The Indians' Last Fight; Or, The Dull Knife Raid

CHAPTER XIV.

Returning to Kansas; A Settler; A Phenomenon, etc.

Reluctantly we folded our tent and started off in the direction of the Sun-flower State, where our ranch was located. Business had been good and we were loath to leave such a good opportunity for increasing our profits, but the unseen enemy made further delay impossible. Our outfit on the trail did not present a very inviting appearance, but there was something substantial about it that cheered us considerable. We had increased our holdings during our sojourn in the Territory, and were now returning with the fruits of our venture. Personally we were not much to look at, as we had not had a shave in several months, but that fact did not interfere with the happiness we felt at the prospect of seeing the old homestead once more. On the first night of our advance we camped in the brakes of the Cimmaron river. We were fortunate in killing a deer, which provided us with a change of meat. It was the last wild game we expected to obtain, as the antelope and other wild game had been shot at so much that they had become gun-shy, and it was impossible to get within any close proximity to them to obtain a shot at one of them. The antelope in particular we did not expect to see, as that animal does not frequent the low lands, and the only time he is found there is when he is on the way to get water. Even then they seem to have on one guard at all times, so that at the sight of a man they are off like a shot and soon out of sight. Antelopes and wild horses are very much alike in their habits, as neither will enter a creek or a canyon except for water or shelter.

Next morning found us up and away. As the traveling was down grade, we got along nicely. We were very much pleased on reaching the river to find that the sand was packed down owing to the numbers of cattle that had forded the stream during the preceding weeks, and we were able to cross without much difficulty. Having crossed the stream we pulled our outfit into Clem’s ranch, where we sold the greater part of our supplies for a fair price. With a lighter burden, we set out on our way again, leaving the supply trail, and moved in a north-westerly direction toward Meade Co., Kansas. Frequently we were compelled to cross what is called a sand-draw, but we managed to do this without much trouble, as by fastening our lariat ropes to the end of the wagon tongue and fixing the other end to the horn of the saddle we could assist the team in pulling through the canyon and reach the firm footing on the other side. Our route lay through the section about midway the Beverly cow-ranch on the South Sand Creek, and the place where Ashland, the county seat of Clarke County now stands. We crossed several small trails, but as they were running in another direction they could not be of any assistance to us. That evening we made a dry camp, but expected early next day to reach the head waters of Little Sand creek, or as it was afterwards called, Johns Creek, in time to water our stock. We went through the usual procedure of picketing the horses we were using, and hobbling the loose ones, and getting the cattle in shape for the night.

On my tour around the herd I found that there was a dug-out in the neighborhood. I went on a visit of inspection to see if there was any one there, for there seemed to be some signs of improvement around it. I was agreeably surprised to find a solitary man walking around the dug-out, with his hands behind his back and his head bent as though deep in meditation. I decided to call on him and find out something about the topography of the country, also the distance to Crooked Creek, Kansas. I introduced myself and told him the purpose of my visit. Once the ice was broken, the conversation took several turns. From his remarks I gleaned that he had not been there very long, and was likewise anxious to sell out, in fact, he even seemed to insist that I should buy him out. I told him I was sorry that I could not take his offer, as I had some property of my own in Meade County and felt that was all the Kansas real estate I cared to handle just then.

During my interview I cast my eyes around the place to get a general view of my surroundings. I noted that he had placed four forks in the ground and roofed them over with hay and brush, the whole forming a sort of arbor to protect him from the sun and rain. About three feet from the ground he had fixed a scaffold for a bed. I was nonplussed at what I saw, and ventured to inquire the reason of the arbor-like structure. He replied that he was unable to sleep in the dug-out, for he had tried to do so, but found that it was impossible, owing to the number of tarantulas and centipedes that infested the place. The arbor was a partial solution of the difficulty, but did not quite meet all the demands of the situation. The fleas he could not escape, they were in his bedding, and he was unable to discover a means of putting them to flight. What he could not avoid, he had to endure. I could see at a glance that his opinion of farming in Western Kansas was not very elevated. He was determined to sell out at the first opportunity that presented itself. As I had to return to camp to make arrangements for standing night guard over the herd to prevent their wandering off, I bade my new-found acquaintance farewell, wishing him all manner of good fortune in his new home. When I reached our outfit, I found that supper was ready, and we were ready for it. We attended to the duty of providing for the wants of the inner man with considerable alacrity, though our manner of doing so might have lacked some of the etiquette required by the rules and regulations of refined society. After a chat over things in general and prospects in particular, the boys rolled up in their blankets for the night, and I went on my solitary errand of looking after the herd. The stillness of the night was unbroken save by the hooting of an owl in the neighboring canyon, or the barking of a coyote on a side hill. Even they would cease their clamor for a time and then the stillness of the night was appaling. I sat on my pony in meditation evolving thoughts and considerations induced by the calm of the surroundings in which I found myself. My reflections were interrupted by the musical notes of the lone settler, borne over the prairie on the wings of the night. He had a voice that was rich and melodious, though art had never tried to improve the natural gift. The first sweet tones that fell upon my ear were the strains of an old familiar strain I used to hear back home in Canada, and they never seemed sweeter than they did then. I listened entranced. A flood of memories came rushing from some long forgotten corner of my mind, and I sat entranced. I was in hopes that he would repeat the song again, but my hopes were not realized. Instead, he changed off into some old-time granger rhyme that had more philosophy than music in it. It might well be entitled “The Lament of a Kansas Granger.” I was glad when he was through it. Then he came back with one old and ever new, ever welcome and ever sweet, the song called “Home Sweet Home.” I do not believe that the effect produced by Jenny Lind, when she first rendered it could have been as great as that produced in my heart at that moment. The days of boyhood were returned again. I saw the old log house where I was born, and the surrounding forest. I saw my playmates on the green and took part once more in their merry games. Memories came rushing so fast that I could not analyze them in their kaleidoscopic passage through my brain. Half consciously I wiped away a tear that began to trickle down my cheek. The music ceased and I sat as one dazed; only to be rudely awakened by the resumption of the barking of the coyote near at hand. I looked across to where the settler had his home. The embers of his fire were burning low. He must have retired to his arbor for a rest. I could not then imagine why he had chosen that hour of the night to give vent to his feelings in the manner mentioned. It may have been out of the bitterness of a discouraged heart that he poured forth his soul in such harmony, but whatever it was, I must say that he had a very attentive listener in one lone horseman standing guard over a herd of weary cattle.

