 CHAPTER 10 Judge Lynch's Court at Whooping Hollow PART 2 Tom Bradford smiled at Jack's earnestness and looked him squarely in the eyes, and said, Why, you must be insane, man. Cal Jones' cabin is right on the highest point of the divide. If you were out on my porch, you could see it from here. You ain't crazy enough to suppose that a murder would be committed at such an exposed place, and everybody in town not know it in ten minutes. And as for Ike Poget, Ike Poget, my man, Ike Poget is one of our best citizens, one of the most enterprising men in the place. He's has plenty of money, spends it freely too, to be sure he gambles some and drinks. Who don't? They are mighty few, you know that. He don't come to town very often, stays at home a good deal, but then he's got a fine paying claim and works it for all there is in it. At least that is what he tells all of us here in town. Ike Poget, that's a good one, I swear. As I snapped, as Bradford laughed in his face, he was getting mad at the manner in which his statements were being received. He grew very red and blurted out, Ike Poget, oh no, is he? No, answered Bradford, he's gone bear-hunting with a lot of the boys, been gone several days, won't be back for a week yet. They were going as far as the Spanish Peaks. His and his are mighty lonesome plays, ain't that? queried Jack. Yes, answered Bradford, a mighty lonesome place. I don't see how he can live there. Such a rocky, dark canyon. Hardly a ray of sunlight enters there until late in the afternoon, but he says he loves solitude and don't like neighbours too near. I'm as close as neighbour, I reckon. Interrupted Jack again? I believe you are, replied Bradford. He's married, though handy, to a Spanish woman. By a child appears to me, I've seen her once to twice. He's got a woman out there with him, I don't know whether she's his wife or mistress. We folks here don't bother our heads about such matters, it's none of our business. She's Mexican, though, answered Bradford. But why, continued he, impatient and disgusted with the interview's link, why do you ask these ridiculous questions? I have no time to waste. He then, petulantly rose, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, evidently tired, and determined to end the matter right there and get rid of his annoying visitors. "'Cause,' Tom Bradford, slowly and solemnly, replied Jack, at the same time getting up from his chair, too, and putting his mouth close to Bradford's ear, he hoarsely whispered, "'Cause Ike Padgett is the murderer of Gemuel Maggs anyhow, and why not all to others is the mishon?' "'My God, man, what do you mean?' Excitedly asked Tom Bradford, suddenly, wheeling around and placing both of his hands on Jack's shoulders. "'Tom Bradford, I mean exactly what I can prove. And to tell this here is what has wronged me, this here cabin. Hold on quite, Bradford, violently agitated. You must prove it, must tell all you know. But in the presence of others—wait, sit down here. I'll be back directly and bring someone with me. Wait!' And Bradford rushed out into the street in a terrible state of excitement. He returned in less than twenty minutes in company with a short, thick-set, grisly veteran minor, a man of about sixty years of age. This was old man Bartlett, better known, however, and generally accosted as a judge, as he had so frequently presided over the locally instituted courts in the diggings everywhere he had been during his long career in the mountains and on the plains. He was regarded by everybody as the most level-headed, honest and discreet man in the whole range. In fact, that had been his reputation wherever he had traveled, following him in all his erratic wanderings since his advent in the far west forty years before he turned up in whooping hollow. He had whacked bulls on the old Santa Fe trail, had lived for months on hardtack and bacon in the mountains of California, had nearly starved to death on the sagebrush plains of Nevada, had been captured by Apaches in Arizona, but was rescued by a detachment of United States dragoons just in time to escape the torture of the state, the fires for which were already lighted, and years before all these strange experiences had filibustered with Walker in Nicaragua. Altogether he had seen as eventful a life as ever fell to the fortune of one man. When the two men entered the little barren log room where Jack was, they found him sitting at its only window, his number twelve feet on the broad sill, pulling vigorously at the clay pipe that Bradford, in his rough hospitality, had originally provided him with, blowing great rings of smoke out of his huge mouth as he sat there as impeturbable as a rock. He greeted Bartlett with a short adage, and then resumed his pipe, waiting for him or Bradford to open the conversation. Old Sam pulled an enormous plug of navy tobacco from his hip pocket, tore off a liberal portion with his teeth, rolled the immense quid over in his mouth several times, and then, looking earnestly at Jack, as if to measure him in his mind, said, Jack, Bradford's been telling me some mighty queer stories, I appoged a murderer, I don't believe a word of it, he, jerking his thumb toward Bradford, wanted me to come over and hear your statement, which I agreed to, but I tell you beforehand the proofs will have to be clear as wholly read to convince me that I, Poget, knows what has become of gemual mags any more than me, and Tom here does. The judge was not always a rigid follower of the rules laid down by Lindley