 CHAPTER VII My restless Roman spirit would not allow me to remain at home very long, and in November, after the recovery of my mother, I went up to the Republican River and its tributaries on a trapping expedition in company with Dave Harrington. Our outfit consisted of one wagon and a yoke of oxen for the transportation of provisions, traps, and other necessaries. We began trapping near Junction City, Kansas, and then proceeded up the Republican River to the mouth of Prairie Dog Creek, where we found plenty of beavers. Having seen no signs of Indians thus far, we felt comparatively We were catching a large number of beavers, and were prospering finally, when one of our oxen, having become rather poor, slipped and fell upon the ice, dislocating his hip, so that we had to shoot him to end his misery. This left us without a team, but we cared little for that, however, as we made up our minds to remain there till spring, when, as it was decided, that one of us should go to the nearest settlement and get a yoke of oxen with which to haul our wagon into some place of safety where we could leave it. We would probably have pulled through the winter all right had it not been for a very serious accident which befell me just at that time. Spying a herd of elk, we started in pursuit of them, and creeping up towards them as slightly as possible, while going around the bend of a sharp bluff or bank of the creek, I slipped and broke my leg just above the ankle. Notwithstanding the great pain I was suffering, Harrington could not help laughing when I urged him to shoot me, as he had the ox, and thus end my misery. He told me to brace up, and that he would bring me out all right. I am not much of a surgeon, said he, but I can fix that leg of yours, even if I haven't got a diploma. He succeeded in getting me back to camp, which was only a few yards from the creek, and then he set the fracture as well as he knew how, and made me as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. We then discussed the situation, which to say the least looked pretty blue. Knowing that, owing to our mishaps, we could not do anything more that winter, and as I dreaded the idea of lying there on my back with a broken leg for weeks, and perhaps months, I prevailed upon Harrington to go to the nearest settlement, about 125 miles distant, to obtain a yoke of cattle and then come back for me. This he consented to do, but before leaving he gathered plenty of wood, and as the ground was covered with snow, I would have no difficulty in getting water if I had a fire. There was plenty of fresh meat and other provisions in the dugout, so that I had no fears of starvation. The dugout, which we had built immediately after we had determined to remain there all winter, was a very cozy hole in the ground, covered with poles, grass, and sod with a fireplace at one end. Harrington thought it would take him 20 days or more to make the round trip, but being well provided for, for this length of time, I urged him to go at once. Bidding me good-bye, he started on foot. After his departure, each day, as it came and went, seemed to grow longer to me as I lay there helpless and alone. I made a note of each day, so as to know the time when I might expect him back. On the twelfth day after Harrington left me, I was awakened from a sound sleep by someone touching me upon the shoulder. I looked up and was astonished to see an Indian warrior standing at my side. His face was hideously dod with paint, which told me more forcibly than words could have done that he was on the warpath. He spoke to me in broken English and Sue mixed, and I understood him to ask what I was doing there and how many there were with me. By this time, the little dugout was nearly filled with other Indians, who had been peeping in at the door, and I could hear voices of still more outside as well as the stamping of horses. I began to think that my time had come, as the saying is, when into the cabin stepped an elderly Indian, whom I readily recognized as old rain in the face, a Sue chief from the vicinity of Fort Laramie. I rose up as well as I could and showed him my broken leg. I told him where I had seen him and asked him if he remembered me. He replied that he knew me well, and that I used to come to his lodge at Fort Laramie to visit him. I then managed to make him understand that I was there alone and having broken my leg, I had sent my partner off for a team to take me away. I asked him if his young men intended to kill me, and he answered that was what they had proposed to do, but he would see what they had to say. The Indians then talked among themselves for a few minutes, and upon conclusion of the consultation, old rain in the face turned to me and gave me to understand that as I was yet a papoose, or a very young man, they would not take my life. But one of his men, who had no firearms, wanted my gun and pistol. I implored all rain in the face to be allowed to keep the weapons, or at least one of them, as I needed something with which to keep the wolves away. He replied that as his young men were out on the warpath, he had induced them to spare my life, but he could not prevent them from taking whatever else they wanted. They unsaddled their horses as if to remain there for some time, and sure enough they stayed the remainder of the day and all night. They built a fire in a dugout and cooked a lot of my provisions, helping themselves to everything as if they owned it. However, they were polite enough to give me some of the food after they had cooked it. It was a sumptuous feast that they had, and they seemed to relish it as if it was the best layout they had had for many a long day. They took all my sugar and coffee, and left me only some meat and a small quantity of flour, a little salt, and some baking powder. They also robbed me of such cooking utensils as they wished. Then bidding me goodbye early in the morning, they mounted their ponies and rode off to the south, evidently bent on some murdering and thieving expedition. I was glad enough to see them leave, as my life had undoubtedly hung by a thread during their presence. I am confident that had it not been for my youth and the timely recognition and interference of old rain in the face they would have killed me without any hesitation or ceremony. The second day after they had gone it began snowing, and for three long and weary days the snow continued to fall thick and fast. It blocked the doorway and covered the dugout to the depth of several feet, so that I became a snowbound prisoner. My wood was mostly under the snow, and it was with great difficulty that I could get enough to start a fire with. My prospects were gloomy indeed. I had just faced death at the hands of the Indians, and now I was in danger of losing my life from starvation and cold. I knew that the heavy snow would surely delay Harrington on his return, and I feared that he might have perished in the storm or that some other accident might have befallen him. Perhaps some wandering band of Indians had run across him and killed him. I was continually thinking of all these possibilities, and I must say that my outlook seemed desperate. At last the twentieth day arrived, the day on which Harrington was to return, and I counted the hours from morning till night, but the day passed away with no signs of Harrington. The wolves made the night hideous with their howls. They gathered around the dugout, ran over the roof, and pawed and scratched as if trying to get in. Several days and nights thus wore away, the monotony all the time becoming greater, until at last it became almost unendurable. Some days I would go without any fire at all, and eat raw frozen meat and melt snow in my mouth for water. I became almost convinced that Harrington had been caught in the storm and had been buried under the snow or was lost. Many a time during that dreary period of uncertainty I made up my mind that if I ever got out of that place alive I would abandon the planes in the life of a trapper forever. I had nearly given up all hopes of leaving the dugout alive. It was on the twenty-ninth day while I was lying thus despondently thinking and wondering that I heard the cheerful sound of Harrington's voice as he came solely up the creek yelling, Woe! Ha! to his cattle. A criminal on the scaffold, with the noose around his neck, the trap about to be sprung, and receiving a pardon just at the last moment, thus giving him a new lease on life, could not have been more grateful than I was at that time. It was useless for me to try to force the door open, as the snow had completely blockaded it, and I therefore anxiously awaited Harrington's arrival. Hello, Billy! he sang out in a loud voice as he came up. He evidently being uncertain as to my being alive. All right, Dave, was my reply. Well, oh boy, you're alive, are you? said he. Yes, and that's about all. I've had a tough siege of it since you've been away, and I came pretty nearly passing in my chips. I began to think you never would get here, as I was afraid you had been snowed under, said I. He soon cleared away the snow from the entrance, and opened in a door he came in. I don't think there was ever a more welcome visitor than he was. I remember that I was so glad to see him that I put my arms around his neck and hugged him for five minutes. Never shall I forget faithful Dave Harrington. Well, Billy, my boy, I hardly expected to see you alive again, said Harrington, as soon as I had given him an opportunity to draw his breath. I had a terrible trip of it, and I didn't think I ever would get through. I was caught in the snowstorm, and it was laid up for three days. The cattle wandered away, and I came within an ace of losing them altogether. When I got started again, the snow was so deep that it prevented me from making much headway. But as I had left you here, I was bound to come through, or die in the attempt. Again, I flung my arms around Dave's neck and gave him a hug that would have done honor to a grizzly bear. My gratitude was thus much more forcibly expressed than it could have been by words. Harrington understood this and seemed to appreciate it. The tears of joy rolled down my cheeks, and it was impossible for me to restrain them. When my life had been threatened by the Indians, I had not felt half so miserable as when I lay in the dugout thinking I was destined to die a slow death by starvation and cold. The Indians would have made short work of it, and would have given me little or no time to think of my fate. I questioned Harrington as to his trip and learned all the details. He had passed through hardships which but few men could have endured. Noble felt that he was. He had risked his own life to save mine. After he had finished his story, every word of which I had listened to with eager interest, I related to him my own experiences, in which he became no less interested. He expressed great astonishment that the Indians had not killed me, and he considered it one of the luckiest and most remarkable escapes he had ever heard of. It amused me, however, to see him get very angry when I told him that they had taken my gun and pistol and had used up our provisions. But never mind, Billy, said he, we can stand it till the snow goes off, which will not be long, and then we will pull our wagon back to the settlements. A few days afterwards, Harrington gathered up our traps and cleaned the snow out of the wagon. Covering it with the sheet which we had used in the dugout, he made a comfortable bed inside and helped me into it. We had been quite successful in trapping, having caught three hundred beavers and one hundred otters, the skins of which Harrington loaded on the wagon. We then pulled out for the settlements, making good headway, as the snow had nearly disappeared, having been blown or melted away so that we had no difficulty in finding a road. On the eighth day out we came to a farmer's house, or ranch, on the Republican River, where we stopped and rested for two days, and then went on to the ranch where Harrington had attained the yoke of cattle. We gave the owner of the team twenty-five beaver skins equal to sixty dollars for the use of the cattle, and he let us have them until we reached Junction City, sending his boy with us to bring them back. At Junction City we sold our wagon and furs and went with a government mule train to Leavenworth, arriving there in March, eighteen sixty. I was just able to get around on crutches when I got into Leavenworth, and it was several months after that before I entirely recovered the use of my leg. During the winter I had often talked to Harrington about my mother and sisters, and had invited him to go home with me in the spring. I now renewed the invitation, which he accepted, and accompanied me home. When I related to mother, my adventures, and told her how Harrington had saved my life, she thanked him again and again. I never saw a more grateful woman than she was. She asked him to always make his home with us, as she never could reward him sufficiently for what he had done for her darling boy, as she called me. Harrington concluded to remain with us through the summer and farm mother's land, but alas, the uncertainty of life. The coming of death, when least expected, was strikingly illustrated in his case. During the latter part of April he went to a nursery for some trees, and while coming home late at night he caught a severe cold and was taken seriously sick with lung fever. Mother did everything in her power for him. She could not have done more had he been her own son, but notwithstanding her motherly care and attention and the skill of a physician from Leavenworth he rapidly grew worse. It seemed hard indeed to think that a great strong man like Harrington, who had braved the storms and endured other hardships of the plains all winter long, should, during the warm and beautiful days of spring, when surrounded by friends and the comforts of a good home, be fatally stricken down. But such was his fate. He died one week from the day on which he was taken sick. We all mourned his loss, as we would that of a loved son or brother, as he was one of the truest, bravest, and best of friends. Amid sorrow and tears we laid him away to rest in a picturesque spot on pilot Knob. His death cast a gloom over our household, and it was a long time before it was entirely dispelled. I felt very lonely without Harrington, and I soon wished for a change of scene again. CHAPTER VIII. ADVENTURES ON THE OVERLAND ROAD As the warm days of summer approached, I longed for the cool air of the mountains, and to the mountains I determined to go. After engaging a man to take care of the farm, I proceeded to Leavenworth, and there met my old wagon-master and friend, Louis Simpson, who was fitting out a train at Atchison and loaded it with supplies for the Overland Stage Company, of which Mr. Russell, my old employer, was one of the proprietors. Simpson was going with this train to Fort Laramie and points further west. Come along with me, Billy, said he. I'll give you a good layout. I want you with me. I don't know that I would like to go as far west as that again, replied I. But I do want to ride the Pony Express once more. There's some life in that. Yes, that's so, but it will soon shake the life out of you, said he. However, if that's what you've got your mind set on, you had better come to Atchison with me and see