Project Gutenberg's The Prairie Schooner, by William Francis Hooker This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Prairie Schooner Author: William Francis Hooker Release Date: August 14, 2012 [EBook #40497] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRAIRIE SCHOONER *** Produced by Greg Bergquist, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) The Prairie Schooner By William Francis Hooker Copyright, 1918 By SAUL BROTHERS Chicago To My Wife MAMIE TARBELL HOOKER A Pioneer of the Jim River (Dakota) Valley Illustration and Patent Color Process by J. D. Johnsen CONTENTS. Page Introduction 11 I. Letters Pass Between Old Pards 15 II. Trains That Run Without Rails 27 III. Hunton and Clay—Bull-Train Magnates 43 IV. Guarding an Overland Freight Outfit 57 V. Rattlesnakes and Redskins 67 VI. Belated Grace for a Christmas Dinner 75 VII. The Fate of One-Eyed Ed. 85 VIII. Track-Layers Fought Redskins 99 IX. "Bill" Hickok, City Marshal 105 X. When Cheyenne Was Young 113 XI. The Lost Indian at Bedtick Creek 119 XII. A She-Bear and Her Cub 129 XIII. A Kick From a Playful Bullock—and a Joke 135 XIV. The Indian and the Trousers 143 XV. There's a Reason; This Is It! Conclusion 149 INTRODUCTION When the Union Pacific Railroad was completed from Omaha, Nebraska, to Ogden, Utah, it passed through a territory about as barren of business as one can imagine. It apparently was a great Sahara, and in fact some of the territory now growing bumper crops of alfalfa, grains and fruits, was set down in school text-books in the 70's as the "Great American Desert." Its inhabitants were, outside of the stations on the railroad, largely roaming bands of Indians, a few hundred soldiers at military posts, some buffalo and other hunters, trappers, a few freighters, and many outlawed white men. The railroad had no short line feeders, and there was, in the period of which I write, no need for them sufficient to warrant their construction. There were military posts scattered along the North Platte, and other rivers to the north, and the government had begun, as part of its effort to reconcile the Red Man to the march of civilization started by the Iron Horse, to establish agencies for the distribution of food in payment to the tribes for lands upon which they claimed sovereignty. These oases in the then great desert had to be reached with thousands of tons of flour, bacon, sugar, etc., consequently large private concerns were formed and contracts taken for the hauling by ox-teams of the provisions sent to the soldiers as well as the Indians. The ox was the most available and suitable power for this traffic for the reason that he required the transportation of no subsistence in the way of food, and was thoroughly acclimated. Usually he was a Texan—a long horn—or a Mexican short horn with short stocky legs, although the Texan was most generally used, and was fleet-footed and built almost on the plan of a shad. Both breeds were accustomed to no food other than the grasses of the country, upon which they flourished. These included the succulent bunch grass. Oxen were used in teams of five, six and seven yokes and hauled large canvas-covered wagons built for the purpose in Missouri, Wisconsin, Illinois and Indiana. In the larger transportation outfits each team hauled two wagons, a lead and a trailer, and frequently were loaded with from 6,500 to 8,000 pounds of freight. These teams were driven by men who were as tough and sturdy as the oxen. Most of the freighting was done in the spring, summer and fall, although several disastrous attempts were made to continue through the midwinter season to relieve food shortages at the army posts. It may seem strange, but it is nevertheless true, that Indians frequently attacked the very wagon trains that were hauling food to them, in Wyoming and Western Nebraska. Perhaps they were the original anarchists; anyway, they often tried —seldom successfully—to destroy the goose that laid the golden egg, but the course of civilization's stream never was seriously turned, for it flowed rapidly onward, and between 1870 and 1885, the country was quite thoroughly transformed from a wild and uninhabited territory to one of civilization and great commercial productivity. Cattle ranches with their great herds came first, then sheep, and by degrees the better portions of the lands, where the sweet grasses grew, and even on the almost bare uplands when water was made available by irrigation projects, were tilled. Settlements followed quickly—towns with schools and churches; then branch railroads, the development of the mines of gold, silver, coal, etc., all came in natural order. And finally, at a comparatively recent date, rich fields of oil were discovered and made to yield millions of gallons for the world's market and millions in wealth. It is difficult to realize that the now great territory was, in the day of men still active, regarded as of little or no value— the home of murderous, wandering tribes of savages in a climate and soil unfitted for agriculture and containing little else of commercial value. But science and enterprising men and governments have wrought almost a miracle. Go back with me to the days of the prairie