Murray in the construction of his sentences, therefore frequently got the cases of his pronouns mixed, although he was a college graduate, but he generally talked fairly correctly. Let's hear your story, continued he, tell us what you know, and how you know, as you have asserted to Bradford that I, Poget, killed a gemual mags. Wow, commenced Jack, leaving his place at the window, rising to his full height, stretching out his long arms, giving a tremendous yawn as he did so, then moving his chair to the end of the table between the two men, who had seated themselves on opposite sides, their feet, of course, on top, where, resting his elbows on it, his immense paws supporting his shaggy head, Jack looked his interlocutor squarely in the eye and continued, Wow, your nose, since I was satisfied that I were a man watched and hounded and suspected to buy yoans here and whoop and holler, I allowed to hear myself that I would do a little detective work on my own account, as I've told Bradford here, so I guess onto my mule, tux jub, that's that thar yeller, no count ornery dog of mine, and we just naturally commenced her prowl at their trail from tether end of Ike Poget's twix, thar, and the holler for more than a week, but we ends and didn't see nothing suspicious till day before yesterday, long intershank, and their evening, then I were riding by Poget's place, jub had run away ahead of me, word going tolerable slow, and think I'm powerful, and when I got closer to the cabin, I see that thar fool dog of mine, er diggin' and upon, and somethin' he had unearthed, there no count cuss is always hungry and always huntin' for somethin' to eat, then as I observed, there weren't no one to her home, I gets down off of my mule, itches him and lights out for thar rar and thar cabin, where the dog war, to see what he were so concerned about, and when I reached thar gentleman and wore a human leg and foot, and stoopin' down, I picked this here up in thar dirt, thar dog had powered up. Getting up from his seat as he said this, Jack pulled out of the breast pocket of his flannel shirt a little mass of iron pyrites, an octahedrite in shape, a rare form of that common combination of iron and sulfur, which was drilled onto a plate of gold, making it a perfect but unique collar button. Great, God exclaimed Bartlett and Bradford simultaneously, as they both jumped up excitedly at the side of the trinket Jack held in his hand. Tom Bradford gave vent to his feelings first, slapping his fist on the table, and then appointing his finger at Jack, who stood as calm as a statue, said vehemently, Judge Bartlett, either this man's story is true or he is the murderer himself. Great, God reiterated Bartlett, putting his hand to his head in his evident bewilderment. Bradford, I don't know, I'm completely dumbfounded. Everybody in the mines knows that collar button. There's not another one like it in the mountains. Nags always wore it at the neck of his flannel shirt. He's told me many a times that he's refused $50 for it. This matter must be thoroughly investigated. He then reached for the button which Jack promptly handed to him and which he examined carefully for a few minutes in silence, sitting down for that purpose, then turning suddenly to Jack, who now conscious that he had at least caused Bradford and Bartlett to believe that he might be innocent and that his story might be true, had resumed his seat and was coolly filling his pipe again. The old judge asked him, Jack, did you leave the leg and foot where the dog found it? What did you do with it? Left at the bar, replied Jack, but I giveered it up again and I stomped the ground down. So as it looked like hadn't been touched, then I went for my cabin and then I came here to Bradford's. There's only thing I brung away were that button and for which I'll thank you to give me again. I want to keep it here while yet. 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 you, gentlemen, said he as he put it carefully into his pocket again, am at your service any time and so is your button when you want it and I hope to uns mince to investigate this here matter to wants it, I'll just wait now and when he comes back it's maybe 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 Poget. 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. Tonight we will discuss with some of our best citizens what is best to be done and tomorrow meet us at Poget'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 Poget's friends might accuse you of. You 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 juke, 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 post office 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, Dr. Chase, and Issac Arnoa, the last of whom was postmaster, met in the little rectangular space behind the rude rack of letterboxes in Noah's store to formulate plans for their trip on the morrow to Ike Poget's cabin. The bloody story concerning it having been imparted to Noah and the doctor when Bartlett and Bradford came downtown 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 post office the previous evening, were well on the trail to Poget'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 animals every few rods. Consequently, the trip was so fatiguing to both men and animals that they did not arrive there until nearly noon. Poget'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 upon the west, entered the gloomy canyon in which the isolated cabin was located. "'God in Israel,' said Isacar Noah, 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 Noah'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 Caesar,' 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 boulders up the canyon 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 wolf's hasty retreat made its appearance in the shape of the one-eyed, tailless dog, Zhuk, 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 boulder, and saluting all with a howdy gents, he joined them. Then without further talk at that moment they proceeded to the rear of Ike Poget's cabin, which he had reinterpreted 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, Evans, the wolves, have been here. 