 Chapter 6 of Tales of the Trail by Henry Inman Chapter 6 – Wall Henderson In one of the busy little mining camps just over the range in New Mexico, they're prowled around about 25 years ago a notorious character whose life was made up of desperate adventures and whose tragic death, which is the subject of this sketch, illustrates the inevitable fate of the average border bully. Wall Henderson was born and raised, as he termed it, in Missouri. He came over the mountains into the New Mexico mines from Colorado soon after the first discovery of gold in the Marino Hills, where he staked off a claim in Humbug Goat and commenced working in an apparently honest way. He was a rough, illiterate fellow possessing the physique of a giant, courageous as a she-grisly with cubs and such a dead shot with his revolver that he soon became a terror to the whole mountain population. He was a desperado in its fullest sense without one redeeming quality except that he was kind to his dog, a wicked-looking cur, fit companion for such a surly master. Any more intercourse with Wall than was absolutely necessary was carefully avoided by everyone and the idea of getting into a dispute with him, who would rather shoot than eat, never entered the heads of those who worked claims in the vicinity so that virtually he commanded the respect of a king. One afternoon a wall was seized with a desire to start off on a little prospecting tour to another portion of the range where he suspected the existence of a quartz lead. He left his claim in the gulch only partially opened, never dreaming for an instant that anyone would have the temerity to jump it in his absence after they had discovered that he owned it, which he took good care they could easily learn, for before he went he asked one of his more educated neighboring miners to come over and cut his name on a dead pine stump that stood near the mouth of his pit. This friend was nothing loath to oblige his surly comrade, so just after dinner he came over and with his keen bowie knife he slashed out a huge Wall Henderson his claim on the dead stump. It took him nearly two hours to complete his literary labors while Wall stood by impatiently watching him, and when his friend had just finished the last touch of his rude letters remarked, Well, I guess there ain't no one gone for to touch that bar. Then swinging his pick and shovel over his shoulder he whistled to his dog, took his bearings by a look at the sun, started down the canyon on a sort of shuffling trot, and was soon out of sight. He was gone three days. When he returned he found that his ground had been jumped by a party of Irish miners who had come into the diggings during his absence. Wall, in as quiet a manner as his bulldog nature permitted, told them to get, but they swore they would hold a claim in spite of him and if he was as big as Finn McCool they would fight him. Wall smothered his rage for the moment, cool he walked off to his cabin, where he armed himself with two revolvers, a Spencer carbine, and a wicked looking IXL blade, and started back to the gulch, determined to drive the intruders away, or kill them if necessary, it mattered little as to choice. Get out of this, quick, jump, or up, fill your full of holes, was Wall's greeting, as on his return he came inside of the intruders. But one of the plucky Irishmen made a break for Wall, intending to finish him by a well-directed blow from his shovel. Wall, quick as thought, brought down his revolver, killing his man instantly, the bullet hitting him in the forehead directly between the eyes, a spot that was Wall's invariable target, which in his list of nearly a score of victims he never failed to center. The two now thoroughly frightened companions of the dead minor fled to camp and told the story of the murder. Wall, believing that he would have a crowd on his heels in a little while, started hurriedly for his cabin, proposing to light out for a while, as he said, but a mob of plucky men intercepted him. He was arrested, taken to camp, and confined in a little log building around which a guard was placed. As the news of Wall's latest exploits spread around the hills, the Irishminers flocked in from all directions, bent on revenge. The people of the town expected a general outbreak between the Irish and American elements if any resistance was offered to the infuriated friends of the murdered man in their attempt to take Wall from the improvised jail, which they openly proclaimed they would do as soon as night came on. The building used for the incarceration of Wall was an abandoned log store about sixteen feet square. The interstices of the logs were chinked with mud and the hole surmounted by a brush and dirt roof. In the corner of the room, after the Mexican fashion, a huge but rude fireplace had been constructed of stone and earth from which a large chimney composed of the same material communicated with the open air through the roof above. No sooner had the heavy door closed on Wall than he began an accurate survey of his quarters with a view of escaping as soon as the mob he confidently expected should make their appearance. One glance at the immense fireplace, which yawned like the opening to a cave, and a look at the clear sky above through the chimney, satisfied him that he would be out of his prison and up some mountain gulch before his intended captors could think twice. Shortly after dark a motley crowd of rough miners, half crazed with the villainous liquors they had been drinking all the afternoon, assembled at the jail. They had once ordered the guard away, fired their pistols in the air, and made the very hills ring with their curses and implications upon the prisoner within the little hut. Wall, meantime, had determined to escape. In fact, at the very time the crowd had reached the door, he was on the roof, quietly waiting for the mob to make a rush inside, at which moment he proposed to leap to the ground from the rear of the building. He waited for the signal, which soon came in the shape of a volley of pistol and carbine shots, and a wild yell from the would-be Avengers, who with a desperate rush made for the door. Under the pressure it flew from its fastenings and swung open with a loud report, throwing half a dozen of the mob upon the dirt floor. For a moment or two no one could enter, as those nearest the door became wedged together, while the pressure from the crowd in the rear held them more securely imprisoned than Wall, who at this juncture jumped from the roof and to use his own expression, lit out lively. When the crowd became aware that Wall had escaped, they threatened to lynch the guard, and but for the intercession of some of the cooler-headed and less drunken members of the party, no doubt their threats would have been carried into execution. They divided into little bands and scoured the camp, visiting every suspected house or whole where the game might possibly be secreted, and it was not until early morning that the search was abandoned. The following day the events of the preceding night were fully discussed, and as many conjectures were suggested in relation to Wall's escape and whereabouts, as there were groups of men, each had his own theory, each knew exactly how and when he got away. Old Sam Bartlett, a short, thick-set, grisly veteran minor, expressed it as his opinion that Wall went up the chimney and by this your time as well heel somewhere near camp, the rounded by a battery of small arms, ready to fight the whole outfit. Sam's surmises proved true. No sooner had Wall made his escape than he went to his own den for a moment to secure arms and ammunition than to an abandoned tunnel about a mile up the nearest gulch where he immediately commenced to fortify his position, prepared to sell his life as dearly as possible if the mod pursued him. As he afterward said, did not intend to pass in his checks until he had made a sieve of a few of them. The Mexican woman with whom he lived proved a faithful ally. Under the shadow of the night she secretly conveyed food and blankets, never revealing to a soul where her americano was, always earnestly denying any knowledge of the fugitive. For nearly a week Wall lived in the abandoned mining tunnel at the expiration of that time when the excitement had somewhat subsided and it was generally supposed he had fled the country, he quietly walked into camp at midnight, broke open a stable, took out a horse, saddled him and galloped off to Taos, which place he reached next morning. In justice to Wall, let it be said that he was not a professional horse thief, he had not gotten so low as that, but having perfect faith in the old saw that self-preservation is the first law of nature, he seized upon the only reliable means to escape strangling by a mob. On his arrival at Taos, where he felt secure, he returned the animal to his owner with thanks, complimenting him on his architectural skill in constructing a stable that could be entered so easily and upon the endurance of his horse that had carried him so well. A little more than a month later the camp was somewhat startled one afternoon at seeing Wall, riding down the main street, mounted on a Mexican pony with four revolvers buckled around his waist and a carbine slung across his back. Halting in front of a saloon he alighted and with a devil may care sort of a nod to the loafers hanging round, invited them all in to take a drink. To the crowd at the bar he related his adventures since he had been among them, said he was tired of Taos, and had come back to look after his mining interest of humbug goat, which he thought he had neglected too long. He added, if any gentlemen were sympathizers with the would-be stranglers, he would be pleased to step out on the street and give them an exhibition of his peculiar manner of managing the portable battery he had provided himself with. No one, seeming particularly anxious to witness the proffered entertainment, wore was not declared, and after a round or two of Taos' lightning, as Whiskey was called in those days, Wall quietly mounted his horse and made his way toward his little dugout, where he was met by his faithful senora, and provided with a bountiful repast of tortillas and frijoles, corn cakes and de beans. The excitement in camp gradually exhausted itself, and it was mutually agreed that Wall should not be molested if he kept away from humbug goat, while apparently accepted the situation, turned his attention to the laudable ambition of supplying the camp with cordwood, and almost any day thereafter could be seen coming into town with his load. One day, about two months after he had settled himself down to legitimate pursuits, while sitting in a saloon, fatigued by a somewhat arduous morning's work, a party of Irish minors entered, all of whom were more or less under the influence of liquor. After bandying words with Wall, in reference to his claim and the murder of their companion, one rather more bold than discreet, approached Wall, holding a large stone, and said, But Jabber's Wall, you would look better dead than alive, when Wall, as quick as thought, drew his pistol, and drawing a bead on the Irishman said, Drop that rock. The stone dropped, Wall quietly resumed his seat without another word, replaced his pistol and his holster, coolly lighted his pipe, and commenced to smoke. The gang were evidently bent on mischief, but Wall could not be intimidated and made no move to leave his seat, but kept his keen eye on every act of the drunken mob. He listened coolly and indifferently for a while to their coarse jests and braggadocio threats cast at him, but there comes a moment when patience ceases to be a virtue and comes soon as to men of such caliber as Wall. When another of the belligerents approached too near