schooner before the Wild West was really discovered, and let me try to entertain you with just a glimpse of things that are in such wonderful contrast to those of today. The freight trains with ox-team power have vanished, never to return, and with them most of the men who handled them. The "color" of what follows is real, gathered when the Wild West was wild; and I make no excuse for its lack of what an Enos R. Mills or a Walter Pritchard Eaton would put in it, for they are naturalists while I am merely a survivor of a period in the development and upbuilding of a great section of the golden west. In relating incidents to develop certain phases of pioneer life real names of persons and localities have not always been used; and in some of the narratives several incidents have been merged. CHAPTER I LETTERS PASS BETWEEN OLD PARDS. My Dear Friend: Can you put me in correspondence with any of the old boys we met when the country was new, out in Wyoming? * * * Of the Medicine Bow range, or Whipple, the man I gave the copper specimens to? * * * Have you forgotten the importance you felt while walking up and down the long line of bovines, swinging your "gad" and cursing like a mate on a river boat? You looked bigger to me than a railroad president when you secured that job, as you used to say, breaking on a bull-train. I should say you were an engineer, but I suppose you know best. Those were happy days. When I recall the fool things we did to satisfy a boy's desire for adventure, I wonder that we are alive. How we avoided the scalping knife; escaped having our necks broken, or being trampled to death under the feet of herds of buffalo is a mystery to me. * * * When the building of the Union Pacific road checked the buffaloes in their passage from summer to winter feeding grounds, and they were banked up along the line near Julesburg in thousands, I recall the delight we took in watching them "get up and get." What clouds of dust they would kick up when they got down to business! And such dust as the Chalk Bluff would make never entered the eyes or lungs of man elsewhere. Weren't we whales when we could divide or turn a herd? And how we would turn tail-to, "spur and quirt" for our lives if the bunch did not show signs of swerving from their course. How a cow-pony can carry a man safely over such treacherous ground as the dog-towns is almost a miracle. O! to have my fill of antelope steak or buffalo "hump" broiled on a cone of buffalo chips! Nothing better ever entered my mouth on the plains. The soothing song of the lone night-herder of the bull-train as he circles and beds his stock is not more conducive to sweeter slumbers than we enjoyed by the rippling streams in the hills of Wyoming. The difficulty we had in boiling beans until done in so high an altitude; our hunt for a gun at old Dale Creek where "Shorty" Higgins died suddenly; the fool act on my part when, afoot and alone, I recovered the horse the Comanches had stolen from us. I wish we might corral some of our old-time friends and go over the past before we leave this land, "for when we die we will be a long time dead." The wild horse that roamed the West, among which was the stallion who so valiantly guarded his harem on the Laramie Plains, was a model for a Landseer. The great herds of buffalo that looked like shadows cast on the plains by clouds passing the sun and the myriads of passenger pigeons, are among the things that man will never see again, and as read from the chronicles of history a few years hence, will be classed with the Jonah and the Whale story. Old Man, when convenient, write me a long letter recalling some of the old days, for— "I'm growing fonder of my staff, I'm growing dimmer in my eyes, I'm growing fainter in my laugh, I'm growing deeper in my sighs; I'm growing careless in my dress, I'm growing frugal with my gold, I'm growing wise—I'm growing—yes, I'm growing old." Sincerely yours, VAN. The reply: My Dear Old Pard: Your note concerning the events of long ago out on the Laramie Plains and the Harney flats shoots across my vision events in the Cache de La Poudre (the Poodre), the Chugwater country, old Cheyenne, Sherman, Fort Laramie, Fetterman, Camp Carlin, both Plattes, the Medicine Bow waters and range, Allen's "Gold Room," McDaniel's hurdy- gurdy, the dust-stirring, dust-laden buffalo east of Chalk Bluffs, the deer and antelope of the whole Wyoming territory, the sage-hens, and I don't know what not. It makes me stop and lope back into the sagebrush. It makes me climb the mountain sides and urge the bulls to fill their piñon yokes, tighten the chains, and hurry along the four or five tons of bacon or flour or shelled corn in gunny-sacks that Uncle Sam wants delivered somewhere over the range, across the desert sweeps, through cactus-grown, prickly pear sprinkled wastes, on through the dog-towns, in the heavy sand sifting through the spokes, and falling off in a spiral fount from the slow-turning hub. Ah, yes, old pard, and as I whack my bulls in the train that runs without rails to the top of a long divide, I look for three things: water, smoke and Indians. There were no railroads north of Cheyenne—nothing but the "bull-trains." There away on