The hours of the night passed slowly. The silence of the tomb seemed to enfold everything in its mantel. I made my rounds to see that things were in proper condition, and then returned to camp to arouse my partner, Bill, to take up the burden of guarding the herd while I obtained some much needed sleep. It seemed to me that I had hardly lain down when I heard the cook calling to all hands, “Chuckaway,” which, in the language of the civilized nations, means breakfast is ready. I awoke with the call, and found the sun streaming into my face. In the meantime Bill had come in from his tour of inspection, leaving the cattle grazing quietly. It did not take me long to arrange my toilet, a ceremony that the cowpuncher does not usually give much attention to, and I was soon in the midst of the bustle of getting my share of provender for the morning meal. We simply took the first articles of tableware that we happened to find convenient, seized upon the proper allowance of food, and then we sat down on the prairie and gave our undivided attention to the work at hand. As it was agreeable work, we devoted a lot of energy to it, and accomplished the task in a very brief time. This done, we made arrangements to set out again. We rounded up the stock that had wandered off while grazing, got the ponies together, loaded the wagon and were on our way once more.

Having given the boys the direction to follow, I set out to pay a farewell visit to the singer of the night, saying that I would overtake them before they had proceeded very far.

I reached his dug-out and found him up and around. After the usual salutations, I offered my thanks for the pleasure he had afforded me during the preceding night. He thanked me for the compliment, and said that the pleasure was mutual. He said it was a boon to him to have some one call on him, as his nearest neighbor was seven miles distant. Not only that, but there were difficulties about his neighbor coming to visit him as he had only a team of oxen to travel with, and they were not very well broken yet, and travel under such conditions was not very inviting. I saw from the tone of his remarks that he was disconsolate, or rather discouraged by his present condition in life, and I ventured to repeat the advice given by Horace Greeley to young men, namely, “to go West and grow up with the country.” “Oh,” said he, “that is all bosh. That man, Horace Greeley did not know the first ‘jump in the road’ of what he was talking about. When he came through this country, he was riding in a Pullman car, with lackeys and servants to wait upon him. He knew absolutely nothing of the real condition of this country and I am willing to bet that he would not take a thousand dollars and sleep one night in that dug-out of mine. He was a very smart man, well versed in politics, living in New York where he could sit in his parlor and look into his neighbor’s house and see what the family had to eat. Such advice is sound enough in theory when delivered through the columns of the New York Tribune, or in the heat of some political campaign, to an audience composed of tenderfeet, but the same idea promulgated whilst leaning on a hoe handle, between two rows of sorghum, in Western Kansas, would have a different effect. Horace Greeley was a very good citizen, but knew comparatively nothing of the trials and tribulations, privations and hardships, to say nothing of the lives it cost to move the boundary line of civilization one step farther West.” Such were the sentiments of my philosophical friend, and they contained more truth than poetry. By this time the herd was almost out of sight, and I was forced to bid him good-bye, requesting him, at the same time, that if he were ever over in Meade County, to call on me, for there would be a welcome for him at all times and that he would always find the latch on the outside, that meant for him to walk right in and make himself at home. I left him, and as I was topping the crest of the hill I looked back and saw him sitting on the top of his dugout, waving farewell.