with an outrageous remark, Wall jumped to his feet and said, But, Blank, I think I'll kill when he adjusts for the rock and put a stock to this blanketing nonsense. Drawing out his pistol he fired the ball, as always, taking effect in the bridge of his victim's nose, passing through the right eye and coming out in front of the ear. At the report of the pistol a crowd rushed in, but no one attempted to interfere with Wall, who took a position against the side of the room where he invited anyone who wanted him to step up, but if anyone did he would make a sieve of him. No one desirous of being converted into that useful article just then, not a soul stepped forward. The Alcalda footnoted the Spanish title of a magistrate corresponding to Justice of the Peace. The Alcalda and Sheriff were sent for and soon arrived, Wall gave himself up and was remanded to his old quarters, the little log jail from which he had so successfully made his escape by way of the huge chimney on a former occasion. The drunken companions of the murdered minor, immediately upon the arrest of Wall, started off to muster up a crowd of their countrymen, determined at this time to meet out some revengeance upon the assassin of their comrade. To preclude the possibility of an escape on the part of the prisoner, an additional guard was employed to watch outside of the jail, and two men were posted on the roof. No, going up the chimney this time. Shortly after dark another mob composed of the friends of Wall's last victim poured into camp from the gulches and hills and proceeded directly to the jail, determined that this time their game should not slip through their fingers. In a few moments the infuriated and howling would to be lynchers forced the door of the building open in the same manner as they had done before, but their bird had flown. Wall was not there. Knowing the desperate character of the men who had come to take his life, Wall had resolved to make a determined effort to get away from them if possible, when he first heard them surging and howling in the distance and putting all his quick wits at work soon decided what might be done. Standing at the side of the door, as it was crushed from its fastenings, he allowed the scramble and rush pel-mel into the dark room, while he quickly slipped past them out into the street, walked slowly to the first corner, then shot into the night, and was free. The rage and disappointment of the exasperated miners on the discovery that their man had again eluded them can better be imagined than described. Wall, proceeded to his little home, took one of his horses from the stable, rode rapidly out of camp over a mountain trail, and in a few hours was miles away where he found a safe retreat. The disappointed crowd on discovering that for the present, at least, Wall was beyond their power, slowly retired to their homes, swearing they would kill Wall on sight if he ever made his appearance in camp again. But a few days elapsed before Wall dropped into town. Though strange as it may seem, no attempt was made to arrest him. For weeks everything about camp moved along quietly, and it was hoped that further disturbance was at an end. One afternoon, however, while Wall was standing in front of one of the little stores scattered at intervals along the long main street of the town, engaged in conversation with a lot of miners who had congregated there, a horseman came galloping up the principal thoroughfare halting directly in front of the door where Wall and his companions were talking. Taking a single glance at Wall, he exclaimed, You are the man I'm looking for, and drawing his revolver commenced shooting. He fired three shots in rapid succession, neither of which, however, took effect. But before he could caulk his pistol again, which he was in the act of doing, Wall had drawn a bead on him and fired. The ball struck him in the trigger-thumb and thereby turned, or it would have found its proper center between the eyes. Finding himself disabled, the rider put spurs to his horse and fled to the friendly shelter of the nearest ravine, but soon returned, dismounted, as he discovered that he had not been followed by the terrible Wall. A crowd gathered around to shoot the wretch who had so deliberately jeopardized the lives of innocent citizens, but he called out that he was wounded, for God's sake, not to kill him. He would give himself up quietly if he could be permitted to see a doctor. The doctor happened to be sitting in front of his office nearby and took him in and amputated his thumb. He was then turned over to the sheriff, who placed him in an unoccupied log-building and appointed a guard to watch him. During the night, however, following in the footsteps of the illustrious Wall, he eluded the vigilance of the guard, made good his escape, and ran into the mountains, where he was received by friends who were determined to protect him from re-arrest. The following day word was sent the doctor to come out and dress his wounds. Obeying the summons, the doctor found him within a hundred yards of his cabin at the side of a mining ditch surrounded by an array of pistols, carbines, and knives determined to resist any attempt to re-arrest him, the point selected commanding every avenue of approach up the mountain slope. Here he remained several days. He sent word to the alcaldah, through some of his friends, that he would die before giving himself up to the stranglers, but would submit if soldiers were to come for him. Upon this message of defiance, no further effort was made to capture him, and the town relapsed once more into its wanted quietude. Even Henderson became remarkably docile, no further disturbances occurring between him and the miners, the trouble ending apparently by mutual consent. Some months subsequent to the incidents related in the foregoing, the little camp was again thrown into a state of excitement in consequence of a report of the robbery of the mail in the canyon between Elizabethtown and Ute Creek. It was brooded about and proved true that when the coat, which made tri-weekly trips between the camp and the Simeron to connect with the great southern overland line, reached a lonely point in the canyon where the road was narrow and wound around a side hill covered with a dense grove of scrubby pines, three disguised men would slip out and order the driver to halt. Then without moving from their place on either side of the confined pass, with their rifles pointed toward him, demand that the express-box be thrown from the boot. This modest request was always complied with after which they ordered the driver to move on, much to the relief of the thoroughly frightened conductor and the two or three passengers inside. Five or six depredations of this character were committed in the course of a month. The people in camp began to have their suspicions aroused, and many were the conjectures as to who the guilty parties could be. A company was formed to scour the canyon, but not even a clue of the Hyruman could be found, nor a place that exhibited any signs of a rendezvous. This fact confirmed the suspicions of the law-abiding portion of the community that there existed in their midst and neighboring settlements on Ute Creek, and organized a band of road agents who started out only on favorable opportunities for carrying on their nefarious purposes. It was believed by many that persons residing in Elizabethtown kept watch, advised their partners in this crime at Ute Creek at what time a large amount of gold would probably be made, and the number of passengers with their names the coach would carry. Wall absented himself from the camp a day or two at a time, and it began to be murmured that he could tell, if he would, a great deal concerning these systematic robberies. It was even hinted that he not only directed the aided and abetted the attacks on the coach, but took an active part himself. He was very reticent on the subject, and it was a fact commented upon by nearly everyone in camp that after an absence of two or three days he would invariably turn up the very morning after a robbery with a load of wood for sale, and as demurely ride through town on his little wagon, as if such a thing as an attack on the coach the day before had never taken place. Of course no positive proof of his complicity could be obtained, yet it was generally believed that he belonged to the gang. The man who kept the principal saloon was well known throughout the territory, not only on account of his size and weight, but also in consequence of his insatiable thirst for bug juice and his dexterous manipulation of the cards, and he was with all a law abiding citizen. He would tolerate nothing that was not strictly regular in the eye of the law. He wouldn't steal a horse or carry off a red-hot stove, but woe to the unfortunate and confiding individual who sat down to his game with the expectation of leaving with a scent in his clothes. His thorough knowledge of Montefaro, poker, and other gentile games made him as much a terror behind the green-covered table as a pack of highway robbers, while he would not hesitate to fleece some unsuspecting victim in a gentlemanly game. He had no sympathy with any lawbreaker or road agent who would halt a man for his money without the farcical proceeding of having a little bout of cards to win at honorably. One afternoon, while the robberies of the male coach were at their height, three or four broken-down gamblers sauntered into his saloon and commenced to discuss the last depredation and the modus operandi of the efficient agents. Prominent among the group was wall. Each had his theory to advance, and each expressed it freely. The barkeeper said, Don't you understand, a favorite expression when excited, Don't you understand the blankety rathgals, don't live a great way from this camp, and I wouldn't wonder if a few of them, Don't you understand, are right inside of this shebang now. Don't you understand, I ain't got no sympathy for any such work, Don't you understand, and will help bring every mother's son of them, Don't you understand? Old Sam Bartlett expressed it, as his opinion, that Ruben James of Duke Creek knowed all about it and was at the head of the gang. Wall put in his oar occasionally, but from his remarks it was apparent that his sympathy was rather in favor of that style of robbing than stealing it through a blankety old pharaoh box. Words waxed high, and it was evident that it was going to be a difficult as Kit Carson used to say. The proprietor saw that trouble would ensue if the conversation was not stopped. So desirous of putting an end to it, he turned to Wall and said, Wall, we've had enough of this, so come on and have a drink and go home. Wall accepted the invitation, and with a closing remark, that he considered the robbers were a blankety sight better than some of the genteel thieves who lived right in camp. He walked up to the bar, while the owner from behind said, Wall, what will you have? I'll take whiskey and mine, answered Wall. Glass and bottle were set out, and while the proprietor was mixing a toddy beneath the bar for himself, Wall seized the bottle, poured his glass full to the brim, then deliberately emptied it on the counter with the remark, if you don't like that, why then take your change anyway you want it at the same instant, putting his hand on his hip as if in the act of drawing his pistol. As quick as thought, the proprietor, knowing the desperate character of the man he had to deal with, seized a pistol from behind the bar, leveled it, fired and Wall fell dead. Then immediately stepping from where he was to the front, pistol in hand, he emptied the remaining chambers of his revolver into the prostrate body. He gave himself up at once, an examination was