Mr. Russell, who I'm pretty certain will give you a situation. I replied that I would do that. I then went home and informed Mother of my intention, and as her health was very poor, I had great difficulty in obtaining her consent. I finally convinced her that as I was of no use on the farm, it would be better and more profitable for me to return to the Plains. So, after giving her all the money I had earned by trapping, I bade her goodbye and set out for Atchison. I met Mr. Russell there and asked him for employment as a Pony Express rider. He gave me a letter to Mr. Slade, who was then the stage agent for the division extending from Julesburg to Rocky Ridge. Slade had his headquarters at Horseshoe Station, 36 miles west of Fort Laramie, and I made the trip thither in company with Simpson and his train. Almost the very first person I saw after dismounting from my horse was Slade. I walked up to him and presented Mr. Russell's letter, which he hastily opened and read. With a sweeping glance of his eye, he took my measure from head to foot and then said, My boy, you are too young for a Pony Express rider. It takes men for that business. I rode two months last year on Bill Trotter's division, sir, and filled the bill then, and I think I am better able to ride now, said I. What? Are you the boy that was riding there, and was called the youngest rider on the road? I am the same boy, I replied, confident that everything was now all right for me. I have heard of you before. You are a year or so older now, and I think you can stand it. I'll give you a trial anyhow, and if you weaken you can come back to Horseshoe Station and Tenstock. That ended our first interview. The next day he assigned me to duty on the road from Red Buttes on the North Platte to the Three Crossings of the Sweetwater, a distance of seventy-six miles, and I began riding at once. It was a long piece of road, but I was equal to the undertaking, and soon afterwards had an opportunity to exhibit my power of endurance as a Pony Express rider. One day, when I galloped into Three Crossings, my home station, I found that the rider who was expected to take the trip out on my arrival had got into a drunken row the night before and had been killed, and that there was no one to fill his place. I did not hesitate for a moment to undertake an extra ride of eighty-five miles to Rocky Ridge, and I arrived at the latter place on time. I then turned back and rode to Red Buttes, my starting place, accomplishing on the round trip a distance of three hundred and twenty-two miles. Slade heard of this feat of mine, and one day as he was passing on a coach he sang out to me, my boy, you're a brick, and no mistake. That was a good run you made when you rode your own in Miller's Routes, and I'll see that you get extra pay for it. Slade, although rough at times and always a dangerous character, having killed many a man, was always kind to me. During the two years that I worked for him as Pony Express Rider and stage driver, he never spoke an angry word to me. As I was leaving Horse Creek one day, a party of fifteen Indians jumped me in a sand ravine about a mile west of the station. They fired at me repeatedly but missed their mark. I was mounted on a Roan California horse, the fleet of steed I had. Putting spurs and whip to him and laying flat on his back, I kept straight on for Street Water Bridge, eleven miles distant, instead of trying to turn back to Horse Creek. The Indians came on in hot pursuit, but my horse soon got away from them and ran into the station two miles ahead of them. The stocktender had been killed there that morning, and all the stock had been driven off by the Indians, and as I was therefore unable to change horses, I continued on to Plouts' station twelve miles further, thus making twenty-four miles straight run with one horse. I told the people at Plouts' what had happened at Sweetwater Bridge, and with a fresh horse, went on and finished the trip without any further adventure. About the middle of September, the Indians became very troublesome on the line of the stage rode along Sweetwater. Between Split Rock and three crossings, they robbed a stage, killed a driver and two passengers, and badly wounded lieutenant flowers, the assistant division agent. The red-skinned thieves also drove off the stock from the different stations, and were continually lying in wait for the passing stages and Pony Express riders, so that we had to take many desperate chances in running the gauntlet. The Indians had now become so bad and had stolen so much stock that it was decided to stop the Pony Express for at least six weeks, and to run the stages but occasionally during that period. In fact, it would have been almost impossible to have run the enterprise much longer without restocking the line. While we were thus nearly all lying idle, a party was organized to go out and search for stolen stock. This party was composed of stage drivers, express riders, stock tenders, and ranchmen, forty of them altogether, and they were well armed and well mounted. They were mostly men who had undergone all kinds of hardships and braved every danger, and they were ready and anxious to tackle any number of Indians. Wild Bill, who had been driving stage on the road and had recently come down to our division, was elected captain of the company. It was supposed that the stolen stock had been taken to the head of Powder River and vicinity, and the party of which I was a member started out for that section in high hopes of success. Twenty miles out from Sweetwater Bridge, at the head of Horse Creek, we found an Indian trail running north towards Powder River, and we could see by the tracks that most of the horses had been recently shot and were undoubtedly our stolen stage stock. Pushing rapidly forward, we followed this trail to Powder River, then down the stream to within about forty miles of the spot where Old Fort Reno now stands. Here the trail took a more westerly course along the foot of the mountains, leading eventually to Crazy Woman's Fork, a tributary of Powder River. At this point, we discovered that the party whom we were trailing had been joined by another band of Indians, and judging from the fresh appearance of the trail, the united body could not have left this spot more than twenty-four hours before. Being aware that we were now in the heart of hostile country, and that we might at any moment find more Indians than we had lost, we advanced with more caution than usual and kept a sharp look out. As we were approaching Clear Creek, another tributary of Powder River, we discovered Indians on the opposite side of the creek, some three miles distant. At least we saw horses grazing, which was a sure sign that there were Indians there. The Indians thinking themselves in comparative safety, never before having been followed so far into their own country by white men, had neglected to put out any scouts. They had no idea that there were any white men in that part of the country. We got the lay of their camp, and then held a council to consider and mature a plan for capturing it. We knew full well that the Indians would outnumber us at least three to one, and perhaps more. Upon the advice and suggestion of Wild Bill, it was finally decided that we should wait until it was nearly dark, and then, after creeping as close to them as possible, make a dash through their camp, open a general fire on them, and stampede the horses. This plan, at the proper time, was most successfully executed. The dash upon the enemy was a complete surprise to them. They were so overcome with astonishment that they did not know what to make of it. We could not have astonished them any more if we had dropped down into their camp from the clouds. They did not recover from the surprise of the sudden charge until we had ridden Palmel through their camp and got away with our own horses as well as theirs. We had once circled the horses around towards the south, and after getting them on the south side of Clear Creek, some twenty of our men, just as the darkness was coming on, rode back and gave the Indians a few parting shots. We then took up our line of march for Sweetwater Bridge, where we arrived four days afterwards with all of our own horses and about one hundred captured Indian ponies. The expedition had proved a grand success, and the event was celebrated in the usual manner by a grand spree. The only stored Sweetwater Bridge did a rushing business for several days. The returned stock hunters drank and gambled and fought. The Indian ponies, which had been distributed among the captors, passed from hand to hand at almost every deal of the cards. There seemed to be no limit to their rioting and carousing. Revelry reigned supreme. On the third day of the orgy, Slade, who had heard the news, came up to the bridge and took a hand in the fun, as it was called. To add some variation and excitement to the occasion, Slade got into a quarrel with a stage driver and shot him, killing him almost instantly. The boys became so elated as well as elevated over their success against the Indians that most of them were in favor of going back and cleaning out the whole Indian race. One old driver especially, Dan Smith, was eager to open a war on all the hostile nations, and had the drinking been continued another week, he certainly would have undertaken the job, single-handed and alone. The spree finally came to an end. The men sobered down and abandoned the idea of again invading the hostile country. The recovered horses were replaced on the road, and the stages and pony express were again running on time. Slade, having taken a great fancy to me, said, Billy, I want you to come down to my headquarters and I'll make you a sort of super-numerary rider and send you out only when it is necessary. I accepted the offer and went with him down to Horseshoe, where I had a comparatively easy time of it. I had always been fond of hunting, and now I had a good opportunity to gratify my ambition in that direction, as I had plenty of spare time on my hands. In this connection I will relate one of my bear hunting adventures. One day, when I had nothing else to do, I saddled up an extra pony express horse, and arming myself with a good rifle and a pair of revolvers struck out for the foothills of Laramie Peak for a bear hunt. Riding carelessly along and breathing the cool and brazen autumn air which came down from the mountains, I felt as only a man can feel who is roaming over the prairies of the far west, well-armed and mounted on a fleet and gallant steed. The perfect freedom which he enjoys is in itself a refreshing stimulant to the mind as well as to the body. Such, indeed, were my feelings on this beautiful day, as I rode up the valley of the horseshoe. Occasionally I scared up a flock of sage-hens or a jackrabbit. Anelopes and deer were almost always in sight in any direction, but as they were not the kind of game I was after on that day I passed them by and kept on towards the higher mountains. The further I rode, the rougher and wilder became the country, and I knew that I was approaching the haunts of the bear. I did not discover any, however, although I saw plenty of tracks in the snow. About two o'clock in the afternoon my horse having become tired and myself being rather weary, I shot a sage-hen and dismounting I unsettled my horse and tied him to a small tree where he could easily feed on the mountain grass. I then built a little fire and broiling the chicken and seasoning it with salt and pepper, which I had obtained from my saddlebags, I soon sat down to a genuine square meal, which I greatly relished. After resting for a couple of hours I remounted and resumed my upward trip to the mountains, having made up my mind to camp out that night rather than go back without a bear, which my friends knew I had gone out for. As the days were growing short, night soon came on and I looked around for a suitable camping place. While thus engaged I scared up a flock of sage-hens, two of which I shot, intending to have one for supper and the other for breakfast. By this time it was becoming quite dark and I rode down to one of the little mountain streams, where I found an open place in the timber suitable for a camp. I dismounted and after unsettling my horse and hitching him to a tree I prepared to start a fire. Just then I was startled by hearing a horse whinnying further up the stream. It was quite a surprise to me and I immediately ran to my animal to keep him from answering, as horses usually do in such cases. I thought that the strange horse might belong to some roaming band of Indians, as I knew of no white men being in that portion of the country at that time. I was certain that the owner of the strange horse could not be far distant and I was very anxious to find out who my neighbor was before letting him know that I was in his vicinity. I therefore resettled my horse and leaving him tied so that I could easily reach him I took my gun and started out on a scouting expedition up the stream. I had gone about four hundred yards when, in a bend of the stream, I discovered ten or fifteen horses grazing. On the opposite side of the creek a light was shining high up the mountain bank, approaching the mysterious spot as cautiously as possible and when within a few yards of the light which I discovered came from a dugout in the mountainside I heard voices and soon I was able to distinguish the words as they proved to be in my own language. Then I knew that the occupants of the dugout, once the voices proceeded, were white men. Thinking that they might be a party of trappers I boldly walked up to the door and knocked for admission. The voices instantly ceased and for a moment a deathlike silence reigned inside. Then there seemed to follow a kind of hurried whispering, a sort of consultation and then someone called out, who's there? A friend and a white man, I replied. The door opened and a big ugly looking fellow stepped forth and said, come in. I accepted the invitation with some degree of fear and hesitation which I endeavored to conceal as I saw that it was too late to back out and that it would never do to weaken at that point, whether they were friends or foes. Upon entering the dugout my eyes fell upon eight as rough and villainous looking men as I ever saw in my life. Two of them I instantly recognized as teamsters who had been driving in Lou Simpson's train a few months before and had been discharged. They were charged with the murdering and robbing of ranchmen and having stolen his horses it was supposed that they had left the country. I gave them no signs of recognition, however, deeming it advisable to let them remain in ignorance as to who I was. It was a hard crowd and I concluded that the sooner I could get away from them the better it would be for me. I felt confident that they were a band of horse thieves. Where are you going, young man, and who's with you? asked one of the men who appeared to be the leader of the gang. I am entirely alone. I left horseshoe station this morning for a bear hunt and not finding any bears I had determined to camp out for the night and wait till morning, said I. And just as I was going into camp a few hundred yards down the creek I heard one of your horses whinnying and then I came up to your camp. I was thus explicit in my statement, in order, if possible, to satisfy the cutthroats that I was