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. 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 object to examine them more closely. They're human, no getting over that, but whether they belong to yemuel nags, 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 a buttonhole torn apart. A piece of yemuel nags shirt, or I'm a liar, solemnly said Isacar Noah, as he gazed on the bit of tell-tale garment. He always wore that kind, continued Noah. I sent to St. Louis for them myself for him. That is part of one of them. The astounded party upon this confirmation of Poget's guilt looked at each other in silence for a few seconds. Then Bartlett, breaking the awful stillness, said, Gentlemen, I've seen enough here. Let's go and examine the cabin, which we've got a rut 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 number one 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 hour gets me by. Everyone was now almost uncontrollably excited, and if Poget 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 Isacar Noah 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 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. Chard 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 Poget, 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 at the post office in secret session to devise plans for Poget'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 Poget rode unsuspiciously into town with his companions, and the instant he alighted from his mule found himself locked in Jack's vice-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 elements of whooping hollow had become acquainted with the sickening discoveries at the wretches cabin. Poget, 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 Isacar Noah, 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 Poget 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 a whooping hollow and had submitted their report, threats were freely and openly made by the exasperated miners that they would take Poget 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 someone 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 courtroom and the trial set for eight o'clock the next evening. In that community no such thing as the law's delay was broke and citizens of whooping hollow believed 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 and etc. Both outside and inside of that rough log cabin 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 died in crime, if the truth were known about them as Poget 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 on 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 meet 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 murdered 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 guinea 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 Poget, the miserable man for whom all this strange proceeding was instituted, crouching on the dirt-begrimmed 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 Poget. 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 den in the Lonely Canyon. 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 expressive language had been dug up in his own presence inside of Poget'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 death-like 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 Poget 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 Poget in a fearful manner, working up a more exasperated feeling, if that were possible, then 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 to 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 yummy old nags, 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 Poget more emphatic than elegant. Isakarnoa 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 Poget, which was received by his listeners with that faith in its accuracy comparable to the high character of the man. Then young Green, the council 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 elements, 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 a rather decided but not particularly pleasant complement to the youth's forensic ability. When the defense had closed its wonderfully ingenious argument, the judge made another of his significant addresses and 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, turned 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 minors, with Poget 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 deminaiical yells. The early morning sun, as its rays entered the narrow valley, shown upon the lifeless body of Poget, 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 Mandans resided in the vicinity of the mouth of the Yellow Stone, 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 gnolls overlooking the village, the Great River, and the vast prairie, stretching westwardly from the 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 the 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 sandy 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 mountain. 