shortly held before the Alcalda, where all the facts were elicited and the verdict of the jury was a justifiable homicide. Thus ended the career of Wall Henderson, whose bones are reposing on the little hill above the now abandoned camp, where a score or more of others lie who went the same way. CHAPTER 7 KIT CARSON'S PONNY ROCK STORY Pony rock has probably been the scene of a hundred fights and a volume could be written in relation to it. Kit Carson one night some years ago, when camped halfway up the rugged sides of Old Baldy in the Raton Range, told in his peculiarly expressive way, among other border reminiscences, the following little story, the incidents of which occurred long years ago. The night was cold, although mid-summer and we were huddled around a little fire of pine knots, more than 8,000 feet above the level of the sea, close to the snow limit. We had left Maxwell's early in the morning to trace a quartz lead that cropped out near the mouth of the copper mine worked by him, and night overtook us many miles from the ranch. So we concluded to remain on the mountain until daylight. We had no blankets, and of course had to sit up through the long hours, and as it was terribly cold, we made a fire, filled our pipes, and spun yarns to keep away. Our lunch that we had brought was all eaten about noon, so we were supperless as well, but a swift cold mountain stream ran close to our little camp, and we took a swallow of that occasionally, which served the place of a meal. Kit, the general, as everyone called him, was in a good humor for talking, and we naturally took advantage of this to draw him out, but usually he was the most reticent of men in relation to his own exploits. The night was pretty dark, there was no moon, and our fire of dry knots blazed up beautifully every time the two Indians, whom we had appointed to this special duty, threw a fresh armful on. The flames cast their weird and fanciful shadows on the side of the mountain, and contrasted curiously with the inky blackness all around below us, while far above could be seen the dim outline of old baldies scarred and weather-beaten crest. Crag piled upon Crag until they seemed to touch the starlit sky. For an hour or two the conversation was confined to the probabilities of gold being found in paying quantities in the mountains and gulches of the range, and when the interest on that subject flagged, Maxwell, having made a casual remark in relation to some peak nearby, just discernible in the darkness, and connecting the locality with some trouble he had had ten or a dozen years before with the Indians, his reminiscences opened Kit Carson's mouth, and he said he remembered one of the worst difficults a man ever got into. So he made a fresh corn-shucked cigarette and told us the following about Pony Rock, which he said had been written up years ago, and that he had a paper containing it, which he afterward gave me, and which, with what Kit related orally that night, is here presented. It was old Jim Gibson, poor fella, he went under a fight with the youths over twenty years ago, and his bones are bleaching somewhere in the dark canyons of the range, or on the slopes of the Spanish peaks. He used to tell of a scrimmage he and another fella had on the Arkensis with the Kiowas in 1836. Jim and his partner Bill, something or other, I'll just remember his name now, had been trapping up in the river country during the winter with unusually good luck. The beaver was mighty thick in the whole Yellowstone region in them days, and Jim and Bill got an early start on their journey for the river that spring. You see, they expected to sell their truck in western Missouri, which was the principal trading point on the river then. They walked the whole distance, over fifteen hundred miles, driving three good mules before them, on which their plunder was packed, and they got along well enough until they struck the Arkensis river at Pawnee Rock. Here they met a war party of about sixty Kiowas who treed them on the rock. Jim and Bill were notoriously brave, and both dead shots. Before they reached the rock, to which they were driven, they killed ten of the Kiowas and had not received a scratch. They had plenty of powder and a pouch full of bullets each. They also had a couple of jackrabbers for food in case of a siege, and the perpendicular walls of the rock made them a natural fortification, an almost impregnable one. They succeeded in securely picketing their animals on the west side of the rock, where they could protect them by their unerring rifles, but the story of the fight must be told in Jim's own way. He was a pretty well educated fella and had been to college, I believe, in his younger days, lost the gall he was going to marry, or had some bad luck or other, and took to the prairies when he was about twenty. I will try to tell it as near as he did as possible. After the dirned red cusses had treed us, they picked up their dead and packed them to their camp at the mouth of the creek, a little peace off. In a few moments back they all came, mounted, with all their fixings and war paint on. Then they commenced to circle around us, coming closer Indian fashion every time, till they got with an easy rifle range, when they slung themselves on the four sides of their ponies and in that position opened on us. Their arrows fell like a hailstorm around us for a few minutes, but as good luck would have it none of them struck. I was afraid that first of all they would attempt to kill our mules, but I suppose they thought they had the dead wood on us and the mules would come mighty handy for their own use after our scouts were built. But we were taking in all the chances. Bill kept his eye skinned and whenever he saw a stray leg or head he drew a bead on it and Thug over-tumbled its owner every time with a yell of rage. Whenever they attempted to carry off their dead that was the moment we took the advantage and we poured it into them as soon as they rallied for that purpose with telling effect. We wasted no shots, we had now only about forty bullets between us and the miserable cusses seemed thick as ever. The sun was nearly down by this time and at dark they did not seem anxious to renew the fight that night, but I could see their mounted patrols at a respectable distance at every side, watching to prevent our escape. I took advantage of the darkness to go down and get a few buffalo chips to cook our supper for we were mighty hungry and to change the animals to where they were asked, though for that matter it was nearly up to a man's head all over the bottom. I got back to our camp on top without any trouble when we made a little fire and cooked a rabbit. We had to go without water and so did the animals, though we did not mind the want of it so much ourselves, we pitted the mules which had none since we broke camp in the morning. It was of no use to worry about it though, the nearest water was occurring at the Indian camp and it would be certain death to attempt to get there. I was afraid that red devils would fire the prairie in the morning and endeavor to smoke or burn us out. The grass was just in a condition to make a lively blaze and we might escape the flames and we might not. We watched with eager eyes for the first gray streaks of dawn that would usher in another day, perhaps the last for us. The next morning sun had scarcely peeped above the horizon when with an infernal yell the Indians broke for the rock and we knew some special new project had entered their heads. The wind was springing up pretty fresh and nature seemed to conspire with the red devils if they really meant to burn us out and I had no doubt now from their movements that that was what they intended. The darned cusses kept at such a respectful distance from our rifles that we would have to know that we could not stop the infernal throats of some of them with our bullets but we had to choke our rage and watch events closely. I took occasion during the lull in hostilities to crawl down to where the mules were and shift them to the east side of the rock where the wall was the highest so that the flames and smoke might possibly pass by them without so much danger as on the exposed other side. I succeeded in doing this and also in tearing away the grass for several yards around the animals and with just starting back when Bill called out, Blankham, they fired the prairie. I reached the top of the rock in a moment and it took in at a glance what was coming. The spectacle for a short interval was indescribably grand. The sun was shining with all the powers of its rays on the huge clouds of smoke as they rolled down from the north, tinting them with glorious crimson. I had barely time to get under shelter of a projecting point of the rock when the wind and smoke swept down to the ground and instantly we were enveloped in the darkness of midnight. We could not discern a single object neither Indians, horses, the prairie nor sun and what a terrible wind. I have never experienced its equal in violence since. We stood breathless and clinging to the projection of our little mass of rock did not realize that the fire was so near until we were struck in the face by the burning buffalo chips that were carried toward us with the rapidity of the wind. I was really scared it seemed as if we must suffocate but we were saved miraculously. The sheet of flame passed us twenty yards away as the wind fortunately shifted at the moment the fire reached the rock. Yet the darkness was so perfect we did not see the flame. We only knew that we were safe as the clear sky greeted us behind the dense cloud of smoke. Two of the Indians and their horses were caught in their own trap and perished miserably. They had attempted to reach the east side of the rock where the mules were either to cut them loose or crawl up on us while bewildered in the smoke if we escaped death. But they had only a few rods on their little expedition when the terrible darkness of the smoke cloud overtook them. All the game on the prairie which the fire swept over was killed too. Only a few buffaloes were visible in that region before the fire but even they were killed. The path of this horrible passage of flames as we learned afterwards was marked all along with the crisp and blackened carcasses of wolves, coyotes, turkeys grouse and every variety of small birds. Indeed, it seemed as if no living thing it met had escaped its fury. The fire assumed such gigantic proportions and moved with such rapidity before the terrible wind that even the Alcanzas river did not check its path for a moment and we watched it carried across as readily as if the river had not been in the way. This fearful prairie fire traveled at the rate of eight miles in fifteen minutes and was probably the most violent in its features that ever visited that country. It was the most sublime picture I ever looked upon and for a moment it made us forget our perilous position. My first thought after the danger had passed was of the poor mules. I crawled down to where they were and found them badly singed but not seriously hurt. I thought, so far so good, our mules and traps were all right so we took courage and began to think we should get out of the nasty scrape in some way or other. In the meantime the Indians with the exception of four or five left to guard the rocks so we could not escape had gone back to their camp on the creek and were evidently concocting some new scheme to capture or kill us. We waited patiently two or three hours for the development of events snatching a little sleep by turns until the sun was about four hours high when the Indians commenced their infernal howling again and we knew they had hit upon something so we were on the alert in a moment to discover it and ukle