the edge of the horizon, over the yellow bunch grass, cured by the sun, is a strip of green. It is box-elder, and underbrush. Standing out here and there like grim sentinels on guard are the big, always dead and leafless cottonwoods, white as graveyard ghosts, day or night. It seems to be only a flat surface haul to this refreshing looking strip of green, and, as I have stopped the whole wagon-train by making this observation, and the wagon boss is moving my way on a big mule, I tap the off leader, who is thirty odd feet away, with my long lash and yell: "Whoa, haw, Brownie," but not too loud at first; just an encouraging word or two, and then string 'em out. My leaders are light of feet and built like running horses. The pointers—or middle yokes—come in reluctantly, but I attend to that, and with the butt end of my stock, jab the near wheeler in the ribs, and away we go. But, old pard, inside of three minutes my strip of green is gone! In its place is the quivering, broiling sun over the yellow bunch-grass; the ashen stalks of the sage seem never to have had a drop of sap in them—everything is dead. Even the jack-rabbit that stops for a look seems bedraggled and forlorn, but I whistle, pick up a moss agate, throw it in my jockey box, and jog along, for the surface is now hard as a stone, though off ahead there I will unwind my lash and send its stinging thongs to the backs of my noble beasts, touching only selected spots where the hair has been worn away until the surface looks like the head of the drum in a village band. Yes, I know they used to think us bullwhackers were brutes, but they (an occasional tenderfoot) only saw the surface. They had never been initiated; they didn't know the secrets. It was only when the load just had to be yanked to the top without doubling teams or dropping trailers, that we used the undercut which sent the long V-shaped popper upon the tender spots of the belly, and then, Pard, the thing looked worse because the Comanche-like language we hurled with it was so unusual to ears that had been trained east of the Missouri River. It sure was picturesque language! But we were all day reaching that green belt strung like a ribbon across the face of central Wyoming, and from the time we first hove in sight of it, until we pulled the pins from the steamy yokes, and dropped the hickory bows at our feet, it appeared and disappeared so often that I wonder that both man and beast did not go mad. However, inasmuch as this was a daily programme for me for several years, I know that man can stand a whole lot of hardship, if he only thinks so. And then ring in the change from the desert heat of midsummer to trifles like thirty below in winter along the same landscape, when you see the ghostly cottonwoods and anticipate your arrival among them some hours later. Won't there be a roaring fire? And beans? And bacon? And pones of bread for everyone? Wet stockings piled on inverted yokes or held on pieces of brush, are drying, we are nursing our chilblains and discussing the incidents of the day's drive, and not a weakling in the outfit. Every man has been frozen or soaked all day, but he's as happy as a lark. Sleep? You bet! You know it; but if you and I tell our friends around our comfortable firesides now or in the lobby of an onyx- walled Waldorf-Astoria, Belmont or Biltmore, that we just kicked a hole in the snow, rolled into our blankets and dreamed of being roasted to death, they would look at your well-shaven face, my biled shirt, and then at your highly polished shoes, then at my black derby, and, dammit, I believe they might be justified in forming the opinion that neither one of us had ever been deprived of breakfast food, or bath tubs, or a manicure artist's services.* * * You want to know if I can locate any of the old gang. Sure! Some sleep in the sidehills along the swift-flowing waters of the North Platte, one or two are parts of gravel beds down on the wild meadows—or what were the wild meadows of hundreds of square miles between the North Platte and the Poudre; but not a few, like you and I, stalk abroad on the face of the earth—cheating first, as we did, tribes of Sioux, Arapahoe, Cheyenne and the Comanches who swept up across Kansas and Nebraska; escaping the blizzards, periods of starvation, cold, heat, fire, water, whisky, and finally the surgeon's knife. I tell you, the world only thinks it knows a thing or two about how the human body is made, and how much it can stand. But to answer your questions: Jim Bansom, the last time I knew of him, in 1875, was headed east with a fine span of hosses and a fair-to-middlin' wagon. Don't know where he went and don't know what he did with the hosses or the wagon! 