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 Indochos, the iron horn, principal chief of the mandans, old enough to be her grandfather. She, the handsome Indian maiden, was known as Akinastu, 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 Akinastu 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 Icos, 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. Akinastu 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 Akinastu 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 Aki, as her white admirer always called her, considered herself in honor bound to become the wife of Inecos. Consequently both the youth and the maiden were perfectly miserable. In a few moments the doctor and Aki 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 Akinastu 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 learned that Inecos 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, and then answered, Akinastu'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 is wide as the Missouri parts us. Inecos 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 Akinastu becoming the bride of any other than himself made the young doctor almost wild, and he would have given vet 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 seem to move by some other power than the wind. It was Inecos himself who had stealthily followed and was watching Akinastu. You must go to the village and eat with my people today, continued the trembling maiden, as she looked imploringly toward her lover. The doctor was now satisfied that they had a dangerous spy upon their actions and grinding his teeth hastened to obey her injunction at once. He dare not kiss Akinao, 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 Akinastu 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 Akinastu and himself, looking with decided favor on his efforts to win the girl. Then he went to the lodge of Akinastu's father. He was received very kindly, invited to breakfast, and when that was disposed of, the pipe was passed around, and evidence of the warm feeling the Indian entertained for his white guest. After some time devoted to the fragrant fumes of the Kinnak, 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 savage has 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 Akinastu, 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 ship shape, before a messenger from Inacos 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 headmen were assembled, he found there also many women and children of the tribe evidently expectant of some serious matter to be discussed. Inacos sat in the center of his councilors, on a magnificently embroidered buffalo robe, smoking his great pipe, trimmed with eagle feathers, as stoical as an Egyptian mummy, accepting that around his mouth there played a smile of a devilish import. Standing near her father, who had also been summoned to the council, was Enkenostu, dusky and beautiful in her savage grace, with the 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 Enekos 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, Enekos 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 Enekos takes Akines too, 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 Enekos too from the iron hand whom they feared, but did not respect. Enekos is a dog, boldly began the doctor. The chief gazed upon him with wonderment, but without betraying any emotion. The great spirit is angry, continued the orator. Enekos 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, Enekos will be dead. He will take with him to the happy hunting grounds many men and warriors, many young women and children, perhaps Akines too, 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. Enekos 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 Akinous too, 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 Enekos. 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 then 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, Enekos 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 un-pale face will drive away the bad spirit from the little ones of Enekos, he may take Akinostu 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 Akinostu'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 Enekos. 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. Enekos, as predicted by the doctor, was the first to die. Akinostu 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 Dishmet, who was stationed there at the time and whose memory is kept green by every tribe of Indians on the continent. Akinostu was educated at one of the convents in the Mount City, became the pet of society, and her worthy husband, a state senator. CHAPTER 12 CARSON'S FIRST INDIAN I have been requested by several parties to offer something of Kid 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 campfire on several little outings with him and Maxwell in the mountains of New Mexico, I have chosen for my sketch Kid'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 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 Fe Trail wound its course, now the actual roadbed of the Santa Fe 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 Fe traders attacked by Indians. The picture located the scene of the fight at Pawnee Rock, which formed a sort of non-descript shadow in the background of a crudely drawn representation of the dangers of the trail. I witness 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 demoniical yell that fairly shook the sand dunes of the Arkanses, 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 Zera only half a mile away. I was necessarily forced to remain neutral, but my sympathies were with the underdog in the fight, which happened to be the Cheyennes, whom the Pawnees drove off, disgraced and discomfited. 