not spying upon them but that my intrusion was entirely accidental. Where's your horse, demanded the boss thief. I left him down the creek, I answered. They proposed going after the horse but I thought that that would never do as it would leave me without any means of escape and I accordingly said in hopes to throw them off the track. Captain, I'll leave my gun here and go down and get my horse and come back and stay all night. I said this in as cheerful and as careless a manner as possible so as not to arouse their suspicions in any way or lead them to think that I was aware of their true character. I hated to part with my gun, but my suggestion of leaving it was a part of the plan of escape which I had arranged. If they had the gun, thought I, they would surely believe that I intended to come back. But this little game did not work at all. As one of the desparados spoke up and said, Jim and I will go down with you after your horse and you can leave your gun here all the same as you'll not need it. All right, I replied, for I could certainly have said nothing else. It became evident to me that it would be better to trust myself with two men than the whole party. It was apparent that from this time on I would have to be on the alert for some good opportunity to give them the slip. Come along, said one of them, and together we went down the creek and soon came to the spot where my horse was tied. One of the men unhitched the animal and said, I'll lead the horse. Very well, said I. I have a couple of sage hens here, lead on. I picked up the sage hens which I had killed a few hours before and followed the man who was leading the horse while his companion brought up the rear. The nearer we approached the dugout the more I dreaded the idea of going back among the villainous cutthroats. My first plan of escape having failed I now determined upon another. I had both of my revolvers with me, the thieves not having thought it necessary to search me. It was now quite dark and I purposely dropped one of the sage hens and asked the man behind me to pick it up. While he was hunting for it on the ground I quickly pulled out one of my colts revolvers and struck him a tremendous blow on the back of the head, knocking him senseless to the ground. I instantly wheeled around and saw that the man ahead who was only a few feet distant had heard the blow and had turned to see what was the matter, his hand upon his revolver. We faced each other at about the same instant, but before he could fire as he tried to do I shot him dead in his tracks. Then jumping on my horse I rode down the creek as fast as possible through the darkness and over the rough ground and rocks. The other outlaws in the dugout having heard this shot which I had fired knew there was trouble and they all came rushing down the creek. I suppose by the time they reached the man whom I had knocked down that he had recovered and hurriedly told them of what had happened. They did not stay with the man whom I had shot but came on in hot pursuit of me. They were not mounted and were making better time down the rough cannon than I was on a horseback. From time to time I heard them gradually gaining on me. At last they had come so near that I saw I must abandon my horse. So I jumped to the ground and gave him a hard slap with the butt of one of my revolvers which started him on down the valley while I scrambled up the mountainside. I had not ascended more than forty feet when I heard my pursuers coming closer and closer. I quickly hid behind a large pine tree and in a few moments they all rushed by me being led on by the rattling footsteps of my horse which they heard ahead of them. Soon I heard them firing at random at the horse as they no doubt supposed I was still seated on his back. As soon as they had passed me I climbed further up the steep mountain and knowing that I had given them a slip and feeling certain that I could keep out of their way I had once struck out for horse shoe station which was twenty-five miles distant. I had hard traveling at first but upon reaching lower and better ground I made good headway walking all night and getting into the station just before daylight. Foot sore, weary, and generally played out. I immediately waked up the men of the station and told them of my adventure. Slade himself happened to be there and he at once organized a party to go out and hunt up the horse thieves. Shortly after daylight twenty well-armed stage drivers, stock tenders, and ranchmen were galloping in the direction of the dugout. Of course I went along with the party not with standing I was very tired and had hardly any rest at all. We had a brisk ride and arrived in the immediate vicinity of the thieves rendezvous at about ten o'clock in the morning. We approached the dugout cautiously but upon getting in close proximity to it we could discover no horses in sight. We could see the door of the dugout standing wide open and we then marched up to the place. No one was inside and the general appearance of everything indicated that the place had been deserted, that the birds had flown. Such indeed proved to be the case. We found a new-made grave where they had evidently buried the man whom I had shot. We made a thorough search of the whole vicinity and finally found their trail going southeast in the direction of Denver. As it would have been useless to follow them we rode back to the station and thus ended my eventful bear hunt. We had no more trouble for some time from horse thieves after that. During the winter of 1860 and the spring of 1861 I remained at horseshoe, occasionally riding pony express and taking care of stock. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Of the Life of Honorable William F. Cody This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Barry Eaths. The Life of Honorable William F. Cody by William F. Cody Chapter 9 Fast Driving It was in the spring of 1861 while I was at horseshoe that the eastern bound coach came in one day loaded down with passengers and baggage and stopped for dinner, horseshoe being a regular dinner station as well as a home station. The passengers consisted of six Englishmen and they had been continually grumbling about the slow time that was being made by the stages, saying that the farther they got east the slower they went. These blarzted eathens don't know anything about stage anyhow remarked one of them. Blarzt my bloody highs. They count stage in this country as we do in England, you know, said another. Their remarks were overheard by Bob Scott, who was to drive the coach from horseshoe to Fort Laramie and he determined to give them satisfaction before they got over his route. Scott was known to be the best reinsman and the most expert driver on the whole line of the road. He was a very gentlemanly fellow in his general appearance and conduct, but at times he would become a reckless daredevil and would take more desperate chances than any other driver. He delighted in driving wild teams on the darkest nights over a mountain road and had thus become the hero of many a thrilling adventure. It happened on this day he was to drive a team of six pony express horses, which had been only partially broken in as a stage team. As the stock tenders were hitching them up, Bob, who was standing by, said, I'll show them Englishmen that we blarzted heathens do know something about staging in this country. We all knew from Bob's looks that something was up. It required several men to hitch up this frisky team, as a man had to hold on to each one of the horses by the bits while they were stringing them out. The Englishmen came out from dinner and were delighted to see the horses prancing and pawing as if anxious to start. Ha! my dear fellow! Now we will have a fine ride this afternoon, said one of them. By Joe, those are the kind of horses they hot to have on haul the teams, remarked another. Are you the lad who is going to drive today? asked another of Bob. Yes, gentlemen, answered Bob. I'll show you how we stage it in this country. Bob mounted the box, gathered the lines, and pulling the horses strongly by the bits he sang out to the Englishmen. All aboard! Bob's companion on the box was Captain Cricket, a little fellow who was the messenger of the coach. After everybody was seated, Bob told the stock tenders to turn them loose. We, who were standing around to see the stage start out, expected it would go off at a lively rate. We were considerably surprised, therefore, when, after the horses had made a few lively jumps, Bob put on the big California brakes and brought them down to a walk. The road, for a distance of four miles, gradually rose to the top of a hill, and all the way up this ascent, Bob held the impatient team in check. Blyre's to your eyes, driver. Why don't you let them go? exclaimed one of the passengers, who had all along been expecting a very brisk ride. Every once in a while they would ask him some such question, but he paid no attention to them. At last he reached the top of the hill, and then he suddenly flung three of the lines on the left side of the team and the other three on the right side. He then began playing the silk to them. That is to say, he began to lash them unmercifully. The team started off like a streak of lightning, so to speak, without a single rain being held by the driver. Bob cried out to the Englishman, saying, Hold on, gentlemen, and I'll give you a lively ride and show you how to stage it in the Rocky Mountains. His next movement was to pull the lamps out of the sockets and throw them at the leaders. The glass broke upon their backs and nearly set them wild, but being so accustomed to running the road, they never once left the track and went flying on down the grade towards the next station, eight miles distant, the coach bouncing over the loose stones and small obstacles and surging from side to side as an eggshell would in the rapids of Niagara. Not satisfied with the breakneck rate at which they were traveling, Bob pulled out his revolver and fired in rapid succession, at the same time yelling in a demoniacal manner. By this time, the Englishman had become thoroughly frightened as they saw the lines flying wildly in every direction and the team running away. They did not know whether to jump out or remain in the coach. Bob would occasionally look down from a seat and seeing their frightened faces would ask, Well, how do you like staging in this country now? The Englishman stuck to the coach, probably thinking it would be better to do so than to take the chances of breaking their necks by jumping. As the flying team was nearing the station, the stocktender saw that they were running away and that the driver had no control over them whatever. Being aware that the pony express horses were accustomed to running right into the stable on arriving at the station, he threw open the large folding doors, which would just allow the passage of the team and coach into the stable. The horses sure enough made for the open doorway. Captain Cricket, the messenger, and Scott got down in the boot of the coach to save themselves from colliding with the top of the stable door. The coach would probably have passed through into the stable without any serious damage had it not been for the bar or threshold that was stretched across the ground to fasten the doors to. This bar was a small log and the front wheel struck it with such force that the coach was thrown up high enough to strike the upper portion of the door frame. The top of the coach was completely torn off and one of the passengers arms was broken. This was the only serious injury that was done, though it was a matter of surprise to all that any of the travelers escaped. The coach was backed out when the running gear was found to be as good as ever. The top was soon patched up, a change of team was made, and Bob Scott, mounting the boxes if nothing had happened, took the reins in hand and shouted, All aboard! The Englishman, however, had had enough of Bob Scott and not one of the party was willing to risk his life with him again. They said that he was drunk or crazy or both and that they would report him and have him discharged for what he had already done. Bob waited a few minutes to give them an opportunity to take their seats in the coach, but they told him most emphatically that he could drive on without them as they intended to wait there for the next stage. Their traps were taken off and Bob drove away without a single passenger. He made his usual time into Fort Laramie, which was the end of his run. The Englishman came through on the next day's coach and proceeded onto Atchison where they reported Bob to the superintendent of the line, who, however, paid little or no attention to the matter as Bob remained on the road. Such is the story of the liveliest and most reckless piece of stage driving that ever occurred on the overland stage road. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Of the Life of Honorable William F. Cody This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Barry Eads The Life of Honorable William F. Cody by William F. Cody Chapter 10 Questionable Proceedings Having been away from home nearly a year and having occasionally heard of my mother's poor health, I determined to make her a visit. So procuring a pass over the road, I went to Leavenworth, arriving there about June 1st, 1861, going from their home. The Civil War had broken out and excitement ran high in that part of the country. My mother, of course, was a strong Union woman, and had such great confidence in the government that she believed the war would not last over six months. Leavenworth at that time was quite an important outfitting post for the West and Southwest, and the fort there was garrisoned by a large number of troops. While in the city one day I met several of the old as well as the young men who had been members of the Free State Party all through the Kansas Troubles, and who had, like our family, lost everything at the hands of the Missourians. They now thought a good opportunity offered to retaliate and get even with their persecutors, as they were all considered to be secessionists. That they were all secessionists, however, was not true, as all of them did not sympathize with the South. But the Free State men, myself among them, took it for granted that as Missouri was a slave state the inhabitants must all be secessionists and therefore our enemies. A man by the name of Chandler proposed that we organize an independent company for the purpose of invading Missouri and making war on its people on our own responsibility. He at once went about it in a very quiet way and succeeded in inducing twenty-five men to join him in the hazardous enterprise. Having a longing and revengeful desire to retaliate upon the Missourians for the brutal manner in which they had treated and robbed my family, I became a member of Chandler's company. His plan was that we should leave our homes in parties of not more than two or three together and meet at a certain point near Westport, Missouri, on a fixed day. His instructions were carried out to the letter, and we met at the rendezvous at the appointed time. Chandler had been there some days before us and thoroughly disguised had been looking around the country for the whereabouts of all the best horses. He directed us to secretly visit certain farms and collect all the horses possible and bring