them if possible. The devils this time had tied all their horses together cover them with branches of trees that they had cut on the creek, packed all the large skins on these and then driving the living breastworks for them toward us, themselves followed close behind on foot. They kept moving slowly but surely in the direction of the rock and matters began to look serious for us once more. Bill put his hand in mine and said, Jim, now by blank we got to fight. We haint done nothing yet this means business. I said, you're right Bill, old fella, but they can't get us alive. Our plan is to kill the ponies and make the cusses halt. As I spoke, Bill, who was one of the best shots on the plains, kinda threw his eye carelessly along the barrel of his rifle and one of the ponies tumbled over on the blackened sod. One of the Indians ran out to cut in loose as I expected and I took him clean off his feet without a groan. Quicker than it takes me to tell it we had stretched out twelve of them on the prairie and we made so hot for them that they got out of range and were apparently holding a council of war. We kept watching the devil's movements, for we knew they would soon be up to some confounded trick. The others did not make their appearance immediately from behind their living breastwork so we fired two shots of peace into the horses, killing three of them and throwing the whole outfit into confusion. We soon stopped their little plan and they had now only the dead bodies of the ponies we had killed to protect them for the others had broken loose and stampeded off to camp. It was getting pretty hot for Mr. Indian now who was on foot and in easy range of our rifles. We cleaned out one or two more while they were gradually pulling themselves out of range when of course we had to stop firing. The Indians started off to their camp again and during the lowland hostilities we took an account of stock. We found we had used up all our ammunition except three or four loads and despair seemed to hover over us once more. In a few moments we were surprised to see one of the warriors come out alone from camp and tearing off a piece of his white blanket he boldly walked toward the rock. Coming up within hearing he asked if we would have a talk with him. We told him yes but did not look for any good results from it. We could not expect anything less than torture if we allowed ourselves to be taken alive so we determined not to be caught in any trap. We knew we had done them too much damage to expect any mercy so we prepared to die in the fight if we must die. We beckoned the young buck nearer and listened to what he had to say. He said that they were part of White Buffalo's band of Kiowas that the war chief who was here with them was Anton Tsong who had heard of Buffalo and that he wanted us to come to the camp that we were heap brave. We should be kindly treated and that the tribe would adopt us. They were on their way to the Sioux country north of the plant that they were going there to steal horses from the Sioux. They expected a fight and wanted us to help them. Bill and myself knew the darned Indians too well to swallow their chaff so we told them that we could begin their terms that we were on our way to the Missouri and meant to get there or die in the attempt that we did not fear them the white man's god would take care of us and that if that was all they had to talk about he could go back and tell his party they could begin the fight again as soon as they pleased. He started back and before he had reached the creek they came out and met him, had a confab and then began to attack on us we made each of our four loads tell and then stood at bay almost helpless and defenseless. We were at the mercy of the savages and they understood our situation as quickly as ourselves. We were now thrown upon our last resource the boys play of throwing stones as long as we could find detached pieces of rock they did not dare to make an assault and while we were still wondering what next the white flag appeared again and demanded another talk we knew that now we had to come to terms and to make up our minds to accept anything that savored of reason and our lives trusting to the future to escape if they kept us prisoners the coyowas are not prisoners and they know brave men said the Indian we will not kill you though the prairie grass is red with the blood of our warriors that have died by your hands we will give you a chance for your lives and let you prove that the great spirit of the white man is powerful and can save you. Behold said the Indian pointing with an arrow to a solitary cotton wood on the banks of the Arkenzus a mile or more away you must go there and one of you shall run the knife gauntlet from that tree two hundred steps of the chief out toward the prairie if the one who runs escapes both are free for the great spirit has willed it Utansonavar has said it and the words of the coyowa are true when must the trial take place said I when the sun begins to shine upon the western edge of the rock replied the Indian say to your chief we accept the challenge and we'll be ready said Bill moaning the young warrior away I am sure I can win said he and can save both our lives Utansonavar will keep his word I know him said I I shall run that race not you and taking him by the hand I told him that if he saw I was going to fail to watch his chance and in the excitement of the moment mount one of their horses and fly toward Bents Fort he could escape he was young it made no difference with me my life was not worth much but he had all before him no replied to Bill my heart is set on this race once before when the Apaches got me and their knives never struck me once I asked this favor as my life for I have a presentiment that it is only I can win I know how to get every advantage of them so say no more the sun had scarcely gilded the portion of the dark line of the rock that juts out boldly toward the western horizon before all the warriors with Utansonavar at their head marched silently toward the tree and beckoned us to come quickly we were on the prairie beside them when they opened the space and we walked in their center without exchanging a word there were only thirty left of that band of sixty proud warriors who had commenced the attack on us the day before and I could see by the scowls was which they regarded us and by the convulsive clutching at their knives by the younger ones that it was only the presence and power of Utansonavar which prevented them from taking summary vengeance upon us as soon as we reached the tree Utansonavar paced the two hundred steps and arranged his warriors on either side who in a moment stripped themselves to the waist and each seizing his long scalping knife and embracing himself held it high over his head so as to strike a blow that would carry it to the hilt at once the question of who should be their victim was settled immediately for as I stepped forward to face that narrow passage of probable death the chief signaled me back with an impulsive gesture not to be misunderstood and pointing to Bill told him to prepare himself for the bloody trial I attempted to protest and was urging my most earnest words when Utansonavar said he had decided and the young man ran adding that even a drop of blood from any one of the knives meant death to both each savage stood firm with his glittering blade reflecting the rays of the evening sun and on each hard cold face a determination to have the heart's blood of their victim the case seemed almost hopeless it was truly a race for life and as Bill prepared himself I wished ourselves back on the rock with only as many good bullets as the number of red devils who stood before us the very impersonation of all the hatred of the detestable red man how well I remember the coolness and confidence of Bill he could not have been more calm if he had been stripping for a foot race for fun he had perfect faith in the result and when Utansonavar motioned to commence the fearful trial Bill spoke to me but I could not answer my grief was so great he stripped to his drawers and standing there awaiting the signal naked from the belt up he was the picture of the noblest manhood I ever saw he tightened his belt and stood for a few seconds looking with compressed lips down the double row of savages as they stood face to face gloating on their victim it seemed like an age to me and when the signal came he had the insistable power to look upon the scene at the instant Bill darted like a flash of lightning from the foot of the tree on rushed the devils with their gleaming blades yelling and crowding one another and cutting at poor Bill with all the rage of their revengeful nature but he evaded all their horrible efforts now tossing a savage here and another there now almost creeping like a snake at their feet wildcat he would jump through the line dashing the knives out of their hands till at last with a single spring he passed almost twenty feet beyond the mark where the chief stood we were saved and when the disappointed savages were crowding around him I rushed in and threw myself in his arms the chief motioned the impatient warriors away and with sullen footsteps followed them in a few moments we slowly retraced our way to the rock where taking our mules we pushed on in the direction of the Missouri we camped on the bank of the Arkanses that night only a few miles from the terrible rock and while we were resting around our little fire of buffalo chips and our animals were quietly nibbling the dried grass at our feet we could still hear the coyowas chanting the death song as they buried their lost warriors under the blackened sod of the prairie end of chapter seven chapter eight of tales of the trail by Henry Enman this liberal box recording is in the public domain chapter eight Sheridan's Roost less than a third of a century ago the western half of southern Kansas and the whole region beyond including the historical Washita where general Custer defeated the famous chief of the Cheyennes cattle was the habitat of our noblest indigenous bird the wild turkey the dense woods bordering all the streams were full of them for the wild turkey makes his haunt in the timber having visited once favorite winter rendezvous of the Cheyennes and the coyowas during the early spring and stood again on the ground where Sheridan and Custer in their celebrated campaign of 1868 and nine so effectually subdued the Indians that the western frontier has ever since been exempt from their bloody raids the recollection of many exciting wild turkey hunts by the two incomparable soldiers came vividly to my mind I remember distinctly as if it were but a week since how during that winter campaign of nearly 30 years ago the troops sent into the field against the allied hostile tribes subsisted for days on wild turkey luckily for them too as they were almost without a ration and would have suffered in a greater degree than they did but for the presence of great flots of the delicious birds in addition to the stern necessity of securing them shooting them under the brilliant mid-continent full moon that nowhere else shines more intensely afforded an immense amount of sport to both officers and enlisted men divesting their weary march through that then desolate region of its terrible monotony general Sheridan was a crack shot recognized as an expert in pheasant hunting when a young lieutenant in the wilds of Oregon long before the civil war and where large game roamed in immense numbers through the vast forest then the height of the embryo great general's ambition was that he might attain the rank major before he died there is a large body of timber on the north fork of the Canadian river in the Indian territory about 60 miles directly