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 campfires. 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 poured in the little log schoolhouse 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 a way 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 this huge adobe fireplaces, up whose cavernous throats the yellow flames crackled and roared, were the mighty men of the youth nation, with Kit Carson, Lucian 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 storehouses 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 believe 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 11-inch buoy 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 makeup than otherwise, but in fact, wiry and quick, though cautious, possessing nerves of steel, and an impeterability in the moment of supreme danger that was marvelous to contemplate. He was fond of cards and horse racing, a famous writer in his younger days, having entered the lists in many a contest with the Indians, who were 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 Arkensis, 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 cotton woods 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 Fe, too, there is a massive cenotaph which records his deeds and name. Kit was born in Kentucky on the 20th of December 1809, while a mere infant, his parents immigrated to what is now Howard County, Missouri, which at that early date was literally a howling wilderness filled with abarments 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-francier's men 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 Fe 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, Colonel Saint Vren, 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 to 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 campfires lighted, and the men about to indulge in their ever welcome black coffee when they were suddenly surprised by half a dozen ponies 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 slapped 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 Shanese and Osages. Of the methods and tactics of the wild plain 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 Colonel Sampran asked him if he had seen any Indians. Yes, replied Kit, I killed one of the Red Devils as on 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, everyone 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 writing 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. In the morning, a few minutes after the men had returned from a visit to Kit's dead mule, a real battle commenced. The Pawnees attacked the camp in earnest, and kept the little outfit busy all that day, the next night, until the following night, nearly three whole days, the animals all that time shut up in the corral without food or water. On the second midnight the men harnessed up and attempted to drive out, but were driven back and had to give it up. The third night, just before morning, they tried it again, determined to reach the ford upon E. Rock to water their animals, or all would perish. It was a little more than ten miles distant from the rock, and is now within the corporate limits of Larnet. They succeeded in keeping off the savages and arrived at the ford in comparative safety. The trail at that point crossed the creek in the shape of a horseshoe, or rather in consequence of a double bend in the stream, as it debouches into the Arkanses. The road crossed it twice, as all who have traveled the old Santa Fe Trail in the early days will remember. In making this crooked passage, many of the wagons were badly wrecked in the creek, because the mules were terribly thirsty and their drivers could not control them. The caravan was hardly strung out again on the opposite bank of the Pony, when the Indians poured a shower of arrows and a volley of bullets from both sides of the trail into the train. But before they could reload or draw their arrows, a desperate charge was made among them, headed by the colonel, and it took only a few minutes to clear out the savages, and then the caravan moved on. During the whole fight at the rock and at Pony Fork, the party lost four men killed, seven wounded, and eleven mules killed, not including kids, and twenty wounded. From this fight, Kit said Pony Rock was named. Little is known of the origin of scout-taking and that, vague and indefinite. Nearly every tribe has some wild, weird legend to account for the custom, but these traditions vary widely as to the cause. That, raising the hair of an enemy, is of great antiquity, there is no doubt, as in the Bible it is related how the soldiers tore the skin from the heads of their whipped foes. All, or at least all, Indian tribes with which I am acquainted, scalp their enemies killed in battle. With the Indian there appears to be some close affiliation between the departed spirit and his hair. I have questioned many a blood-begrimed warrior why he should want a dead man's hair, and invariably there have been assigned a number of reasons, three of which are most prominent. First, it is in evidence to his people that he has triumphed over an enemy. Second, the scouts are employed very prominently in