them together the next night. This we did, and upon reassembling it was found that nearly every man had two horses. We immediately struck out for the Kansas line, which we crossed at an Indian ferry on the Kansas River above Wyndotte, and as soon as we had set foot upon Kansas soil we separated with the understanding that we were to meet one week from that day at Leavenworth. Some of the parties boldly took their confiscated horses into Leavenworth, while others rolled them to their homes. This action may look to the reader like horse-stealing, and some people might not hesitate to call it by that name. But Chandler plausibly maintained that we were only getting back our own or the equivalent from the Missourians, and as the government was waging war against the South it was perfectly square and honest and we had a good right to do it. So we didn't let our consciences trouble us very much. We continued to make similar raids upon the Missourians off and on during the summer, and occasionally we had running fights with them. None of the skirmishes, however, amounted to much. The government officials, hearing of our operations, put detectives upon our track, and several of the party were arrested. My mother, upon learning that I was engaged in this business, told me it was neither honorable nor right, and she would not for a moment continence any such proceedings. Consequently I abandoned the Jayhawking Enterprise, for such it really was. About this time the government bought from Jones and Cartwright several Ox Trains, which were sent to Rola, Missouri, all being put in charge of my old and gallant friend, Wild Bill, who had just become the hero of the day, on account of a terrible fight which he had had with a gang of Desperados and Outlaws, who infested the border under the leadership of the then notorious Jake McCandless. In this fight he had killed McCandless and three of his men. The affair occurred while Wild Bill was riding the Pony Express in western Kansas. The custom with the express riders, when within half a mile of a station, was either to begin shouting or blowing a horn in order to notify the stocktender of his approach, and to have a fresh horse already salad for him on his rival, so that he could go right on without a moment's delay. One day, as Wild Bill neared Rock Creek Station, where he was to change horses, he began shouting as usual at the proper distance, but the stocktender, who had been married only a short time and had his wife living with him at the station, did not make his accustomed appearance. Wild Bill galloped up, and instead of finding the stocktender ready for him with a fresh horse, he discovered him lying across the stable door, with the blood oozing from a bullet hole in his head. The man was dead, and it was evident that he had been killed only a few moments before. In a second Wild Bill jumped from his horse, and looking in the direction of the house, he saw a man coming towards him. The approaching man fired on him at once, but missed his aim. Quick as lightning, Wild Bill pulled his revolver and returned the fire. The stranger fell dead, shot through the brain. Bill, Bill, help, help, save me! Such was the cry that Bill now heard. It was the shrill and pitiful voice of the dead stocktender's wife, and it came from a window of the house. She had heard the exchange of shots, and knew that Wild Bill had arrived. He dashed over the dead body of the villain whom he had killed, and just as he sprang into the door of the house, he saw two powerful men assaulting the woman. One of the Desperados was in the act of striking her with the butt end of a revolver, and while his arm was still raised, Bill sent a ball crashing through his skull, killing him instantly. Two other men now came rushing from an adjoining room, and Bill, seeing that the odds were three to one against him, jumped into a corner, and then firing, he killed another of the villains. Before he could shoot again, the remaining two men closed in upon him, one of whom had drawn a large bowy knife. Bill wrenched the knife from his grasp, and drove it through the heart of the outlaw. The fifth and last man now grabbed Bill by the throat, and held him at arm's length, but it was only for a moment, as Bill raised his own powerful right arm, and struck his antagonist left arm such a powerful blow that he broke it. The disabled Desperado, seeing that he was no longer a match for Bill, jumped through the door, and mounting a horse, he succeeded in making his escape, being the sole survivor of the Jake McCandless gang. Wild Bill remained at the station with a terrified woman until the stage came along, and he then consigned her to the care of the driver, mounting his horse he at once galloped off, and soon disappeared in a distance, making up for lost time. This was the exploit that was on everybody's tongue and in every newspaper. It was one of the most remarkable and desperate hand-to-hand encounters that has ever taken place on the border. I happened to meet Wild Bill at Leavenworth as he was about to depart for Rola. He wished me to take charge of the government trains as a sort of assistant under him, and I gladly accepted the offer. Arriving at Rola, we loaded the trains with freight and took them to Springfield, Missouri. On our return to Rola, we heard a great deal of talk about the approaching fall races at St. Louis, and Wild Bill, having brought a fast-running horse from the mountains, determined to take him to that city and match him against some of the high-flyers there. And down to St. Louis, we went with this running horse, placing our hopes very high on him. Wild Bill had no difficulty in making up a race for him. All the money that he and I had, we put up on the mountain runner. As we thought we had a sure thing, we also bet the horse against $250. I rode the horse myself, but nevertheless our sure thing, like many another sure thing, proved a total failure, and we came out of that race minus the horse and every dollar we had in the world. Before the race it had been make or break with us, and we got broke. We were busted in the largest city we had ever been in, and it is no exaggeration to say that we felt mighty blue. On the morning after the race, we went to the military headquarters, where Bill succeeded in securing an engagement for himself as a government scout, but I, being so young, failed in obtaining similar employment. Wild Bill, however, raised some money by borrowing it from a friend, and then buying me a steamboat ticket he sent me back to Leavenworth, while he went to Springfield, which place he made headquarters while scouting in southeastern Missouri. One night, after he had returned from a scouting expedition, he took a hand in a game of poker, and in the course of the game he became involved in a quarrel with Dave Tutt, a professional gambler, about a watch which he had won from Tutt, who would not give it up. Bill told him he had won it fairly, and that he proposed to have it. Furthermore, he declared his intention of carrying the watch across the street next morning to military headquarters, at which place he had to report at nine o'clock. Tutt replied that he would himself carry the watch across the street at nine o'clock, and no other man would do it. Bill then said to Tutt that if he attempted anything of the kind, he would kill him. A challenge to a duel had virtually been given and accepted, and everybody knew that the two men meant business. At nine o'clock the next morning, Tutt started to cross the street. Wild Bill, who was standing on the opposite side, told him to stop. At that moment, Tutt, who was carrying his revolver in his hand, fired at Bill but missed him. Bill quickly pulled out his revolver and returned the fire, hitting Tutt squarely in the forehead and killing him instantly. Quite a number of Tutt's friends were standing in the vicinity, having assembled to witness the duel, and Bill, as soon as Tutt fell to the ground, turned to them and asked if any one of them wanted to take it up for Tutt. If so, he would accommodate any of them then and there. But none of them cared to stand in front of Wild Bill to be shot at by him. Nothing, of course, was ever done to Bill for the killing of Tutt. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Of The Life of Honourable William F. Cody This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Barry Eads The Life of Honourable William F. Cody by William F. Cody Chapter 11 A Soldier In the fall of 1861 I made a trip to Fort Larnet, Kansas, carrying military dispatches, and in the winter I accompanied George Long through the country and assisted him in buying horses for the government. The next spring, 1862, an expedition against the Indians was organized, consisting of a volunteer regiment, the 9th, Kansas, under Colonel Clark. This expedition, which I had joined in the capacity of guide and scout, proceeded to the Kiowa and Comanche country on the Arkansas River, along which stream we scouted all summer between Fort Lyon and Fort Larnet on the old Santa Fe Trail. We had several engagements with the Indians but they were of no great importance. In the winter of 1862 I became one of the Red Leg Scouts, a company of scouts commanded by Captain Tough. Among its members were some of the most noted Kansas Rangers, such as Red Clark, the St. Clair Brothers, Jack Harvey, and old pony express rider named Johnny Frye and many other well-known frontiersmen. Our field of operations was confined mostly to the Arkansas country and southwestern Missouri. We had many a lively skirmish with the Bushwackers and younger brothers and when we were not hunting them we were generally employed in carrying dispatches between Fort's Dodge, Gibson, Leavenworth, and other posts. Whenever we were in Leavenworth we had a very festive time. We usually attended all the balls in full force and ran things to suit ourselves. Thus I passed the winter of 1862 and the spring of 1863. Subsequently I engaged to conduct a small train to Denver for some merchants and on reaching that place in September I received a letter stating that my mother was not expected to live. I hastened home and found her dangerously ill. She grew gradually worse and at last, on the 22nd of November, 1863, she died. Thus passed away a loving and affectionate mother and a noble, brave, good, and loyal woman. That I loved her above all other persons, no one who has read these reminiscences can for a moment doubt. Previous to this set event my sister Julia had been married to a gentleman named J. A. Goodman, and they now came to reside at our house and take charge of the children, as my mother had desired that they should not be separated. Mr. Goodman became the guardian of the minor children. I soon left the home not rendered gloomy by the absence of her whom I had so tenderly loved and going to Leavenworth I entered upon a desolate and reckless life, to my shame be it said, and associated with gamblers, drunkards, and bad characters generally. I continued my dissipation about two months and was becoming a very hard case. About this time, the Seventh Kansas Regiment, known as Genesis Jayhawkers, returned from the war and re-enlisted and reorganized as veterans. Among them I met quite a number of my old comrades and neighbors who tried to induce me to enlist and go south with them. I had no idea of doing anything of the kind, but one day, after having been under the influence of bad whiskey, I awoke to find myself a soldier in the Seventh Kansas. I did not remember how or when I had enlisted, but I saw I was in for it, and that it would not do for me to endeavor to back out. In the spring of 1864, the regiment was ordered to Tennessee, and we got into Memphis just about the same time that General Sturgis was so badly whipped by General Forrest. General AJ Smith reorganized the Army to operate against Forrest, and after marching to Tupelo, Mississippi, we had an engagement with him and defeated him. This kind of fighting was all new to me, being entirely different from any in which I had ever before engaged. I soon became a non-commissioned officer, and was put on detached service as a scout. After skirmishing around the country with the rest of the Army for some little time, our regiment returned to Memphis, but was immediately ordered to Cape Gerardo in Missouri as a Confederate force under General Price was then raiding that state. The command of which my regiment was a part hurried to the front to intercept Price, and our first fight with him occurred at Pilot Knob. From that time, for nearly six weeks, we fought or skirmished every day. I was still acting as a scout when one day I wrote ahead of the command some considerable distance to pick up all possible information concerning Price's movements. I was dressed in gray clothes or Missouri jeans, and on riding up to a farmhouse and entering, I saw a man, also dressed in gray costume, sitting at a table eating bread and milk. He looked up as I entered and startled me by saying, You little rascal, what are you doing in those sessh clothes? Judge of my surprise, when I recognized in a stranger my old friend and partner, Wild Bill, disguised as a Confederate officer. I asked you the same questions, sir, said I without the least hesitation. Hush, sit down and have some bread and milk, and we'll talk it all over afterwards, said he. I accepted the invitation and partook of the refreshments. Wild Bill paid the woman of the house, and we went out to the gate where my horse was standing. Billy, my boy, said he, I am mighty glad to see you. I haven't seen or heard of you since we got busted on that St. Louis horse race. What are you doing out here? I asked. I am a scout under General McNeill. For the last few days I have been with General Marmaduke's Division of Price's Army in disguise as a Southern officer from Texas, as you see me now, said he. That's exactly the kind of business that I am out on today, said I, and I want to get some information concerning Price's movements. I'll give you all that I have, and he then went on and told me all that he knew regarding Price's intentions and the number and condition of his men. He then asked about my mother, and when he learned that she was dead, he was greatly surprised and grieved. He thought a great deal of her, for she had treated him almost as one of her own children. He finally took out a package, which he had concealed about his person, and handing it to me, he said, Here are some letters which I want you to give to General McNeil. All right, said I, as I took them, but where will I meet you again? Never mind that, he replied. I am getting so much valuable information that I propose to stay a little while longer in this disguise. Thereupon we shook hands and parted. It is not necessary to say much concerning Price's raid in general, as that event is a matter of recorded history. I am only relating the incidents in which I was personally interested, either as one of the actors or as an observer. Another interesting and I may say exciting episode happened to me a day or two after my unexpected meeting with Wild Bill. I was riding with the advanced guard of our army, and wishing a drink of water, I stopped at a farmhouse. There were no men about the premises, and no one excepting a very fine and intellectual looking lady and her two daughters. They seemed to be almost frightened to death at