south of the Kansas line known as Sheridan's roost so marked on the maps it was there that general Sheridan with Custer bagged an almost incredible number of wild turkeys while camping on the now historic spot it was on the afternoon of one of the last days in the month of 1868 when the tired command found itself encamped very near and immense turkey roost both Sheridan and Custer as soon as they had dismounted from their horses made the fortuitous discovery and graft the important situation and abundance of food for the half-starved troopers and a relief to the ennui and tiresome routine of the monotonous march through the seemingly interminable sand dunes so frequent in that region in order that the necessities of the command and the anticipated sport might not be thwarted by a general firing of the rank and file under the excitement natural to the average soldier Sheridan immediately issued an order that no one officer enlisted man or civilian should leave camp without his permission he was well aware of the fact that if any prowling around absent birds would not return to their accustomed resting place when night came on the whole command was restless anxious and impatient for hours waiting for the seemingly tardy sun to set at last after two hours of suspense the fading rays began to gild the summits of the low range of hills west of the camp then just as the twilight curve reached the horizon general with Custer and several other officers whom he had chosen as companions left their campfire of blazing logs and sauntered slowly into the thick woods where it had been discovered early in the afternoon that the coveted birds were in the habit of congregating to roost arriving at the very center of the vast sleeping place at the suggestion of general Custer each gentleman took a position on the ground separated from each other some distance to watch from their individual vantage point until the moment should come for the birds to seek their accustomed resting place they did not have to wait long before it had grown fairly dark two or three flocks containing at least two hundred of the bronze to beauties came walking stealthily down the shelter ravines leading out into the broad bottom where the great trees stood in aggregated bumps under whose shadows general Sheridan had first observed the unmistakable signs of a vast roost at the head of each flock as it unsuspiciously advanced strutted a magnificent male bird in all the arrogance of his leadership and on whose bronzed plumage the soft full moon which had just risen glented like a calcium light as its golden rays sifted through the interstices of the bare limbs of the winter garbed forest when the leader had arrived at the spot where his charge had been accustomed to roost he suddenly halted glanced all around him for a few seconds then seemingly satisfied that everything was right he gave the signal a sharp quick shrill whistle at that instant every bird with one accord and a tremendous fluttering of wings raised itself and alighted in the loftiest branches of the tallest trees in a few moments more many more flocks arrived and went through exactly the same evolutions as the first to when having settled themselves for an undisturbed slumber general Sheridan gave the word for the slaughter to begin each officer then began to shoot on his own account and the turkeys fell like the leaves in October the stupid birds not killed at the first fusillade did not seem to have sense enough to get out of harm's way they flew from tree to tree at every shot persistently remaining in the immediate vicinity of the roost with all the characteristic idiocy of a sage in which according to my observation has less sense than any other bird that flies it was soon time that all honest men whether in camp or court were in bed but the two famous generals and their companions so exciting was the rare sport did not leave until the moon was far down the western horizon they then returned to the friendly fires near their tents and counted the number of birds which had fallen under the accurate aim of those engaged it was discovered they had bagged nearly a hundred of the magnificent bronze creatures of which Sheridan had killed the lion's share from that midnight incident in the beginning of that eventful winter on the Great Plains Sheridan's roost received its name the spot became classic and will go down to the generations yet unborn with its suggestive title although the majority of the birds stuck to the vicinity of their roost yet continually slaughtered by the unerring rifles of the officers appearing to be too senseless to avert their doom by flying off some however did go recklessly into the very camp of the troopers the picket line had long since been stretched and preparations for the men's evening meal scanty as it was to be were fairly under way but the cooks expecting that some of the birds would frightened as they evidently were by the deadly shots of the officers fly into camp in their bewilderment were a little slow and perfunctory anticipating that the bill of fair that night at least would vary materially from the customary horsemeat and hard tack sure enough several large flocks rounded up in full view of the command just as the firing commenced it was a curious as well as a remarkable scene to watch the evidence surprise and discompature of the birds to discover the whole ground usurped by the soldiers they were bewildered to be on action they stood still for a few moments seemingly paralyzed but as other flocks began to enter the camp all in the quickest imaginable time flew into the tallest trees at this juncture every soldier was seized with a desire to shoot and a fusillade began right there resulting in tumbling off the huge limbs 50 or more of the crazed birds of course the remainder would driven away from the roost until the very air was black with the alarmed and bewildered turkeys as the dark night came on not knowing where to go and failing to seek another quiet roosting place back they all came but in increased numbers evidently determined to roost there or nowhere the air was filled and the ground covered with wild turkeys they were dazed at the turn affairs had taken and great flocks ran all over the camp all the dogs in the command and there was every breed and every size in the camp for the average American soldier loves a dog and keeps as many as he can joined in the pandemonium that ensued in the chase after the frightened birds accompanied by a fusillade and the roost and the roost and the roost the horse accompanied by a fusillade which in point of rapidity and the loud noise would have done credit to a CORE in a general engagement Some casualties of course but no lives were lost Dubhen Fryman saved that of a horse under the following circumstances one of the troopers of the 19th Kansas cavalry who was in the act of leading his animal to the picket line at the heighhouse faithful beast, failed to respond to the tugging at his halter strap, as he endeavored to bring him to the stretched rope, and, looking round to discover the cause, the excited troopers saw the unfortunate animal on the ground, dead, having been instantly killed by an erratic ball. There was great feasting in the command that night. Never did Turkey taste so delicious as did the magnificent birds served in every conceivable style at that late meal in camp on the classic Washington to the half-famished soldiers of the famous Seventh Cavalry and the gallant boys of the Kansas Regiment. END OF CHAPTER VIII To the old trapper and hunter of the palmy days of sixty-eight and seventy, I dedicate this chapter. That time is now faded into the past, and so far faded indeed that the present generation knows not its sympathy nor its sentiment. The buffalo, as my thoughts turn to the past, the memory of their age, if I may so call it, crowds upon me. I remember when the eye could not measure their numbers. I saw a herd delay a railroad train from nine o'clock in the morning until five o'clock in the afternoon. Countless millions, divided by its leaders, and captained like an immense army. How many millions there were no one could guess. On each side of us, and as far as we could see, our vision was limited only by the extended horizon of the flat prairie. The whole vast area was black, with the surging mass of affrighted animals as they rushed onward to the south in a mad stampede. At another time, General Sheridan, Custer, Sully, and myself rode through another and larger one for three consecutive days. This was in the fall of eighteen sixty-eight. It seems almost impossible to those who have seen them, as numerous apparently as the sands of the seashore, feeding on the illimitable natural pastureage of the Great Plains, that the buffalo should have become practically extinct. When I look back only twenty-five years, and recall the fact that they swarmed in countless numbers even then, as far east as Fort Harker, only two hundred miles west from the Missouri River, I asked myself, have they all disappeared? And yet, such is the fact. Two causes can be assigned for this great hecatum. First, the demand for their hides, which brought about a great invasion of hunters into this region. And secondly, the crowds of thoughtless tourists who crossed the continent for the mere novelty and pleasure of the trip. This latter class heartlessly killed for the excitement of the new experience, as they rode along in the cars at a low rate of speed, often never touching a particle of the flesh of their victims or possessing themselves of a single robe. The former, numbering hundreds of old frontiersmen, all expert shots, with thousands of novices, the pioneer settlers on the public domain, day after day for years, made it a lucrative business to kill for the robes alone, a market for which had suddenly sprung up all over the country. The beginning of the end was marked by the completion of the Kansas Pacific across the plains to the foothills of the Rockies in 1868, this being the western limit of the Buffalo Range. In 1872, a writer in the Buffalo Land said, probably the most cruel of all bison shooting pastimes is that of firing from the cars. During certain periods in the spring and fall, when the large herds are crossing the Kansas Pacific Railroad, the trains run for a hundred miles or more among countless thousands of the shaggy monarchs of the plains. The bison has a strange and entirely unaccountable instinct or habit which leads it to attempt crossing in front of any moving object near it. It frequently happened in the time of the old stages that the driver had to rain up his horses until the herd which he had started had crossed the road ahead of him. To accomplish this feat, if the object of their fright was moving rapidly, the animals would often run for miles. When the iron horse came rushing into their solitudes and snorting out his fierce alarms, the herds, though perhaps half a mile from his path, would lift their heads and gaze intently for a few minutes toward the object thus approaching them with a roar which causes the earth to tremble and enveloped in a white cloud that streams further and higher than the dust of the old stagecoats ever did. And then, having determined this course, instead of fleeing back to the distant valleys, away they go charging over the ridge across which the iron rails lie, apparently determined to cross in front of the locomotive at all hazards. The rate per mile of the passenger trains is slow upon the planes, and hence it often happens that the cars and buffaloes will be side by side for a mile or two, the brutes abandoning the effort to cross only when their foe has emerged entirely ahead. During these races, the car windows are opened and numerous breach loaders fling