“GOOD BYE”

We did not delay for dinner, as we wanted to reach Little Sand Creek, where there was plenty of water. As this was to be our last night out, I can assure you that we did not lose any time along the way. We reached our camping ground about three in the afternoon. As we were only about eight miles from the home ranch, we turned everything loose, and laid ourselves out to have a general good time. The cook had been advertising his ability to make custard pie, and we thought this a convenient opportunity to put his ability to the test. Of course, he had to have milk, for there is no substitute for that article in a first-class custard pie. Being that Bill and I fairly doted on custard pie, it was our duty to provide the milk for the occasion. For the benefit of my readers, let me say that if you have a longing for custard pie, try to throttle it in infancy, or train it so as to render it subject to proper environment, but do not, at any cost, let that hankering exercise its influence on you when you have to invade the rights and privileges of a wild Texas cow,—unless you are prepared to fight to a finish. Bill and I felt equal to the occasion and set out to produce the required article. We chose a cow that seemed to have more milk than her calf required. Bill roped her, threw her down,—which was a cruel thing to do to a young mother—and hog-tied her. I was on hand with a can. I held her down while he was endeavoring to separate her from her milk. With much labor and some verbal protests against her restlessness, he succeeded in extracting about a pint. I took the fruit of our labors and rope up to the camp and proudly gave it to the cook. He informed me that there was not enough for a first-class pie, and I had to enlist the services of Bill once more, to procure the required quantity. It took considerable wrangling with two more of those restless creatures to persuade them to favor us with some of their milk, but in the end we succeeded and returned to camp again. In the meantime the cook had uncovered some turkey eggs that he had found a day or so before, and set to work on his masterpiece—a custard pie. Needless to say, his production was up to the advertisement, and, also, to our expectations.

Our cook was a genius in his line of endeavor. It was a rare thing to meet a cowpuncher who could not turn out biscuits of some degree of edibility, but we had a master hand. When he turned over to the inspection of an outfit such an article of food they were light and fluffy, and when dipped in antelope gravy, one would have to have a case of indigestion in an alarming condition if he could not eat them with an appetite like a section hand. His manner of preparing the dinner table was simplicity itself. He used to spread out the wagon sheet for a table cloth, and use mother earth for the table. When everything was ready he called out “Chuckaway,” and found us ready and willing to pay a compliment to his endeavors.

When we had demolished the supper, and particularly the custard pie, Bill went down to the creek to wash out a few shirts as he did not wish to return to the ranch with his clothing in an unpresentable condition. While he was gone the cook and I played checkers to see who would wash the dishes. I lost.

When the usual routine of camp life with the herd had been completed, we turned in to have one good rest to be ready for the final drive next day. As a reward to Old Jimmie for his fidelity I gave him an extra measure of grain and a few caresses to show that I remembered what he had done for me. Next morning found us about ready to start, when we met with an unavoidable delay, Bill’s shirts were not dry and we could not go without him. We filled in our time picking up wood and filling the waterbucket for future use. In due time Bill’s lingerie was in a proper condition for use, and we were on our way once more.

We set out in a north-westerly direction. When we had gone about two miles we crossed the trail of the wood-haulers coming over from Meade county, for fire wood and fence posts, which they were compelled to collect from the vicinity of Sand Creek, or its tributaries. As the trail was nearly parallel to the direction we were going, we followed it slowly homewards. We halted our herd for the purpose of getting dinner, and to permit the cattle to graze or rest as they wished. We remained a couple of hours, knowing that we could make the home ranch by sundown. We set out for the final drive, moved along slowly, taking things easy as there was no need to hurry. About four o’clock, much to our surprise, it clouded up and a drizzle set in. It was the first rain we had seen in months, and we fairly enjoyed it. However, we put on our slickers to avoid too much of a good thing. It lasted only a short time and then the sun shone again. When the sun broke through the overhanging clouds a peculiar phenomenon presented itself to our view. Not more than two hundred yards in advance of the lead cattle was formed, as if by flash light, a small rainbow directly across the trail. It did not seem to be more than one hundred and fifty yards from side to side, and not more than half that distance in height to the arch overhead. I have seen cyclones, blizzards, and mirages, but I was totally unprepared for such a phenomenon as I then witnessed. I confess, if I had been alone, I would have ridden around it rather than pass through the archway. I could not give a scientific explanation of the affair, and luckily for me Bill did not ask for one, as he was one of those impulsive, unimaginative men who take things as they see them and inquire not into the causes that lead to their existence. Not so with the teamster, he was from Arkansaw, and was very superstitious. When he saw the wondrous arch stretched from side to side before him, he stopped the team until Bill shouted at him to go on and not be a fool. He got in motion with fear and trembling. The cattle seemed to realize that there was something strange about the affair and crowded through as though going through a gateway. When we had passed on for some distance I looked back, and the phenomenon was gone. I asked the teamster why he had stopped the team, and he gave me a characteristic reply, “Gosh, I was afraid it would fall on me. I heard a Sunday School teacher say once that the Lord was going to put up one of those things every once in a while to show that he was not going to destroy the earth by flood any more.” “That’s all right for Western Kansas,” said Bill, “but it does not apply to Arkansaw where they are drowned out every spring.”

We reached our ranch by sundown, and turned the cattle loose to graze. We unsaddled our horses with a sigh of relief that the long trip into the Territory was over. By the time we washed ourselves and combed the sand out of our whiskers, supper was ready and we sat down and placed our feet under a table for the first time in months.

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