seeing me, a yank, a peer before them. I quieted their fears somewhat, and the mother then asked me how far back the army was. When I told her it would be along shortly, she expressed her fears that they would take everything on the premises. They set me out of lunch and treated me rather kindly, so that I really began to sympathize with them, for I knew that the soldiers would ransack their house and confiscate everything they could lay their hands on. At last I resolved to do what I could to protect them. After the generals and the staff officers had passed by, I took it upon myself to be a sentry over the house. When the command came along, some of the men rushed up with the intention of entering the place and carrying off all the desirable plunder possible, and then tearing or breaking everything to pieces as they usually did along the line of march. Halt, I shouted. I had been placed here by the commanding officer as a guard over this house, and no man must enter it. This stopped the first squad, and seeing that my plan was a success, I remained at my post during the passage of the entire command and kept out all intruders. It seemed as if the ladies could not thank me sufficiently for the protection I had afforded them. They were perfectly aware of the fact that I had acted without orders and entirely on my own responsibility, and therefore they felt the more grateful. They urgently invited me to remain a little while longer and partake of an excellent dinner which they said they were preparing for me. I was pretty hungry about that time as our rations had been rather slim of late, and a good dinner was a temptation I could not withstand, especially as it was to be served up by such elegant ladies. While I was eating the meal, I was most agreeably entertained by the young ladies, and before I had finished it, the last of the rear guard must have been at least two miles from the house. Suddenly, three men entered the room, and I looked up and saw three double-barreled shotguns leveled straight at me. Before I could speak, however, the mother and her daughter sprang between the men and me. Father, boys, lower your guns, you must not shoot this man, and similar exclamations were the cry of all three. The guns were lowered, and then the men, who were the father and brothers of the young ladies, were informed of what I had done for them. It appeared that they had been concealed in the woods nearby while the army was passing, and on coming into the house and finding a Yankee there, they determined to shoot him. Upon learning the facts, the old man extended his hand to me, saying, I would not harm a hair of your head for the world, but it is best that you stay here no longer, as your command is some distance from here now, and you might be cut off by bushwhackers before reaching it. Bidding them all good-bye, and with many thanks from the mother and daughters, I mounted my horse and soon overtook the column, happy in the thought that I had done a good deed, and with no regrets that I had saved from pillage and destruction the home and property of a confederate and his family. Our command kept crowding against price in his army until they were pushed into the vicinity of Kansas City, where their further advance was checked by United States troops from Kansas, and then was begun their memorable and extraordinary retreat back into Kansas. While both armies were drawn up in Skirmish Line near Fort Scott, Kansas, two men on horseback were seen rapidly leaving the confederate lines, and suddenly they made a dash towards us. Instantly, quick volleys were discharged from the confederates, who also began a pursuit, and some 500 shots were fired at the flying men. It was evident that they were trying to reach our lines, but one within about a quarter of a mile of us, one of them fell from his horse to rise no more. He had been fatally shot. His companion galloped on unhurt, and seven companies of our regiment charged out and met him, and checked his pursuers. The fugitive was dressed in confederate uniform, and as he rode into our lines, I recognized him as Wild Bill, the Union Scout. He immediately sought Generals Pleasanton and McNeil, with whom he held a consultation. He told him that although price made a bold showing on the front, by bringing all his men into view, yet he was really a great deal weaker than the appearance of his lines would indicate, and that he was then trying to cross a difficult stream four miles from Fort Scott. It was late in the afternoon, but Generals Pleasanton immediately ordered in advance, and we charged in full force upon the rear of Price's army, and drove it before us for two hours. If Wild Bill could have made his successful dash into our lines earlier in the day, the attack would have been made sooner, and greater results might have been expected. The confederates had suspected him of being a spy for two or three days, and had watched him too closely to allow an opportunity to get away from them sooner. His unfortunate companion, who had been shot, was a scout from Springfield, Missouri, whose name I cannot now remember. From this time on, Wild Bill and myself continued to scout together until Price's army was driven south of the Arkansas River and the pursuit abandoned. We then returned to Springfield, Missouri, for arrest and for supplies, and Wild Bill and myself spent two weeks there and having a jolly good time, as some people would express it. END OF CHAPTER XI It was during the winter of 1864-65, while I was on detached service at military headquarters at St. Louis, that I became acquainted with a young lady named Luisa Frederici, whom I greatly admired and in whose charming society I spent many a pleasant hour. The war closing in 1865, I was discharged, and after a brief visit at Leavenworth, I returned to St. Louis, having made up my mind to capture the heart of Miss Frederici, whom I now adored above any other young lady I had ever seen. Her lovely face, her gentle disposition, and her graceful manners, won my aberration and love, and I was not slow in declaring my sentiments to her. The result was that I obtained her consent to marry me in the near future, and when I bade her goodbye, I considered myself one of the happiest of men. Meantime, I drove a string of horses from Leavenworth to Fort Kearney, where I met my old friend Bill Trotter, who was then division stage agent. He employed me at once to drive stage between Kearney and Plum Creek, the road running near the spot where I had my first Indian fight with the McCarthy brothers, and where I killed my first Indian, nearly nine years before. I drove stage over this route until February 1866, and while bounding over the cold, dreary road, day after day, my thoughts turned continually towards my promised bride, until I at last determined to abandon staging forever and marry and settle down. Immediately after coming to this conclusion, I went to St. Louis, where I was most cordially received by my sweetheart. It was a range between us that our wedding should take place on the sixth day of March following. At last the day arrived, and the wedding ceremony was performed at the residence of the bride's parents in the presence of a large number of invited friends whose hearty congratulations we received. I was certainly to be congratulated, for I had become possessed of a lovely and noble woman, and as I gazed upon her as she stood beside me, arrayed in her wedding costume, I indeed felt proud of her, and from that time to this, I have always thought that I made a most fortunate choice for a life partner. An hour after the ceremony, we, my bride and myself, were on board of a Missouri River steamboat, bound for our new home in Kansas. My wife's parents had accompanied us to the boat and had bidden us a fond farewell and a godspeed on our journey. During the trip up the river, several very amusing, yet awkward incidents occurred, some of which I cannot resist relating. There happened to be on board the boat, an excursion party from Lexington, Missouri, and those comprising it seemed to shun me, for some reason which I could not then account for. They would point at me, and quietly talk among themselves, and eye me very closely. Their actions seemed very strange to me. After the boat had proceeded some little distance, I made the acquaintance of several families from Indiana, who were enroute to Kansas. A gentleman who seemed to be the leader of these colonists said to me, the people of the excursion party don't seem to have any great love for you. What does it mean? I asked. What are they saying? It's all a mystery to me. They say you are one of the Kansas Jayhawkers, and one of Jenison's house burners, replied the gentleman. I am from Kansas, that's true, and was a soldier and a scout in the Union Army, said I, and I was in Kansas during the Border Ruffian War of 1856. Perhaps these people know who I am, and that explains their hard looks. I had a lengthy conversation with this gentleman, for such he seemed to be, and entertained him with several chapters of the history of the early Kansas Troubles, and told him the experiences of my own family. In the evening, the Lexington folks got up a dance, but neither the Indiana people, my wife or myself, were invited to join them. My newfound friend thereupon came to me and said, Mr. Cody, let us have a dance of our own. Very well, was my reply. We have some musicians along with us, so we can have plenty of music, remarked the gentleman. Good enough, said I, and I will hire the Negro barber to play the violin for us. He is a good fiddler, as I heard him playing only a little while ago. The result was that we soon organized a good stringed band, and had a splendid dance, keeping it up as long as the Lexington party did theirs. The second day out from St. Louis, the boat stopped to wood up, at a wild-looking landing. Suddenly, 20 horsemen were seen galloping up through the timber, and as they came nearer the boat, they fired on the Negro deckhands, against whom they seemed to have a special grudge, and who were engaged in throwing wood on board. The Negroes all quickly jumped on the boat, and pulled in the gangplank, and the captain had only just time to get the steamer out into the stream before the bushwhackers, for such they proved to be, appeared on the bank. Where is the Black Abolition Jayhawker, shouted the leader? Show him to us, and we'll shoot him, yelled another. But as the boat had got well out in the river by this time, they could not board us, and the captain, ordering a full head of steam, pulled out and left them. I afterwards ascertained that some of the Missourians, who were with the excursion party, were bushwhackers themselves, and had telegraphed to their friends from some previous landing that I was on board, telling them to come to the landing which we had just left and take me off. Had the villains captured me, they would have undoubtedly put an end to my career, and the public would never have had the pleasure of being bored by this autobiography. I noticed that my wife felt grieved over the manner in which these people had treated me. Just married she was going into a new country, and seeing how her husband was regarded, how he had been shunned, and how his life had been threatened, I was afraid she might come to the conclusion too soon that she had wedded a hard customer. So when the boat landed at Kansas City, I telegraphed to some of my friends in Leavenworth that I would arrive there in the evening. My object was to have my acquaintances give me a reception, so that my wife could see that I really did have some friends, and was not so bad a man as the bushwhackers tried to make out. Just as I expected, when the boat reached Leavenworth, I found a general roundup of friends at the landing to receive us. There were about sixty gentlemen and ladies. They had a band of music with them, and we were given a fine serenade. Taking carriages, we all drove to South Leavenworth to the home of my sister Eliza, who had married George Myers, and there we were given a very handsome reception. All this cheered up my wife, who concluded that I was not a desperado after all. Having promised my wife that I would abandon the planes, I rented a hotel in Salt Creek Valley, the same house, by the way, which my mother had formerly kept, but which was then owned by Dr. J. J. Crook, late surgeon of the Seventh Kansas. This hotel I called the Golden Rule House, and I kept it until the next September. People generally said I made a good landlord and knew how to run a hotel, a business qualification which, it is said, is possessed by comparatively few men. But it proved to tame employment for me, and again I sighed for the freedom of the planes. Believing that I could make more money out west on the frontier than I could at Salt Creek Valley, I sold out the Golden Rule House, and started alone for Selene, Kansas, which was then the end of the track of the Kansas-specific railway, which was at the time being built across the planes. On my way I stopped at Junction City, where I again met my old friend, Wild Bill, who was scouting for the government, his headquarters being at Fort Ellsworth, afterwards called Fort Harker. He told me that they needed more scouts at this post, and I accordingly accompanied him to that fort where I had no difficulty in obtaining employment. During the winter of 1866-67, I scouted between Fort Ellsworth and Fort Fletcher. In the spring of 1867 I was at Fort Fletcher, when General Custer came out to go on an Indian expedition with General Hancock. I remained at this post until it was drowned out by the heavy floods of Big Creek, on which it was located. The water rose about the fortifications and rendered the place unfit for occupancy, so the government abandoned the fort and moved the troops and supplies to a new post, which had been named Fort Hayes, located farther west, on the south fork of Big Creek. It was while scouting in the vicinity of Fort Hayes that I made my first ride with a dashing and gallant Custer, who had come up to the post from Fort Ellsworth with an escort of only ten men. He wanted a guide to pilot him to Fort Lernad, a distance of 65 miles across the country. I was ordered by the commanding officer to guide General Custer to his desired destination. And I soon received word from the general that he would start out in the morning with the intention of making the trip in one day. Early in the morning, after a good night's rest, I was on hand, mounted on my large, mouse-colored mule, an animal of great endurance, and ready for the journey. When the general saw me, he said, Coty, I want to travel fast and go through as quickly as possible, and I don't think that mule of yours is fast enough to suit me. General, never mind the mule, said I. He'll get there as soon as your horse is. That mule was a good one, as I knew that the animal was better than most horses. Very well, go ahead then, said he, though he looked as if he thought I would delay the party on the road. For the first fifteen miles until we came to the Smoky Hill River, which we were to cross, I could hardly keep the mule in advance of the general, who rode a frisky, impatient, and ambitious thoroughbred steed. In fact, the whole party was finally mounted. The general repeatedly told me that the mule was no good, and that I ought to have had a good horse. But after crossing the