dare not trouble us in the least.

This, however, was more than agreeable to the entire train, relieving the scouts of their duty, also the night guards. I made arrangements with the Indians to travel three days, and we then pulled out. Just when we were almost ready to start, one young lady in the crowd said to me; "Captain, I want to ask you one question, and will you tell me the truth?" I said: "Most assuredly I will." She said: "I want to know whether it was true that when you visited those Indians they always killed a dog and ate the meat?"

I told her it was true as gospel, and said we always considered dog meat the finest in the land, and only the chief and his most intimate friends were able to afford dog meat. She said she was astonished to hear me talk in such a manner. She said: "The most laughable part of the proceedings the evening before was the action of the darkey cook, Bab, who stood away back in the outer edge of the crowd when you and those Indians were dancing. You could have knocked his eyes off with a frying-pan and not have touched his face."

All went well. The Indians traveled with us three days as they had agreed to, which brought us to the head of Bitter creek. We killed a few buffalo all along the way, and when the Indians were ready to leave us they had killed all the meat that the train could take care of.

This being as far as they had agreed to accompany us, they were to start back the following morning and that night we had another peace dance. The Indians invited all in the train to participate in the dance, but none would take a part; so they and myself had the dancing to ourselves again The next morning when they were ready to leave us I told the people in the train to all come outside of the corral, both old and young, and form in line so those Indians could shake hands with all of them, telling them that they had done us a great favor in escorting us through the dangerous part of the country, and that this shaking hands they considered a great token of friendship.

This request was complied with, and the Indians all passed down the line of people, shaking hands with each one. After they were done shaking hands with all the train they all came and shook hands with me, mounted their ponies, and rode away as fast as their horses could run.

We pulled on for Fort Bridger, all going smoothly, for we were in the Bitter creek country and had no fear of Indians in that section. The day we arrived at Fort Bridger we sent four men on ahead to ascertain, if possible, where Bannock was. Here they met, by chance, some men from what was then called East Bannock and from them we learned just where Bannock was located, it being on a west tributary of the Missouri river. We also learned from these parties that there was a great excitement at this time over mines that had been struck some eighty miles east of Bannock, on what was known as Alder Gulch, or Stinking Water, but they were not able to advise us as to whether or not we could get there with wagons.

Now I knew just where we wanted to go, and we took what was known as the Landers cut-off, and pulled for Fort Hall, reaching the fort without encountering any trouble with the Indians or otherwise. The second day after passing Fort Hall, while we were crossing Snake river, we met a crowd of miners just from Alder Gulch, on their way to Denver, Colorado, for their families. From them we learned where Alder Gulch was, and those miners spoke in such high terms of the richness of that place that a great many in the train wanted to go there instead of going to Bannock, while others wanted to go to Bannock, that being where they had started.

That night they took a vote to decide as to which place they should go, which resulted in favor of Alder Gulch, so we pulled for Alder Gulch instead of Bannock.

We were now in the Bannock country. I did not hear of any depredations being committed by the Indians, but I used all precautions possible in order to prevent a surprise by the redskins.

Every few days we would meet a little squad of miners, all telling exciting stories about the richness of Alder Gulch. They were going home to their families with the expectation of moving them out there the following spring; most of their families being in Denver, Colorado. This all helped to create an anxiety among the people to push on and get through as quick as possible.

They moved somewhat faster now than before, reaching Virginia City, Montana, about the last of September, this being the trading point for Alder Gulch. Here we stopped and the train paid me off.

I stayed around there about three weeks. One day while I was at Virginia City two men, Boon and Bivian, who owned the only store of any note in Virginia City at that time, came to me and said that they had a train of twenty-two wagons some where on the road, but just where they did not know, and they wished to employ me to go and pilot it in, as their men with the train were all inexperienced in that line of business, and not acquainted with the road, not having been over any part of it before, and they were afraid that through carelessness they might fall into the hands of Indians.