the incantations of the medicine lodge, a part of their religious rites. Third, the savage believes there is a wonderfully inherent power in the scalp of an enemy. All the excellent qualities of the victim go with his hair the moment it is wrenched from his head. If it be that of a renowned warrior, so much the more are they anxious to procure his scalp, for the fortunate possessor then inherits all the bravery and prowess of his original owner. I have known of but one instance in all my experience among the Indians where a white man taken prisoner in battle escaped death. It was a great many years ago the party, a dear friend, still living, was a grand old mountaineer. But the homeliest man on earth, probably, he was red-faced, wrinkled and pot-marked, with a mouth as large and full of teeth as a guerrillas, and there was no more hair on any part of his head than there is on the head of a cane. He was captured in a prolonged fight and taken to the village of the tribe where the principal chief resided. The latter gave one look at the prisoner, shook his head, and said he was bad medicine, that if he was not the evil spirit himself he was closely allied to him. He then ordered his subordinates to furnish him with a pony, loaded him with provisions, provided him with a rifle, and told him to go to his people. This incident, which is a fact, shows that you cannot account for the occasional vagaries of the North American savage. The Indians of the plain and Rocky Mountains would rather, for the reason last above stated, take one scalp of a famous scout or army officer who has successfully chastised them, like Custer, Zully, and Crook, than a dozen of those of ordinary white men. Twenty-six years ago, next November, I was camping on the high divide between the Arkansas River and the Beaver, with a party of government Indian scouts, members of three friendly tribes, Osages, Ponies, and Cause, employed by order of General Sheridan in his winter campaign against the hostile Cheyennes, Arapahos, and Kiowas. It was a terribly gusty day, one of those so characteristic of our plains region at certain times of the year. As with closely wrapped blankets we huddled around our little fire of buffalo chips, the dust and ashes would rise in miniature whirlwinds and go dancing over the prairies until they exhausted themselves. I asked a venerable chief of the Osages who was present, Little River, nearly eighty years old, what those fitful spirals indicated in order to draw from his savage mind his ideas of the forces of nature. He replied, they are the spirits of some southern Indians killed and scalped up north, going back to the lodges of their people. I thought that if he had substituted the word matter for spirit, for everywhere we tread upon the dust of a lost civilization, probably he would have been nearer the truth than in the statement of one of the superstitions of his race. Among the many myths of the American savage, the disposition of the soul after its separation from the body and its close connection with its scout vary according to the religion of the tribe. With some, the journey to the happy hunting grounds begins immediately. With others, the spirit remains near the grave. Again, if an Indian dies away from the lodges of his people, the spirit returns at once to them where it hubbers as if reluctant to leave. Among the upper river tribes, it is believed that before the spirit finally departs from those who have died of wounds received in battle, it floats toward a great cliff overlooking the Missouri and carves upon the wall of rock a picture showing the manner of death. It is believed, by most plain strives, that the soul attaches itself to the scalp, that the soul of a person scalped does not suffer from the wounds inflicted on the body, but that the converse is the case where the scalp is not torn off. There are many instances on record where men have been scalped and yet survived the terrible ordeal, but in every case the scalper supposed his victim dead, the latter taking good care that the foment should not be disabused of the supposed fact. One who kills himself in battle accidentally or purposely has positively no hereafter. He is irrevocably lost. Those who are struck by lightning or die by any other apparently direct operation of the Manitou, the Great Spirit, are hurriedly buried where they fall without any ceremony and no mound or other mark is erected over them. If after a battle there are found corpses not scalped or their bodies not mutilated, it is certain that those persons came to death by their own hand, for it is part of the religion of an Indian not to scalp or mutilate the body of an enemy who commits suicide. His superstition in regard to persons dying by suicide or by lightning is as religiously observed as any other of his myths. Knowing this deep-rooted superstition as well as I do, I have been led to believe, though the statement may provoke discussion among those who know nothing of the Indian character, that the death of the lamented general Custer in that awfully unequal battle of the Little Bighorn was not according to the accepted theory at that time, viz that he was killed by the Indian chief rain in the face. The tale which I regard as an idle fiction so far as the facts are concerned, as it has been told a thousand times and copied in the newspapers of the world, is that one day the general's brother Tom at one of the military posts where the regiment to which he was attached, the famous seventh cavalry commanded