river and striking the sandhills, I began letting my mule out a little, and putting the persuaders to him. He was soon out traveling the horses, and by the time we had made about half the distance to Fort Larnard, I occasionally had to wait for the general or some of his party, as their horses were beginning to show signs of fatigue. General, how about this mule anyhow? I asked at last. Cody, you have a better vehicle than I thought you had, was his reply. From that time on to Fort Larnard, I had no trouble in keeping ahead of the party. We rode into the fort at four o'clock in the afternoon, with about half the escort only, the rest having lagged far behind. General Custer thanked me for having brought him straight across the country without any trail, and said that if I were not engaged as post-scout at Fort Hayes, he would like to have me accompany him as one of his scouts during the summer, and he added that whenever I was out of employment, if I would come to him, he would find something for me to do. This was the beginning of my acquaintance with General Custer, whom I always admired as a man and as an officer. A few days after my return to Fort Hayes, the Indians made a raid on the Kansas-specific railroad, killing five or six men and running off about 100 horses and mules. The news was brought to the commanding officer who immediately ordered major arms of the 10th Cavalry, which by the way was a Negro regiment, with his company and one mountain howitzer to go in pursuit of the Redskins, and I was sent along with the expedition as scout and guide. On the second day out, we suddenly discovered, on the opposite side of the Saline River, about a mile distant, a large body of Indians who were charging down upon us. Major arms placing the cannon on a little knoll limbered it up and left 20 men to guard it, and then, with the rest of the command, he crossed the river to meet the Indians. Just as he had got the men over the stream, we heard a terrific yelling and shouting in our rear, and looking back to the knoll where the cannon had been stationed, we saw the Negroes who had been left there to guard the gun flying towards us, being pursued by about 100 Indians. While another large party of the latter were dancing around the captured canyon, as if they had got hold of an elephant and did not know what to do with it. Major arms turned his command back and drove the Indians from the gun. The troops then dismounted and took position there. Quite a severe fight ensued, lasting about two hours. Five or six of the soldiers, as well as major arms, were wounded and several of the horses were shot. The Indians seemed to grow thicker and thicker as if receiving reinforcements from some large party. The colored troops who had been bragging all the way that if they could only see some Indians, they would blow them off the farm, which was a favorite expression of theirs, were now singing a different tune. Every time the Indians would make a charge at us, the Darkies would cry out, hey, they come, they must be 10,000 of them. The whole country is alive with them. Massa Bill, do you think we is ever going to get out of here? And many other similar expressions. Major Arms, who was wounded and lying under the cannon, which, by the way, had become useless, called me up and asked if I thought there was any show of getting back to the fort. I replied that there was. Orders were accordingly given by Major Arms for a retreat, the cannon being left behind. During the movement, several of our men were killed, but as night came and dense darkness prevailed, we succeeded in making good headway and got into Fort Hayes just at daylight next morning in a very played out condition. During our absence, the cholera had broken out at the post, and five or six men were dying daily. It was difficult to tell which was the greater danger, fighting Indians on the prairie, or facing the cholera and camp, but the former was decidedly more inviting. END OF CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XIII OF THE LIFE OF HONORABLE WILLIAM F. CODY This Libra Vox recording is in the public domain, recording by Barry Eads. THE LIFE OF HONORABLE WILLIAM F. CODY BY WILLIAM F. CODY CHAPTER XIII A MILLIONAIRE Soon after returning to Fort Hayes, I was sent with dispatches to Fort Harker. After delivering the messages, I visited the town of Ellsworth, about three miles west of Fort Harker, and there I met a man named William Rose, a contractor on the Kansas-specific railroad who had a contract for grading near Fort Hayes. He had had his stock stolen by the Indians, and had come to Ellsworth to buy more. During the course of our conversation, Mr. Rose incidentally remarked that he had some idea of laying out a town on the west side of Big Creek, about one mile from the fort where the railroad was to cross. He asked my opinion of the contemplated enterprise, and I told him that I thought it was a big thing. He then proposed taking me as a partner in the scheme, and suggested that after we got the town laid out and thrown open to the public, we should establish a store and saloon there. Thinking it would be a grand thing to be half owner of a town, I had once accepted his proposition. We bought a stock of such articles as are usually found in a frontier store, and transported them to the place on Big Creek, where we were to found our town. We hired a railroad engineer to survey the site, and stake it off into lots. And we gave the new town the ancient and historical name of Rome. To a starter, we donated lots to anyone who would build on them, but reserved the corner lots, and others which were best located for ourselves. These reserved lots, we valued at $50 each. Our modern Rome, like all mushroom towns along the line of a new railroad, sprang up as if by magic, and in less than one month, we had 200 frame and log houses, three or four stores, several saloons, and one good hotel. Rome was looming up, and Rose and I already considered ourselves millionaires, and thought we had the world by the tail. But one day, a fine-looking gentleman, calling himself Dr. W. E. Webb, appeared in town, and dropping into our store, introduced himself in a very pleasant way. Gentlemen, you've got a flourishing little town here. Wouldn't you like to have a partner in your enterprise? No, thank you, said I. We have too good a thing here to whack up with anybody. My partner agreed with me, but the conversation was continued, and at last, the stranger said, gentlemen, I am the agent or prospector of the Kansas-specific railroad, and my business is to locate towns for the company along the line. We think we have the only suitable town site in this immediate locality, said Mr. Rose, and as the town has already started, we have saved the company considerable expense. You know as well as I do, said Dr. Webb, that the company expects to make money by selling land and town lots, and as you are not disposed to give the company a show or share with me, I shall probably have to start another town near you. Competition is the life of trade, you know. Start your town if you want to. We've got the bulge on you and can hold it, said I, somewhat provoked at his threat, but we acted too independently and too indiscreetly for our own good. Dr. Webb, the very next day after his interview with us, began hauling material to a spot about one mile east of us, where he staked out a new town, which he called Hays City. He took great pains to circulate in our town the story that the railroad company would locate their roundhouses and machine shops at Hays City, and that it was to be the town and a splendid business center. A ruinous stampede from our place was the result. People who had built in Rome came to the conclusion that they had built in a wrong place. They began pulling down their buildings and moving them over to Hays City, and in less than three days, our once flourishing city had dwindled down to the little store which Rose and I had built. It was on a bright summer morning that we sat on a pine box in front of our crib, moodily viewing the demolition of the last building. Three days before, we had considered ourselves millionaires. On that morning we looked around and saw that we were reduced to the ragged edge of poverty. Our sanguine expectations of realizing immense fortunes were dashed to the ground and we felt pretty blue. The new town of Hays had swallowed Rome entirely. Mr. Rose facetiously remarked that he felt like the last Rose of Summer, with all his lovely companions faded and gone, and he left blooming alone. I told him I was still there, staunch and true, but he replied that that didn't help the matter much. Thus ends the brief history of the rise, decline, and fall of modern Rome. It having become evident to me that there was very little hope of Rome ever regaining its former splendor and prosperity, I sent my wife and daughter Arda, who had been born at Leavenworth in the latter part of December, 1866, to St. Louis on a visit. They had been living with me for some little time in the rear part of our store. At this time, Mr. Rose and myself had a contract under Schumacher Miller and Company, constructors of the Kansas Pacific, for grading five miles of track westwards from Big Creek and running through the site of Rome. Notwithstanding we had been deserted, we had some small hope that they would not be able to get water at the new town, and that the people would all soon move back to Rome, as we really had the best location. We determined therefore to go on with our grading contract and wait for something better to turn up. It was indeed hard for us, who had been millionaires, to come down to the level of common railroad contractors. But we had to do it all the same. We visited the new town of Hays almost daily to see how it was progressing, and in a short time we became much better acquainted with Dr. Webb, who had reduced us from our late independent to our present dependent position. We found him a perfect gentleman, a whole-sold, genial-hearted fellow whom everybody liked and respected. Nearly every day, Doc and I would take a ride over the prairie together and hunt buffalo. On one occasion, having ventured about 10 miles from the town, we spied a band of Indians not over two miles distant who were endeavouring to get between us and the town and thus cut us off. I was mounted on my celebrated horse Brigham, the fetus steed I ever owned. On several subsequent occasions he saved my life, and he was the horse that I rode when I killed 69 buffaloes in one day. Dr. Webb was riding a beautiful thoroughbred bay, which he had brought with him from the east. Having such splendid horses, we laughed at the idea of a band of Indians overtaking us on a square run, no matter how well they might be mounted. But not caring to be cut off by them, we ran our steeds about three miles towards home, thus getting between the braves and the town. The Indians were then about three-quarters of a mile distant, and we stopped and waved our hats at them and fired some shots at long range. There were thirteen in the party, and as they were getting pretty close to us, we struck out for haze. They came on in pursuit and sent several scattering shots after us, but we easily left them behind. They finally turned and rode off towards the Saline River. The doctor thought this glorious sport, and wanted to organize a party to go and pursue them, but I induced him to give up this idea, although he did so rather reluctantly. The doctor soon became quite an expert hunter, and before he had remained on the prairie a year, there were but few men in the country who could kill more buffaloes on a hunt than he. Being aware that Rose and myself felt rather down-hearted over our deserted village, the doctor one day said that, as he had made the proprietors of Rome Howell, he would give us two lots each in haze and did so. We finally came to the conclusion that our old town was dead beyond redemption or revival, and we thereupon devoted our undivided attention to our railroad contract. One day we were pushed for horses to work on our scrapers, so I hitched up Brigham to see how he would work. He was not much used to that kind of labor, and I was about giving up the idea of making a workhorse of him when one of the men called to me that there were some buffaloes coming over the hill. As there had been no buffaloes seen anywhere in the vicinity of the camp for several days, we had become rather short of meat. I immediately told one of our men to hitch his horses to a wagon and follow me, as I was going out after the herd, and we would bring back some fresh meat for supper. I had no saddle, as mine had been left at the camp a mile distant. So taking the harness from Brigham, I monitored him bareback and started out after the game, being armed with my celebrated buffalo killer Lucretia Borgia, a newly-improved breech-loading needle-gun which I had attained from the government. While I was riding toward the buffaloes, I observed five horsemen coming out from the fort, who had evidently seen the buffaloes from the post and were going out for a chase. They proved to be some newly-arrived officers in that part of the country, and when they came up closer, I could see by the shoulder straps that the senior officer was a captain, while the others were lieutenants. Hello, Mayfriend, saying out to Captain. I see you are after the same game we are. Yes, sir, I saw those buffaloes coming over the hill, and as we were about out of fresh meat, I thought I would go and get some, said I. They scanned my cheap-looking outfit pretty closely, and as my horse was not very pre-possessing in appearance, having on only a blind bridle and otherwise looking like a workhorse, they evidently considered me a green-handed hunting. Do you expect to catch those buffaloes on that gothic steed, laughingly asked the captain? I hope so, by pushing on the reins hard enough, was my reply. You'll never catch them in the world, my fine fellow, said the captain. It requires a fast horse to overtake the animals on these prairies. Does it? asked I, as if I didn't know it. Yes, but come along with us, as we are going to kill them more for pleasure than anything else. All we want are the tongues and a piece of tenderloin. You may have all that is left, said the generous man. I am much obliged to you, captain, and will follow you, I replied. There were eleven buffaloes in the herd, and they were not more than a mile from us. The officers dashed ahead, as if they had a sure thing on killing them all before I could come up with them. But I had noticed that the herd was making towards the creek for water, and as I knew buffalo nature, I was perfectly aware that it would be difficult to turn them from their direct course. Thereupon I started towards the creek to head them off, while the officers came up in the rear and gave chase. The buffaloes came rushing past me, not a hundred yards distant, with the officers about three hundred yards in the rear. Now, thought I, is the time to get my work in, as they say, and I pulled the blind bridle from my horse, who knew as well as I did, that we were out for buffaloes, as he was a trained hunter. The moment the bridle was off, he started at the top of his speed, running in ahead of the officers, and with a few jumps he brought me alongside of the rear buffalo. Raising old Lucretia Borgia to my shoulder, I fired and killed