CHAPTER IX.
REMINISCENCE OF A FREIGHTER.
“Twenty odd years ago,” said Mr. G., “supplies for all the country west of the Missouri river were furnished by wagon trains, and the Pawnees, Sioux and Cheyennes were the lords of the public domain. In order to avoid trouble with them, it was necessary for the freighters to gratify their whims, and occasionally feed them when they came about the camp, especially if in any considerable number. We often had to resort to ‘ways that are dark’ in order to get even with them. I was camping once with my freight trains down on the old overland route, and just about dark a band of Cheyennes, numbering probably thirty or forty, and headed by a venerable dilapidated looking sub-chief, came trailing over the
REMINISCENCE OF A FREIGHTER. 45
country and pitched their tepees directly across the road from us.
“The chief immediately called to pay-his respects and beg a little tobacco, as his ‘teeth were very sick.’
“It being late to receive, we were not again visited till next morning about ten o’clock, when a large, fine buck came over, very hungry, ‘a good friend of the whites,’ and would like ‘something to eat.’ We cast around for some little delicacy for him in the way of bacon rinds, wagon grease, etc.—but the larder was empty. We were about to send him away unfed when one of the party thought of a camp kettle containing about a gallon of boiled beans that had soured before we could use them, and which we had forgotten to throw away.
“He rustled around and set the spread for the innocent and guileless child of the desert, and by signs and lingo, earnestly cautioned him not to get away with all of them as we intended to warm them over for dinner. The red man had ears but heard not, and stolidly devoured those beans with an appetite of an anaconda. Then offering profuse thanks for the elegant repast, and wiping his mouth on the skirt of his Prince Albert, he withdrew to his tepee with the grace of a Chesterfield. After an hour or so we were aroused from our afternoon nap by a thundering rumpus. For a moment I was uncertain where I was, and what the deuce was going on. There was a terrible commotion at the Indian camp. The old chief came rushing over and charged us with having poisoned the bean-eater, and said he must have some whisky at once to save his life. We protested that he was not poisoned, that he had been gluttonous and had eaten a gallon of beans. We handed the old man the
46 TALES OF THE COLORADO PIONEERS.
bottle containing about a quart of ‘valley tan’ whisky,
and intimated that if he drank that all down, the beans
wouldn’t get a chance to kill him. He looked at the bot¬
tle as if suspicious of its contents, and tipping it to his
lips, put himself outside of perhaps two-thirds of the
compound, and then pulled out for the sick bed of his
brother.
“The howling increased, and with the screeching of
the squaws and barking of the dogs, produced a veritable
pandemonium.
“When the twilight shadows were stealing over the
broad plains, Mr. Lo, who so shortly before ate at our ta¬
ble, a welcome guest, passed in his chips and went over
to the majority, a victim of the seductive sweetness of the
‘ Bostonian’s pride.’ We did not wait to attend the
funeral lest the infuriated Indians might wipe us out at
‘one fell swoop,’ like MacDuff’s chickens. So while they
were forgetful of all else save their dead brother, we
thought it prudent
‘To fold our tents like the Arabs
And silently steal away,’
Leaving them alone with one good Indian.”
“One story of a kind produces another,” said Mr. M.,
“and as this gentleman has brought up the subject, I’ll
‘ keep the stone rolling’ by relating a reminiscence of my
own. In the early days on the plains, it was customary
for freighters to go by some nick-name; their most inti¬
mate acquaintances in many cases knew them only by
such names, and I doubt not many a poor fellow lost his
life there, whose real name was never known to his fron¬
tier acquaintances, and whose people advertised in vain
for news of his whereabouts. I was forced to think ser-
REMINISCENCE OF A FREIGHTER. 47
iously of this nonsensical habit in a fight we had with the Indians at Big Springs, down on the Platte. I was known to my associates as ‘Yank Smith,’ and if I had fallen there my people would never have known what became of me. During the fight I vowed to myself that if I came out of that alive I would reveal my real name. When it was over I forgot all about it, and to this day those old associates remember me as ‘Yank Smith.’
“We were camped at Big Springs, resting our stock after an all night’s drive to get out of the reach of the military post, having slipped by in the night. The order of General Pope, then in command of the department, required all trains to be composed of not less than forty men, well armed, and to avoid being held to await others to make our crowd answer the ‘regulation’ size, we made it a practice to steal by in the night when the guard was having his dream of home, or his game of poker with the landlord at the ranch hard by. The party was composed of old White, his three sons, Dick Robinson and myself; Sim White was down at the river watering a mule, his father, the two other sons and Dick Robinson were playing poker under the wagon. I was looking on. Sim halloed to us that Indians were coming.
“Looking away to the bluffs, a mile to the south, we saw them coming, and from the dust they made there seemed to be at the very least a million of them, and every Indian ten feet high. Old White looked out from under the wagon and satisfied himself they were sure enough after us.
“He turned his cards carefully face downwards, and said to the boys, ‘ don’t disturb that hand; we will have it out after we get through with the redskins.’
48 TALES OF THE COLORADO PIONEERS.
“On they came; but the distance was great, we had ample time to secure our animals by tying them to the hubs of the wagons, and get our guns ready for action before they were upon us. As they drew near we found there were only thirteen. They tried the old dodge of presenting the butt end of their guns, saying they wanted to ‘swap.’ ‘You’ll get no swap here but lead, you thieves,’ said Old White, and immediately opened the fight by blazing away. The Indians at once fell back, firing as they did so, and for two long hours they kept up a running semi-circular fight, never still, and continually firing, always lying on the opposite side of their horses from us.
“We could do nothing but shoot at their horses, in hopes of killing them and then killing the Indians when dismounted; but they kept on the go so that it was only occasionally we could hit a pony.
“After a two hours fight, with no loss on either side, Dick Robinson asked me for an old musket I had in the wagon,