by the general was stationed, had a dispute with rain in the face and struck him. The savage was furious with rage but suppressed it and mounting his pony rode off sullenly to his lodge. Years after the death of general Custer, rain in the face, who unquestionably participated in the battle of the rosebud, as the action is sometimes called, is said to have related that he killed general Custer, thus avenging himself for the indignity put upon himself by the general's brother Tom so long before. In all probability the story was made out of whole cloth by a certain New York newspaper correspondent in whose journal it first appeared. I knew him well and his reputation for unexaggerated truth was far from being as orthodox as he of the cherry tree fame. Because it had a plausibility about it and was highly sensational, the statement was accepted by the general public or those who were not familiar with the methods of the North American savage. No doubt rain in the face did as would all Indians treasure up such a grievance as that of having been insulted by a blow from a white man. But the circumstances of the battle of the little big horn in all its horrors so far as it is possible to know them preclude the possibility of sitting bull permitting a subordinate chief, as was rain in the face, to irrigate to himself the right of revenge in the case of such a noted white warrior as Custer. If by any probability rain in the face did kill Custer he certainly would have scalped him and mutilated his body. Custer was not scout nor was his person at all abused and the reason generally given for this immunity from the common custom of savage warfare is that the Indians had such a profound admiration for his wonderful bravery that they spared the great white warrior that humiliation. This is the weakest point of the whole argument for the greater the man in the savage's estimation the more eager would they be to secure his scalp. My own theory is and the fact that Custer was not scalped or mutilated is not the only confirmation of it that the general killed himself to escape the horrible torture that awaited him should he be captured alive. His capture was what sitting bull had undoubtedly determined upon the moment he saw the tide of battle unmistakably turning in his favor. Custer was known to all the plain strives he had given them ample cause to remember him and these savages would never have allowed an opportunity to capture him alive to be defeated by permitting some aggrieved chief to kill him in order to gratify a personal revenge. The game was too big. The Indians called Custer the crawling panther because he usually fell upon them with his troopers as stealthily as does that animal upon a spray. To those unacquainted with the methods of the American savage of the Great Plains the statement that suicide would be infinitely preferable to the chances for life after having been captured by the Indians may seem overdrawn and wicked to be thought of. But if they had seen, as I have, the remains of men, women, and innocent babies horribly mutilated, burnt, butchered, and hacked to pieces, they too, if they knew such a fate awaited them beyond the possibility of a doubt if captured alive, would unhesitatingly court death by their own hands suddenly and immediately rather than wait for the other a few hours or days more remote perhaps, but certain and horrible in its prolonged agony. I know that it was commonly understood if not actually agreed to among the officers at frontier posts that each one that should reserve the last bullet in his revolver for himself in the event of a horrible contingency. I have known of many officers in the long ago of my early service among the Indians who whenever they went on an expedition against the hostile tribes invariably had concealed about their persons easily accessible a small capsule of prusik acid or some equally potent and swift messenger of death to be used in case of a possible contingency. Custer, it will be remembered, was shot through the head and it was a curious coincidence that two or three of his subordinates whose bodies were found near his had been shot in precisely the same manner. In view of all these facts there can be small doubt that those officers carried out the plan of death determined upon the moment they recognized the hopelessness of their situation. That the story of rain in the face if he ever told it is not at all likely to be the truth may be inferred from the fact that the average Indian as I know him when discoursing of his own prowess is the most unconscionable liar and the truth is not in him. Of course if rain in the face could prevail upon a newspaper correspondent to flatter him in regard to the part he took in a battle in which a great white warrior was defeated he would rather lie to that correspondent than not and that is just what rain in the face did in this instant provided always that the correspondent did not invent the whole tale. The truth of how Custer came to his death can never absolutely be known for out of that awfully unequal conflict there came but one miserable Crow Indian and Colonel Keoh celebrated horse Comanche alive. From the fact that the great soldier was not scout the theory I have suggested is certainly more plausible and will be accepted by all who are familiar with the customs of the Indians than that story which has made the rounds of the newspapers a dozen times. End of chapter 13 End of Tales of the Trail short stories of western life by Colonel Henry Inman