the animal at the first shot. My horse then carried me alongside the next one, not ten feet away, and I dropped him at the next fire. As soon as one buffalo would fall, Brigham would take me so close to the next, that I could almost touch it with my gun. In this manner I killed the eleven buffaloes with twelve shots. And, as the last animal dropped, my horse stopped. I jumped to the ground, knowing that he would not leave me. It must be remembered that I had been riding him without bridle, reins, or saddle, and turning round is the party of astonished officers rode up. I said to them, Now, gentlemen, allow me to present to you all the tongues and tenderloins you wish from these buffaloes. Captain Graham, for such I soon learned was his name, replied, Well, I never saw the like before. Who under the sun are you, anyhow? My name is Cody, said I. One of the lieutenants, Thompson by name, who had met me at Fort Harker, then recognized me and said, Why, that is Bill Cody, our old scout. He then introduced me to the other officers, who were Captain Graham of the Tenth Calvary and lieutenants Reed, Emick, and Ezekiel. Captain Graham, who was considerable of a horseman, greatly admired Brigham and said, That horse of yours has running points. Yes, sir. He has not only got the points, he is a runner and knows how to use the points, said I. So I noticed, said the captain. They all finally dismounted, and we continued chatting for some little time upon the different subjects of horses, buffaloes, Indians, and hunting. They felt a little sore at not getting a single shot at the buffaloes, but the way I had killed them had, they said, amply repaid them for their disappointment. They had bred of such feats and books, but this was the first time they had ever seen anything of the kind with their own eyes. It was the first time also, that they had ever witnessed or heard of a white man running buffaloes on horseback without a saddle or a bridle. I told them that Brigham knew nearly as much about the business as I did, and if I had had twenty bridles, they would have been of no use to me. As he understood everything, and all that he expected of me was to do the shooting. It is the fact that Brigham would stop if a buffalo did not fall at the first fire, so as to give me a second chance. But if I did not kill the buffalo then, he would go on as if to say, you are no good, and I will not fool away time by giving you more than two shots. Brigham was the best horse I ever owned or saw for buffalo chasing. Our conversation was interrupted in a little while by the rival of the wagon which I had ordered out. I loaded the hindquarters of the youngest buffaloes on it, and then cut out the tongues and tenderloins and presented them to the officers, after which I rode towards the fort with them while the wagon returned to camp. Captain Graham told me that he expected to be stationed at Fort Hayes during the summer, and would probably be sent out on a scouting expedition, and in case he was, he would like to have me accompany him as scout and guide. I replied that notwithstanding I was very busy with my railroad contract, I would go with him if he was ordered out. I then left the officers and returned to our camp. That very night the Indians unexpectedly made a raid on the horses, and ran off five or six of our very best work teams, leaving us in a very crippled condition. At daylight I jumped on Old Brigham and rode to Fort Hayes when I reported the affair to the commanding officer. Captain Graham and Lieutenant Emick were at once ordered out with their company of one hundred colored troops to pursue the Indians and recover our stock if possible. In an hour we were under way. The Darkies had never been in an Indian fight, and were anxious to catch the band we were after in, sweep the red devils from off to the face of the earth. Captain Graham was a brave dashing officer, eager to make a record for himself, and it was with difficulty that I could trail fast enough to keep out of the way of the impatient soldiers. Every few moments Captain Graham would ride up to see if the trail was freshening, and how soon we should be likely to overtake the thieves. At last we reached the Saline River, where we found the Indians had only stopped to feed and water the animals and had then pushed on towards the Solomon. After crossing the Saline they made no effort to conceal their trail, thinking they would not be pursued beyond that point. Consequently we were able to make excellent time. We reached the Solomon before sunset and came to a halt. We surmised that if the Indians were camped on this river that they had no suspicion of our being in the neighborhood. I advised Captain Graham to remain with the company where it was, while I went ahead on a scout to find the Indians, if they were in the vicinity. After riding some distance down the ravine that led to the river, I left my horse at the foot of a hill, then creeping to the top, I looked cautiously over the summit upon the Solomon below. I at once discovered in plain view, not a mile away, a herd of horses grazing, our lost ones among them. Very shortly I made out the Indian camp, noted its lay, and how we could best approach it. Reporting to Captain Graham, whose eyes fairly danced with delight at the prospect of surprising and whipping the redskins, we concluded to wait until the moon rose, then get into the timber so as to approach the Indians as closely as possible without being discovered, and finally to make a sudden dash into their camp and clean them out. We had everything cut and dried as we thought, but alas, just as we were nearing the point where we were to take the open ground and make our charge, one of the colored gentlemen became so excited that he fired off his gun. We immediately commenced the charge, but the firing of the gun and the noise of our rush through the crackling timber alarmed the Indians. We at once sprang to their horses and were away from us before we reached their late camp. Captain Graham called out, follow me boys, which we did for a while, but in the darkness the Indians made good their escape. The bugle then gave the recall, but some of the darkies did not get back until morning. Having in their fight allowed their horses to run away with them whither so ever it suited the animals' pleasure to go. We followed the trail the next day for a while, but as it became evident that it would be a long chase to overtake the enemy and as we had rations only for the day, we commenced the return. Captain Graham was bitterly disappointed in not being able to get the fight when it seemed so near at one time. He round and cursed the, quote, nigger, end quote, who fired the gun, and as a punishment for his carelessness, he was compelled to walk all the way back to Fort Hayes. CHAPTER XIV It was about this time that the end of the Kansas-specific track was in the heart of the Buffalo Country, and the company was employing about twelve hundred men in the construction of the road. As the Indians were very troublesome, it was difficult to obtain fresh meat for the workmen, and the company therefore concluded to engage the services of hunters to kill buffaloes. Having heard of my experience and success as a Buffalo Hunter, Messers Goddard Brothers, who had the contract for boarding the employees of the road, met me in Hayes City one day and made me a good offer to become their hunter, and I at once entered into a contract with them. They said that they would require about twelve buffaloes per day. That would be twenty-four hams as we took only the hindquarters and hump of each buffalo. As this was to be dangerous work on account of the Indians, who were riding all over that section of the country, and as I was obliged to go from five to ten miles from the road each day to hunt the buffaloes, accompanied by only one man with a light wagon for the transportation of the meat, I of course demanded a large salary. They could afford to remunerate me well, because the meat would not cost them anything. They agreed to give me $500 per month, provided I furnished them all the fresh meat required. Leaving my partner Rose to complete our grading contract, I immediately began my career as a Buffalo Hunter for the Kansas Pacific Railroad, and it was not long before I acquired considerable notoriety. It was at this time that the very appropriate name of Buffalo Bill was conferred upon me by the roadhands. It has stuck to me ever since, and I have never been ashamed of it. During my engagement as Hunter for the Company, a period of less than 18 months, I killed 4,280 buffaloes, and I had many exciting adventures with the Indians, as well as hare-breathed escapes, some of which are well worth relating. One day in the spring of 1868, I mounted Brigham and started for Smoky Hill River. After galloping about 20 miles, I reached the top of a small hill overlooking the valley of that beautiful stream. As I was gazing on the landscape, I suddenly saw a band of about 30 Indians, nearly half a mile distant. I knew by the way they jumped on their horses, that they had seen me as soon as I came into sight. The only chance I had for my life was to make a run for it, and I immediately wheeled and started back towards the railroad. Brigham seemed to understand what was up, and he struck out as if he comprehended that it was to be a run for life. He crossed a ravine in a few jumps, and on reaching a ridge beyond, I drew rain, looked back, and saw the Indians coming for me at full speed and evidently well mounted. I would have had little or no fear of being overtaken if Brigham had been fresh, but as he was not, I felt uncertain as to how he would stand a long chase. My pursuers seemed to be gaining on me a little, and I let Brigham shoot ahead again. When we had run about three miles farther, some eight or nine of the Indians were not over two hundred yards behind, and five or six of these seemed to be shortening the gap at every jump. Brigham now exited himself more than ever, and for the next three or four miles he got right down to business, and did some of the prettiest running I ever saw. But the Indians were about as well mounted as I was, and one of their horses in particular, a spotted animal, was gaining on me all the time. Nearly all the other horses were strung out behind for a distance of two miles, but still chasing after me. The Indian who was riding the spotted horse was armed with a rifle, and would occasionally send a bullet whistling along, sometimes striking the ground ahead of me. I saw that this fellow must be checked, or a stray bullet from his gun might hit me or my horse, so suddenly stopping Brigham, and quickly wheeling him around, I raised old Lucretia to my shoulder, took deliberate aim at the Indian and his horse, hoping to hit one or the other, and fired. He was not over eighty yards from me at this time, and at the crack of my rifle down went his horse. Not waiting to see if he recovered, I turned Brigham, and in a moment we were again fairly flying towards our destination. We had urgent business about that time, and were in a hurry to get there. The other Indians had gained on us while I was engaged in shooting at their leader, and they sent several shots whizzing past me, but fortunately none of them hit the intended mark. To return their compliment, I occasionally wheeled myself in the saddle, and fired back at them, and one of my shots broke the leg of one of their horses, which left its rider, horse to combat, as the French would say. Only seven or eight Indians now remained in dangerous proximity to me, and as their horses were beginning to lag somewhat, I checked my faithful old steed a little to allow him an opportunity to draw an extra breath or two. I had determined if it should come to the worst to drop into a buffalo wallow, where I could stand the Indians off for a while, but I was not compelled to do this, as Brigham carried me through most nobly. The chase was kept up until we came within three miles of the end of the railroad track, where two companies of soldiers were stationed for the purpose of protecting the workmen from the Indians. One of the outposts saw the Indians chasing me across the prairie and gave the alarm. In a few minutes I saw, greatly to my delight, men coming on foot and cavalrymen too came galloping to our rescue as soon as they could mount their horses. When the Indians observed this, they turned and ran in the direction from which they had come. In a very few minutes I was met by some of the infantrymen and trackmen, and jumping to the ground and pulling the blanket and saddle off Brigham, I told them what he had done for me. They at once took him in charge, led him around, and rubbed him down so vigorously that I thought they would rub him to death. Captain Nolan of the Tenth Calvary now came up with forty of his men, and upon learning what had happened, he determined to pursue the Indians. He kindly offered me one of the cavalry horses, and after putting my own saddle and bridle on the animal, we started out after the flying Indians, who only a few minutes before had been making it so uncomfortably lively for me. Our horses were all fresh and of excellent stock, and we soon began shortening the distance between ourselves and the Redskins. Before they had gone five miles we overtook and killed eight of their number. The others succeeded in making their escape. On coming up to the place where I had killed the first horse, the spotted one, on my home run, I found that my bullet had struck him in the forehead and killed him instantly. He was a noble animal and ought to have been engaged in better business. When we got back to camp, I found Old Brigham grazing quietly and contentedly on the grass. He looked up at me as if to ask if we had got away with any of those fellows who had chased us. I believe he read the answer in my eyes. Another very exciting hunting adventure of mine, which deserves a place in these reminiscences, occurred near Selene River. My companion at the time was a man called Scotty, a butcher, who generally accompanied me on these hunting expeditions to cut up the buffaloes and load the meat into a light wagon which he brought to carry it in. He was a brave little fellow and a most excellent shot. I had killed some fifteen buffaloes and we had started for home with a wagon load of meat, when within about eight miles of our destination we suddenly ran onto a party of at least thirty Indians who came riding out of the head of a ravine. On this occasion I was mounted on a most excellent horse belonging to the railroad company and could easily have made my escape. But of course I could not leave Scotty who was driving a pair of mules hitched to the wagon. To think was to act in those days, and as Scotty and I had often talked over a plan of defense in case we were ever surprised by Indians we instantly proceeded to carry it out. We jumped to the ground, unhitched the mules quicker than it had ever been done before, and tied them and my horse to the wagon. We threw the buffalo hams upon the ground and piled them around the wheels in such a shape as to form a breastwork. All this was done in a shorter time than it takes to tell it, and then with our extra box of ammunition and three or four extra revolvers, which we always carried along with us, we crept under the wagon and were fully prepared to give our visitors the warmest kind