hundreds of bullets among the densely crowded and fast-flying masses. Many of the poor animals fall, and more go off to die in the ravines. The train speeds on, and the act is repeated every few miles until Buffalo land is passed. Almost with prophetic eye, he continued, let this slaughter continue for ten years, and the bison of the American continent will become extinct. The number of valuable robes and pounds of meat, which would thus be lost to us in posterity, will too far into the millions be easily calculated. All over the plains, lying in disgusting masses of putrefaction along valley and hill, are strewn immense carcasses of wantonly slain buffalo. They line the Kansas-specific road for two hundred miles. A great herd of buffaloes on the plains in the early days, when one could approach near enough, without disturbing it, to quietly watch its organization, and the apparent discipline, which its leaders seem to exact, was a very curious sight. Among the striking features of the spectacle was the apparently uniform manner in which the immense mass of shaggy animals moved. There was constancy of action, indicating a degree of intelligence, to be found only in the most intelligent of the brute creation. Frequently, the larger herd was broken up into many smaller ones that traveled relatively close together, each led by an independent master. Perhaps only a few rods marked the dividing line between them, but it was always unmistakably plain, and each moved synchronously in the direction in which all were going. The leadership of the herd was attained only by hard struggles for the place. Once reached, however, the victor was immediately recognized and kept his authority until some new aspirant overcame him, or he became superannuated and was driven out of the herd to meet his inevitable fate, a prey to those ghouls of the desert, the gray wolves. In the event of a stampede, every animal of the separate yet consolidated herds rushed off together, as if all had gone mad at once, for the buffalo, like the Texas steer, mule, or domestic horse, stampes on the slightest provocation, frequently without any assignable cause. Sometimes the simplest affair will start the whole herd, prairie dog barking at the entrance of his burrow, a shadow of one of themselves, or that of a passing cloud, is sufficient to make them run for miles as if a real and dangerous enemy were at their heels. Stampes were a great source of profit to the Indians of the plains. The Comanches were particularly expert and daring in this kind of robbery. They even trained their horses to run from one point to another in expectation of the coming of the wagon trains on the trail. When a camp was made that was nearly in range, they turned their trained animals loose, which at once flew across the prairie, passing through the herd, and penetrating the very corrals of their victims. All of the picketed horses and mules would endeavor to follow these decoys, and were invariably led right into the haunts of the Indians who easily secured them. Young horses and mules were easily frightened, and in the confusion which generally ensued great injury was frequently done to the runaways themselves. At times when the herd was very large the horses scattered over the prairie and were irrevocably lost, and such as did not become wild, fell a prey to the wolves. That fate was very frequently the lot of stampeded horses bred in the States, they not having been trained by a prairie life to care for themselves. Instead of stopping and bravely fighting off the bloodthirsty beasts, they would run. Then the whole pack were sure to leave the bolder animals and make for the runaways which they seldom fail to overtake and dispatch. Like an army a herd of buffaloes put out vets to give the alarm in case anything beyond the ordinary occurred. These sentinels were always to be seen in groups of four, five, or even six at some distance from the main body. When they saw something approaching that the herd should be aware of or get away from, they started on the run directly for the center of the great mass of their peacefully grazing congeners. Meanwhile the young bulls were on duty as sentinels on the edge of the main herd, watching the vets. The moment the latter made for the center the former raised their heads and in the peculiar manner of their species gazed all around and sniffed the air as if they could smell both the danger and its direction. Should there be something which their instinct told them to guard against, the leader took his position in front, the cows and calves crowded in the center, while the rest of the males gathered on the flanks and in the rear indicating a gallantry that might be imitated at times by the genus Omo. Generally a buffalo went to their drinking place, but once a day and that late in the afternoon, then they ambled along following each other in single file, which accounts for the many trails on the plains, always ending at some stream or lake. They frequently traveled twenty or thirty miles for water, so the trails leading to it were often worn to the depth of a foot or more. That curious depression so frequently seen on the great plains called a buffalo wallow is caused in this wise the huge animals paw and lick the salty alkaline earth, and when once the sod is broken the loose soil drifts away under the constant action of the wind. Then year after year through more pawing, licking, rolling and wallowing by the animals, the wind wafts more of the soil away and soon there is a considerable hole in the prairie. Many an old trapper and hunter's life has been saved by following a buffalo trail when he was suffering from thirst. The buffalo wallows usually retain a great quantity of water, and they have often saved the lives of whole companies of cavalry, both men and horses. There was however a stranger and more wonderful spectacle to be seen every recurring spring during the reign of the buffalo soon after the grass had started. There were circles, trodden bear on the plains, thousands, yes, millions of them, which the early travelers who did not divine their cause called fairy rings. From the first of April until the middle of May was the wet season you could depend upon its recurrence almost as certainly as on the sun and moon rising at the proper time. This was also the calving period of the buffalo, as they, unlike our domestic animals, only rutted during a single month. Consequently the cows all calved during a certain time. This was the wet month, and as there were great many gray wolves that roamed singly or in immense packs over the whole prairie region, the bulls in their regular beets kept guard over the cows while in the act of parterition, and drove the wolves away walking in a ring around the females at a short distance and thus forming the curious circles. In every herd at each recurring season there were always ambitious young bulls that came to their majority, so to speak, and these were ever ready to test their claims for the leadership so that it may be safely stated that a month rarely passed without a bloody battle between them for the supremacy, though strangely enough the struggle seldom resulted in the death of either combatant. Perhaps there is no animal in which maternal love is more strongly developed than in the buffalo cow. She is as dangerous with a calf by her side as a she grisly with cubs. The buffalo bull that has outlived his usefulness is one of the most pitiable objects in the whole range of natural history. Old age has probably been decided in the economy of buffalo life as the unpardonable sin. Abandoned to his fate he may be discovered in his dreary isolation near some stream or lake where it does not tax him too severely to find good grass, for he is now feeble and exertion an impossibility. In this new stage of his existence he seems to have completely lost his courage. Frightened at his own shadow, or the rustling of a leaf, he is the very incarnation of nervousness and suspicion. Gregorius in his habits from birth, solitude, foreign to his whole nature, has changed him into a new creature, and his inherent terror of the most trivial things is intensified to such a degree that if a man were compelled to undergo such constant alarm it would probably drive him insane in less than a week. Nobody ever saw one of these miserable and forlorn creatures dying a natural death, or even heard of such an occurrence. The cowardly coyote and the grey wolf had already marked him for their own, and they rarely missed their calculations. Rising suddenly to the top of a divide with the party of friends in 1866 we saw standing below us in the valley an old buffalo bull, the very picture of despair. Surrounding him were seven grey wolves in the act of challenging him to mortal combat. The poor beast undoubtedly realizing the hopelessness of the situation had determined to die game. His great shaggy head filled with burrs was lowered to the ground as he confronted his would-be executioners, his tongue black and parched, lulled out of his mouth, and he gave utterance at intervals to a suppressed roar. The wolves were sitting on their haunches in a semi-circle immediately in front of the tortured beast, and every time that the fierce stricken buffalo gave vent to his hoarsely modulated groan the wolves howled in concert in most mournful cadence. After contemplating his antagonists for a few moments the bull made a dash at the nearest wolf, tumbling him howling over the silent prairie, but while this diversion was going on in front the remainder of the pack started for his hind legs to hamstring him. Upon this the poor beast turned to the point of attack only to receive a repetition of it in the same vulnerable place by the wolves who had as quickly turned also and fastened themselves on his heels again. His hind quarters now streamed with blood, and he began to show signs of great physical weakness. He did not dare to lie down, that would have been instantly fatal. By this time he had killed three of the wolves or so maimed them that they were entirely out of the fight. At this juncture the suffering animal was mercifully shot, and the wolves allowed to batten on his thin and tough carcass. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Judge Lynch's Court at Whooping Hollow Part 1 Whooping Hollow is the unufonious name of a mining camp in the very heart of the Towels range, or rather was, for it has been expunged from the map these 25 years, and but few of the present generation in New Mexico are aware that such a place ever existed. It was almost inaccessible, so awfully abrupt and broken were the bare granite ridges surrounding it, out of which the circumscribed valley in which the town lay seemed to have been literally scooped when the rocks were plastic, titanic hands holding the scraper, and the lightning, the propelling power. How the place received its strange appellation was a mystery even to the majority of the miners who worked there for nearly five years with picks, shovels, longtoms, sluices, and other appliances for extracting the ore from the refractory rock. The quantity of the precious metals shipped during that period made the camp famous and resulted in building up a town of rude shanties and dugouts which at the height of its prosperity numbered over 1200 souls. But you cannot find whooping hollow on any modern map, for it played out in less than six years from the date of the discovery of gold there, though several fortunes were mined in that time and made by traffic the specialty of which was bad whisky. There was a legend current in the early days of the valley's occupancy that was honestly believed in, which affirmed that the first party of prospectors, consisting of four or five men, all Tennesseans, who entered the Great Canyon in their search, were rewarded well for their pains, finding plenty of water, game, fuel, together with other necessaries in the prosecution of their vocation. A beautiful place for their camp, lots of silver and gold in paying quantities, were scared out of the gulch to which they never returned by an unearthly screeching, seemingly emanating from a human throat. Its ghostly owner, they declared, visited their camp every night about eleven o'clock, and on the top of a timbered knoll, where they could plainly see it, as the moonlight sifted through the scattered pinions and dwarfed cedars, took its stand, setting up its blood-curdling cries, which it continued with short intervals of cessation until daybreak. Those men, it was alleged, were a very ignorant and superstitious set, who, after three nights of their weird experience, could bear it no longer, and were absolutely driven away through fright. Of course they told others of their rich strike, not forgetting to mention the haunt of the place, as they called it, but these others, old mountaineers, not fearing any disturbance from the moonlight spectre, went there, established their camp, to which hundreds soon flocked, calling it, whooping hollow, in derision of the tale told by the alarmed Tennesseans, which name it retained during its whole existence, and was known and recognized by that as a post office on the mail records in Washington. In all probability what the men really heard was the mottled or American screech owl, which makes a plaintive noise, and a peculiar sound during part of its mournful notes, like the chattering of teeth, keeping up its alternating whooping and moaning all night. It loves to purge on some blasted tree in the moonlight, and the disembodied form seen by the superstitious miners must have been a shattered and denuded pinion, on which the nocturnal bird sat, that escaping their vision in the daytime, was exaggerated by their frightened eyes at night, into the haunt of the place, but this is not a ghost story, and the reader will pardon the digression. The region in which whooping hollow was situated is the roughest, and to employ a mining phrase, the lumpiest portion of the whole Tau's range. It is a deep gulch in the strictest interpretation of the word, formed by two lofty divides, whose crests tower skyward from their bases more than three thousand feet, which themselves are over five thousand feet above the Atlantic level, and the distance across the narrow valley at its widest part scarcely three-quarters of a mile. The angle of the slope of the two opposing mountains is a little less than thirty-five degrees, making their sides, as may be inferred, very precipitous. The town's era of prosperity was long before the days of railroads in that portion of the continent, and such feats of engineering as have been accomplished since, in the way of hogbacks, loops, and tunnels, were not dreamed of as among the possibilities of mountain travel. Nor was there even a wagon-road to whooping hollow. Such a thing would have been regarded equally as difficult and expensive as the wonderful achievement of the adjacent Topeka and Santa Fe in climbing the Ratone Range a dozen years later. Everything was packed into the place on muleback at a minimum cost of twenty-five cents a pound, whether the simplest necessaries of life or a sawmill, and the zigzag trail the sure-footed beasts were compelled to travel up and down the fearful slopes of the great divides to get in and out of the rocky streets of the narrow town made one dizzy to look at. The rude collection of shanties through courtesy called the town of whooping hollow was built on one side of a little creek which ran at a fearful raid at the bottom of the gulch, whose waters, boiling and foaming like all mountain streams, rushed over and around the immense boulders with which its narrow bed was choked, while on the opposite side immediately facing the principal street, extending for miles both ways, on the hill, the mining claims were located. The houses were in most instances mere shells, constructed of rough slabs, while a few were of hewn logs presenting a relatively neat appearance. The roofs of all, however, were flat and covered with earth. They rose one above the other like a flight of stairs, so that one could easily step out of his door upon the top of his neighbor's dwelling below, so precipitous was the side of the mountain on which the place was of necessity laid out. The town consisted of four streets, one devoted entirely to business, the other three two residences only. There were five stores whose stock was that of character known throughout the west, and in the mountains as general. That is, their proprietors almost literally kept everything from a toothpick to a steam engine, or from a shoestring to a silk dress. The place boasted also of twelve banks of depositome, ferro, and monte. For the unfortunate individual who once laid his money on the green cloth tables of these institutions rarely saw any of it again. It was permanently invested. Of saloons, too, whooping hollow had its full complement. I think there were thirty at one time, and their owners were not obliged to contribute anything to the support of the town. For, as to municipal expenses, there were none. Yet the discipline of the place was fair, to say the least. The ratio of violent death to the number of inhabitants was not nearly as great as in any of the eastern cities. And, as to thieving or burglary, such crimes were as rare as a church service, which whooping hollow never had during the whole period of its existence. Of course, such a unique condition of morality is easily accounted for. Judge Lynch's court was the only tribunal for the trial of offenses against the peace and dignity of the town, and from its decisions there was no appeal. Besides, society there was so constituted that it could condone a murder if there existed the slightest shadow of extenuating circumstances, but it would never forgive the unlawful appropriation of another's goods, particularly of horses. Horse-stealing being the unpardonable sin, as it is generally on the frontier, the prompt remedy for which was a short shrift and a long rope. Notwithstanding the fact that perhaps there were hundreds of men in whooping hollow, to whose ears the shrill whistle of a bullet would sound sweeter than the soft notes of a flute, still their general good nature, when sober, and principle of honor among thieves, kept them within bounds. Occasionally, very naturally, too, there were desperate fights over the gambling tables in the hells, which abounded in whooping hollow, and frequently an outrageously obstiferous individual, full of bug juice, as the vile whiskey dispensed in the saloons was called, would get a hole drilled into him by a number 44 revolver ball, or his vitals carved with an 11-inch bowie. But arrests were rarely made in quarrels of that character, because extenuating circumstances generally existed. Often, under the excellent care of the skillful doctor, a former army surgeon who had established himself there, the belligerents would recover from their fearful encounter, but oftener took up their last claim of six feet by two in the bone orchard as the cemetery on the timbered knoll, where it was alleged the haunt was originally seen, had been dubbed by the citizens of whooping hollow. The average miner, and the miner's claims radiated from the place in all directions at varying distances, some as far as thirty miles, would come into town once a week at least, generally Sunday, and if he had been fortunate in his diggings, would make a break for the first gaming table in his way. If he, by any chance, won, he would make the rounds, which in local parlance meant stopping at every saloon to treat the crowd of thirsty bummers always present on such occasions, and sometimes provoking a quarrel with the first man who got in his way. But if losing, the rule generally, he went drunk and sulky back to his claim, consoling himself with the hope of better luck next time. And so the lives of the majority were passed. Not a few died with their boots on, and some drunken row with their friends, to whom they had offered a real or fancyed insult. As in all mining camps at the period of whooping hollows boom, a most heterogeneous crowd composed its residents and transient occupiers. In its rough but busy streets you met all shades and nationalities, the tall, plodding yanky, fresh from the hills of New England, green as a gourd, but with sufficient gall to extricate himself from any little difficulty he might stumble into, the active restless Texan, the jauntily dressed commercial traveler with his samples of bad whiskey and worse cigars, this worthy Mexican with his broad sombrero, scarlet sash, and irrepressible cigarito, that darker specimen of the genus homo, the negro, and, last of all, the heathen gine. Nearly every state had its dozens of representatives and the motley group of individuals who had come to seek their fortunes in this new El Dorado. It was a grand place to study character, to learn how all the finer attributes of man may be completely crushed out of his nature by years of adversity, and how, under the same circumstances in others, all that is noble and pure predominates, no matter how hellish or pestilential, morally, may have been their surroundings. The principal store of the town was owned and conducted by Gemuel Nags, a man of reputable character, an old planesman and mountaineer, full of enterprise and grit, the acknowledged leading citizen of whooping hollow. In every community, whether the most enlightened or barbarous, there is always to be found some individual who, by his force of character and other inherent attributes, becomes foremost in all that concerns the welfare and prosperity of the people who compose it, and this was the role that Gemuel Nags played in the rough mining camp of whooping hollow. He was a veteran miner, too, of California in 49, Fraser River in British Columbia in 58, and Pikes Peak in 59. But having amassed several thousand dollars during his erratic wanderings, in 1859 he abandoned the pick and shovel for the more pleasant occupation of keeping a general miner's store, whose necessities none knew better than he. So he opened up in whooping hollow in the days of its insipiency. He was a man about fifty years old, rather slender than otherwise, but there was something in his air and features which distinguished him from common men. The expression of his countenance was keen and daring, his forehead was high and his lips thin and compressed, indicating great determination of will. One would not have hesitated to confide in his honor or courage, but would have been extremely reluctant to provoke his hostility. He always wore a dark gray navy shirt, to the collar of which was attached a curious button. Around his waist was tightly buckled a broad leather belt in which a formidable looking buoy knife was struck, to be used as as usual with all frontiersmen for various purposes indifferently, to kill a man, cut food, pick his teeth, or for whiddling when he had nothing else to do. Matters progressed very smoothly in whooping hollow for two or three years, under the watchful care of nags and a few others of like-stirling character who will be hurriedly described as they appear in this sketch. But at the end of that period, a pall suddenly fell on the place. Men would leave for a visit to some neighboring camp or on a hunting expedition and never be heard of again. Sometimes it would be one of the best citizens who would disappear all at once. The number of instances of this character in one year aggregating twenty. At last the whole town became aroused and suspicions of foul