of a reception. The Indians came on pale mill, but when they were within 100 yards of us we opened such a sudden and galling fire upon them that they held up and began to circle around the wagon instead of riding up to take tea with us. They however charged back and forth upon us several times and their shots killed the two mules and my horse, but we gave it to them right and left and had the satisfaction of seeing three of them fall to the ground not more than 50 yards away. On seeing how well we were fortified and protected by our breastwork of hams, they probably came to the conclusion that it would be a difficult undertaking to dislodge us, for they drew off and gave us a rest, but only a short one. This was the kind of fighting we had been expecting for a long time, as we knew that sooner or later we would be jumped by Indians while we were out buffalo hunting. I had an understanding with the officers who commanded the troops at the end of the track that in case their pickets should at any time notice a smoke in the direction of our hunting ground, they were to give the alarm so that assistance might be sent to us, for the smoke was to indicate that we were in danger. I now resolved to signal to the troops in the manner agreed on and at the first opportunity set fire to the grass on the windward side of the wagon. The fire spread over the prairie at a rapid rate, causing a dense smoke which I knew would be seen at the camp. The Indians did not seem to understand this strategic movement. They got off from their horses and from behind a bank or knoll again peppered away at us. But we were well fortified and whenever they showed their heads we let them know that we could shoot as well as they. After we had been cooped up in our little fort for about an hour, we discovered cavalry coming toward us at full gallop over the prairie. Our signal of distress had proved a success. The Indians saw the soldiers at about the same time that we did and thinking that it would not be healthy for them to remain much longer in that vicinity, they mounted their horses and disappeared down the canyons of the creek. When the soldiers came up we had the satisfaction of showing them five good Indians, that is dead ones. Two hours later we pulled into camp with our load of meat, which was found to be all right except that it had a few bullets and arrows sticking in it. While I was hunting for the Kansas Pacific Railway, I had the pleasure in the fall of 1867 of meeting the celebrated Kit Carson, one of, if not the oldest and most noted, scout, guide, and hunter that our western country had ever produced. He was on his way to Washington. I also met him on his return from the east and invited him to be my guest for a few days at Hays City, which invitation he accepted. He then proceeded to Fort Lyon, Colorado, near which place his son-in-law, Mr. Boggs, and family resided. At this time his health was failing and shortly afterwards he died at Mr. Boggs' residence on the Pickett Wire Creek. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of The Life of Honorable William F. Cody This Lieber-Vox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Barry Eads. The Life of Honorable William F. Cody by William F. Cody Chapter 15 Champion Buffalo Killer Shortly after the adventures mentioned in the preceding chapter, I had my celebrated buffalo hunt with Billy Comstock, a noted scout, guide, and interpreter who was then Chief of Scouts at Fort Wallace, Kansas. Comstock had the reputation for a long time of being a most successful buffalo hunter, and the officers in particular who had seen him kill buffaloes were very desirous of backing him in a match against me. It was according to the arrange that I should shoot him a buffalo killing match, and the preliminaries were easily and satisfactorily agreed upon. We were to hunt one day of eight hours, beginning at eight o'clock in the morning and closing at four o'clock in the afternoon. The wager was five hundred dollars aside, and the man who should kill the greater number of buffaloes from on horseback was to be declared the winner. The hunt took place about twenty miles east of Sheridan, and as it had been pretty well advertised and noised abroad, a large crowd witnessed the interesting and exciting scene. An excursion party, mostly from St. Louis, consisting of about a hundred gentlemen and ladies, came out on a special train to view the sport, and among the number was my wife, with little baby Arta, who had come to remain with me for a while. The buffaloes were quite plenty, and it was agreed that we should go into the same herd at the same time and make a run, as we called it, each one killing as many as possible. A referee was to follow each of us on horseback when we entered the herd and count the buffaloes killed by each man. The St. Louis excursionist, as well as the other spectators, rode out to the vicinity on the hunting grounds in wagons and on horseback, keeping well out of sight of the buffaloes so as not to frighten them until the time came for us to dash into the herd, when they were to come up as near as they pleased and witness the chase. We were fortunate in the first run in getting good ground. Comstock was mounted on one of his favorite horses while I rode old Brigham. I felt confident that I had the advantage of Comstock in two things. First, I had the best buffalo horse that ever made a track, and second, I was using what was known at the time as the Needle Gun, a breech-loading Springfield rifle caliber 50. It was my favorite old Lucretia, which has already been introduced to the notice of the reader. While Comstock was armed with a Henry rifle, and although he could fire a few shots quicker than I could, yet I was pretty certain that it did not carry powder and lead enough to do execution equal to my caliber 50. At last the time came to begin the match. Comstock and I dashed into a herd followed by the referees. The buffaloes separated. Comstock took the left bunch and I the right. My great forte in killing buffaloes from horseback was to get them circling by riding my horse at the head of the herd, shooting the leaders, thus crowding their followers to the left, till they would finally circle round and round. On this morning the buffaloes were very accommodating and I soon had them running in a beautiful circle when I dropped them thick and fast until I had killed 38, which finished my run. Comstock began shooting at the rear of the herd, which he was chasing, and they kept straight on. He succeeded, however, in killing 23, but they were scattered over a distance of three miles while mine lay close together. I had nursed my buffaloes as a billiard player does the balls when he makes a big run. After the result of the first run had been duly announced, our St. Louis excursion friends, who had approached to the place where we had stopped, set out a lot of champagne, which they had brought with them, and which proved a good drink on a Kansas prairie, and a buffalo hunter was a good man to get away with it. While taking a short rest, we suddenly spied another herd of buffaloes coming toward us. It was only a small drove, and we at once prepared to give the animals a lively reception. They proved to be a herd of cows and calves, which, by the way, are quicker in their movements than the bulls. We charged in among them, and I concluded my run with a score of 18 while Comstock killed 14. The score now stood 56 to 37 in my favor. Again the excursion party approached, and once more the champagne was tapped. After we had eaten a lunch which was spread for us, we resumed the hunt. Striking out for a distance of three miles, we came up close to another herd. As I was so far ahead of my competitor, and the number killed, I thought I could afford to give an extra exhibition of my skill. I had told the ladies that I would, on the next run, ride my horse without saddle or bridle. This had raised the excitement to fever heat among the excursionists, and I remember one fair lady who endeavored to prevail upon me not to attempt it. That's nothing at all, said I. I have done it many a time, and old Brigham knows as well as I what I am doing, and sometimes a great deal better. So leaving my saddle and bridle with the wagons, we rode to the windward of the buffaloes as usual, and when within a few hundred yards of them we dashed into the herd. I soon had thirteen laid out on the ground, the last one of which I had driven down close to the wagons, where the ladies were. It frightened some of the tender creatures to see the buffalo coming at full speed, directly toward them. But when he had gotten within fifty yards of one of the wagons, I shot him dead in his tracks. This made my sixty-ninth buffalo, and finished my third and last run, Comstock having killed forty-six. As it was now late in the afternoon, Comstock and his backers gave up the idea that he could beat me, and thereupon the referees declared me the winner of the match, as well as the champion buffalo hunter of the plains. Poor Billy Comstock was afterwards treacherously murdered by the Indians. He and Sharp Grover visited a village of Indians, supposed to be peaceably inclined, near Big Spring Station in western Kansas, and after spending several hours with the Redskins in friendly conversation they prepared to depart, having declined an invitation to pass the night there. It appears that Comstock's beautiful white-handled revolver had attracted the attention of the Indians, who overtook him and his companion when they had gone about half a mile. After surrounding the two men they suddenly attacked them. They killed, scalped, and robbed Comstock. But Grover, although severely wounded, made his escape, owing to the fleetness of the excellent horse which he was riding. This sad event occurred August 27, 1868. On our way back to camp we took with us some of the choice meat and finest heads. In this connection it will not be out of place to state that during the time I was hunting for the Kansas Pacific I always brought into camp the best buffalo heads, and turned them over to the company, who found a very good use for them. They had them mounted in the best possible manner, and sent them to all the principal cities and railroad centers in the country, having them placed in prominent positions at the leading hotels, depots, and other public buildings as a sort of trademark or advertisement of the Kansas Pacific Railroad. And today they attract the attention of the traveler almost everywhere. Whenever I am traveling over the country and see one of these trademarks I feel pretty certain that I was the cause of the death of the old fellow whose body it once ornamented. And many a wild and exciting hunt is thus called to mind. The end of the track finally reached Sheridan in the month of May 1868, and as the road was not to be built any further just then, my services as a hunter were not any longer required. At this time there was a general Indian war raging all along the western borders. General Sheridan had taken up his headquarters at Fort Hayes in order to be in the field to superintend the campaign in person. As scouts and guys were in great demand I concluded once more to take up my old advocation of scouting and guiding for the army. Having no suitable place in which to leave my old and faithful Buffalo Hunter Brigham and not wishing to kill him by scouting I determined to dispose of him. I was very reluctant to part with him, but I consoled myself with the thought that he would not be likely to receive harder usage in other hands than he had in mind. I had several good offers to sell him, but it is the suggestion of some gentlemen in Sheridan, all of whom were anxious to obtain possession of the horse, I put him up at a raffle in order to give them all an equal chance of becoming the owner of the famous steed. There were ten chances at thirty dollars each, and they were all quickly taken. Old Brigham was won by a gentleman, Mr. Ike Bonham, who took him to Wyandotte, Kansas, where he soon added new laurels to his already brilliant record. Although I am getting ahead of my story, I must now follow Brigham for a while. A grand tournament came off four miles from Wyandotte, and Brigham took part in it. As has already been stated, his appearance was not very pre-possessing, and nobody suspected him of being anything but the most ordinary kind of a plug. The friends of the rider laughed at him for being mounted on such a dizzy-looking steed. When the exercises, which were of a very tame character, being more for style than speed, were over, and just as the crowd were about to return to the city, a purse of two hundred and fifty dollars was made up to be given to the horse that could first reach Wyandotte four miles distant. The arrangement was carried out, and Brigham was entered as one of the contestants for the purse. Everybody laughed at Mr. Bonham when it became known that he was to ride that pokey-looking plug against the five thoroughbreds which were to take part in the race. When all the preliminaries had been arranged, the signal was given, and off went the horses for Wyandotte. For the first half mile several of the horses led Brigham, but on the second mile he began passing them one after the other, and on the third mile he was in advance of them all, and was showing them all the road at a lively rate. On the fourth mile his rider let him out and arrived at the hotel, the home station, and Wyandotte a long way ahead of his fastest competitor. Everybody was surprised, as well as disgusted, that such a homely critter should be the winner. Brigham, of course, had already acquired a wide reputation, and his name and exploits had often appeared in the newspapers, and when it was learned that this critter was none other than the identical Buffalo-hunting Brigham, nearly the whole crowd admitted that they had heard of him before, and had they known him in the first place, they certainly would have ruled him out. I finally lost track of Brigham, and for several years I did not know what had become of him. Three years ago, while I was at Memphis, Tennessee, I met a Mr. Wilcox, who had been one of the superintendents of construction of the Kansas-Pacific Railroad, and he informed me that he owned Brigham, and that he was at that time on his farm, only a few miles out of town. The next day I rode out with Mr. Wilcox and took a look at the gallant old horse. He was comfortably cared for in Mr. Wilcox's stable, and looked the same clever pony that he always was. It seemed as if he almost remembered me, and I put my arms around his neck, as though he had been a long-lost child. Mr. Wilcox bought the horse at Wyndotte, from the gentleman who had won him at the raffle, and he intends to keep him as long as he lives. I am grateful that he is in such good hands, and whenever I again visit Memphis, I shall surely go and see Brigham if he is still alive. But to return to the thread of my narrative, from which I have wandered, having received the appointment of guide and scout, and having been ordered to report at Fort Larnad, then commanded by Captain Dangerfield Parker, I saw it was necessary to take my family, who had remained with me at Sheridan after the Buffalo hunting match, to Leavenworth, and there leave them. This I did at once, and after providing them with a comfortable little home, I returned and reported for duty at Fort Larnad.