play in the matter entered their heretofore apparently two lethargic brains. No one felt safe, and when to cap the climax as it were, Gemuel Nags was declared missing and investigation was immediately but secretly instituted. It then developed that with one or two exceptions all of those who had disappeared had left whooping hollow for Sandy Bar, the nearest mining camp sixty miles distant and to which there was only one possible trail over the divide. That the parties had been murdered was now conceded, but upon whom could suspicion rest and where on the lonely route were the damnable deeds committed? These were the questions discussed one evening by half a dozen prominent men of whooping hollow who had secretly met in a room about a week after Gemuel Nags failed to return at the appointed time. He was last seen on the day of his departure from town by some reputable miners who had met and conversed with him on the trail to Sandy Bar, not more than twelve miles from his home. He had never arrived at Sandy Bar, however. That fact was ascertained through diligent inquiry there. It was only a small camp of less than three hundred people, and he was as well known there as in whooping hollow. About halfway between whooping hollow and Sandy Bar, there was a narrow rocky valley known as Willow Springs Gulch, abandoned long ago as a mining region, the ore in that vicinity having consisted of a series of small pockets only which were naturally exhausted in less than six months from the date of their discovery, and that was more than two years before operations had begun in whooping hollow. But the place was still famous for its pure water which gushed out of the indurated wall of a small canyon in a stream as large as a man's arm, clear, cold, and sparkling, the best water to be found in the whole sixty miles ride. The entrance to the rocky canyon was almost concealed by a dense growth of mountain willows, hence the name. But the beautiful spring was the only redeeming feature in the otherwise barren and desolate landscape. Near this lonely spot stood a small adobe cabin, or rather hut, the only habitation anywhere within twenty miles of the dreary place. Its sole occupant was a miner ostensibly who pretended to own a claim near Sandy Bar, but it was alleged that no one ever saw him work it, yet he always apparently had sufficient money to supply his wants, ever paying gold for his purchases. He was a tall, angular villainous looking specimen of humanity, rough, illiterate, dialectic in his talk, but possessing the physique of a giant, as courageous as a chigrously with cubs, a dead shunt with the revolver, and with all believed by everyone to be a desperado in the most rigid acceptance of the term. Viewed superficially for nobody at whooping hollow or Sandy Bar knew anything about his antecedents, he was apparently without one redeeming quality, except that he was kind to his dog, a mangy-spotted, wicked-looking yellow cur with only one eye, and tailless, fit companion for such a surly disposed master. This strangely mysterious being with whom no one had any more intercourse than was absolutely necessary, and that confined to the limited conversation required when he entered stores to make purchases, lived a supremely isolated sort of an existence, for he was as carefully avoided by everyone as were the rattlesnakes that infested the rocky arroyos of the bold bleak hills where his hut was located. Upon him, then, black suspicion naturally at once fell, so prone as human nature to be guided by visible forms. Though there was not an inkling of proof, either circumstantial or direct, upon which to base this man's guilt. Fortunately, they who were quietly investigating the cause of the disappearance of the emerald nags were men of excellent judgment, cool, calm, and deliberate in their proceedings, but terribly in earnest. They had received their education in the great school of the world. They knew that suspicions were not facts, that appearances are too often deceiving, and they were none-plussed, because convincing proof was not forthcoming to convict the only man upon whom a shadow of probable guilt could fall. This strange creature, about whom nobody knew anything, was called, whenever referenced to him, became necessary. Often now, for he was in everyone's thought a murderer, Willow Gulch Jack, because his real name was not ever known, adopting the Indian's method of nomenclature and associating him with his locality. It may readily be inferred that it was only his villainous aspect and isolated life that brought this wholesale condemnation upon him, for he had never been guilty of any disreputable act that the people could discover, and now they left no stone unturned to find something against him. But they avoided and suspected him as a sheep-raiser does a strange cur in his neighborhood. Consequently a system of espionage was inaugurated on his movements, but nothing as yet had been discovered to cast a shadow on his everyday life. He knew that he was suspected and watched, so for some special reason which had not yet been made clear to the people of Whooping Hollow, he was now almost constantly absent from home, passing his time on the trail between his cabin and the top of the divide above the town, always accompanied by the one-eyed, tailless dog, his constant companion. His enemies were aware of his perambulations, but could not divine the cause, and the mystery connected with this isolated life seemed to them more impenetrable than ever. Of course they did not hound his every footstep, because as they reasoned, that would give him no opportunity to commit himself. They merely adopted such precautionary measures as would to prevent his escape from the country, and that would permit them to arrest him at any time they wanted to if he attempted to leave, or whenever they had gathered sufficient proof to convict him, which as yet seemed as remote as ever, flattering themselves all the while that he was unconscious of their intentions. One day, about two weeks after the investigation of the cause of the disappearance of Yemuel Nax had been fairly inaugurated, this willow-gulch jack, as I shall have to call him, in the absence of the knowledge of his real name, rode quietly into whooping hollow, dismounted, tied his mule to a stump in front of Tom Bradford's log cabin, walked up to the door, gave it a heavy kick, and waited until it was opened, his cur at a word from his master lying down close to the mule. Tom Bradford was a veteran miner, one of the best citizens whooping hollow possessed, whose opinions on important matters were generally regarded as conclusive. Such faith the curiously assorted people of the town placed in his excellent judgment, which, in fact, Jack was fully aware of. Bradford himself came out on the porch in response to Jack's tremendous knock, but when he saw who his visitor was, a shade of evident displeasure passed over his countenance, for he too, although he knew that not a scintilla of proof had been forthcoming after all these days of investigation, believed in this man's guilt. Tom Bradford regarded Jack intently for a moment as if wondering what to say or do, so astonished was he at his presence, but Jack broke the painful silence in a few words. I say, Tom Bradford, nobody was mistored out there in those days. I have come to talk to you. I know this here is unexpected, but I don't care, and what I have to tell I want to tell you, where no one can hear wins. Have you such a place where wins can come thus undisturbed? Bradford eyed Jack closely for a few seconds, not that he had any fear of the man, villainous, as he looked and giant that he was, then told him to follow as he led the way through the cabin door. They passed out of one room into another at the rear. There were only two apartments in the building, where he pushed a dilapidated, rush-bottomed chair toward Jack, himself taking another, and throwing his feet upon a rickety table. The only other article of furniture in the rude logged in. He pulled his pipe out of his pocket, filled it, lighted it, and handed another to Jack with the tobacco from a box nailed against the wall within easy reach. He gave a few vigorous pulls at his own, emitting a cloud of smoke that almost enveloped him, then fixing his eyes on his unwelcome visitor said, Now then, I'm ready to hear what you have to communicate. Tom Bradford, began Jack upon this invitation, unknows that I've been suspected of these young murders, what have took place, and unknows that I have been hounded and watched, which Ulyns had no idea I knowed, but you know, Tom Bradford, where ain't no shatter can be proved again me. I am aware of that, said Bradford hurriedly, and although you are and have been the only man in the mind suspected, we folks here are determined that no innocent person shall suffer upon mere suspicion, and under the excitement of the moment, we are also determined that no guilty party, or parties, if there be more than one person implicated, shall escape the swift summary punishment the hellish acts deserve. We have no organized courts here, but organized them as we need them ourselves. No mere technicality will save a rascal either, as it does sometimes in what are called civilized communities. Tom Bradford, continued Jack, You nor no one else has ever seen me aloof and round saloons, no gambling halls, and no one ever seen me drunk neither, have they? I knows my looks is again me, but looks ain't nothing, nor no judge to go by. I ain't no handsome man, nor sought any claim to such. I unstook the prize for a grinning to a horse-caller and her county fair way back in old Cane Tuck when I were young. At this admission, a change that was evidently intended for a smile suddenly crept over Jack's face as he opened his ponderous jaws, but the effect made his cavernous mouth, which literally stretched from ear to ear, look as if it had been made by a broad ax at a blow. While he continued, as the paroxysm caused by the remembrance of his youth passed on, I have been doing some detective work myself, and what I have discovered is what has bring me here to talk with you about. It were all a accident though, and if it hadn't have been for that their ordinary dogamon, I wouldn't have found out nothing. You'll all be surprised as I was when you come to learn who their murderer for certain is. In their first place I know them folks as were missing that never got past my cabin. Bradford looked Jack suddenly in the eye as if to catch the true meaning of his last assertion, but Jack, seeing that he was misunderstood, became a little heated and in a most emphatic manner said, Never reach thar, Tom Bradford, as I want you to underthand. Now, I want you to tell me, he continued, to getting more excited, how many cabins, or folks as lives, I mean, of course there's lots of abandoned ones, twig, toop, and holler, and mine. Well, replied Bradford, in response to Jack's interrogatory, there are but two Cal Joneses and Ike Pogets. Why? Now, you see, Tom Bradford, if them is missing, never got to my cabin, they must have got by one of them others. What do you mean? asked Bradford, looking up excitedly into Jack's face. I mean, just what I says, replied Jack, gazing as earnestly now into Bradford's, if a man leaves open holler for Sandy Bar, ain't got off on their trail, can he? There ain't, but one trail is there, and if he don't come back and don't go ahead, he must have stopped somewhere, betwixt their two places, mustn't he? And if he ain't here to have for a long while, he must have stopped for good, huh? Now, do you understand, Tom Bradford? And Jack emphasized his remark by bringing down his huge fist like a sledgehammer on top of the rickety old table right in front of Bradford.