'Taint none o' my bizness, neither! In those days it wasn't customary to be too gol-darned inquisitive about such things, unless you owned the hosses or the wagon, or a bit, or a halter, or something of that sort you happened to loan to the outfit; and then, of course, you could take the trail if you wanted to. Sam Smith, old U. P. conductor, walked into my office a while ago, and, as he closed the door behind him, I said, "Hello, Sam; haven't seen you since 1875, but you're the same Sam!" Then I told him my name. And then Sam gasped and acted like maybe he might pull a gun, thinking me an impostor; because when Sam saw me the last time, stretched out in his caboose on the old mountain division of the U. P., and the train sailing down the toboggan that slid us into Laramie City, past Tie Siding and old Fort Saunders, my hair was black, and I had a different look. Maybe I looked bad. I guess I did, for I carried a gun and a belt of forty rounds, and a butcher knife in a scabbard, just as we all did, for it was the custom of the country; and I had long hair, too, and it was matted and dirty, mixed with pitch that came from camp-fires in the hills. No doubt I looked wretched, but, old Pard, I didn't even feel that way. I felt good, and I was as harmless as a pigeon. But I said something about a hatband of rattlers' rattles that I gave his little girl at Cheyenne, as I rode up to his door aboard a cayuse, and that settled it. We talked about snow-sheds, the Sherman hill, once the highest railroad point in the world, and of old times in general. But what's the use? When you come to New York, I'll meet you at the Waldorf and we'll talk about it all night, and wish the buffalo were still there, and the sagebrush, and the bull-trains, and the other things undisturbed by civilization. So long.... BILL. New York, August, 1917. [NOTE—The above letters are from the author's files. "Van" is a multi-millionaire manufacturer living in a middle-western state. For several years his pastime was buffalo hunting and "roughing it" in the wild and woolly west. The author, when a boy of 16, was developing a case of tuberculosis of the lungs, and to escape the fate that had overtaken other members of his family, took Horace Greeley's advice, went west, and grew up with the country. He had been a clerk in a railroad office, and still is in the railroad business in New York City, more than forty years after the events related in the following chapters. He is the only survivor of a family of fourteen, including all of his own children, eight in number.] CHAPTER II TRAINS THAT RAN WITHOUT RAILS. Before railroads were built in the country west of the Missouri River there was, nevertheless, considerable doing in the transportation line. And even after the Union Pacific was built from Omaha to Ogden to connect with the Central Pacific, which carried the rails to the Golden Gate, most of the transportation of the then great Wild West, in the mountains, on the plains and the "Great American Desert," was done by ox-teams. These were run in trains of from ten to fifty or sixty teams, the teams consisting usually of from five to seven yokes of oxen and lead and trail wagons built for the purpose. These wagons were called prairie schooners, because they were supplied with canvas coverings. The first of these, made in St. Louis, were called "Murphys," and were provided with iron axles. Later many of them were made in Indianapolis, Chicago, and Kenosha, Wis., the latter known as the Bain. The Schuttler and the Bain wagons were almost as big and substantial as a box car and were well painted and put together to stand hard knocks on mountain "breaknecks" or in Bad Land sands. The lead wagon would carry an average of 6,500 pounds, while the trailer—fastened to the lead by a short tongue— had a capacity of perhaps two tons. In a sandy place or on a mountain road, the bullwhacker (teamster) would slacken his team, pull a coupling pin from an iron half-circle arrangement on the axle of his lead wagon, drop his trailer to one side of the road and proceed to the top of the hill, if in the mountains, or to an "island" of hard ground in the desert, unhook his wheelers and go back for the trailer. Sometimes a "bull outfit" would spend a whole day doing this. Lead wagons were parked one at a time and the trailers brought on later and hooked up. These parkings were in the shape of an oval, called a corral, a narrow opening being left only at each end. Inside this corral, when it came time to yoke up, the cattle were driven in by the herders, if the camp had been for over night or a long mid-day stop. Then the bullwhackers, carrying the heavy piñon yokes over their left shoulders, hickory bows in their right hands and iron or wooden pins with leather strip fastened to them in their mouths, would seek out their teams, yoking them together and leading them to their wagons. When a "whacker" had his "wheelers," or pole oxen, in place, he would bring on his "pointers," and the rest, including the leaders. The wheelers were always the heavyweights, old and trained, and able to hold back the load or their unruly teammates until the whackers could throw on a brake or "rough lock," the last named a log chain fastened at one end to the wagon, thrown through the wheel spokes in such a way as to be between the ground and the wheel on the "near rear hind wheel" of the lead wagon. New cattle just being trained to yoke were always put in the center of the team, where they were easily managed with the assistance of the "leaders," which were always light weights and most always long-horns from Texas—long horns, long legs and bodies, thin as a razorback hog. These leaders were always the best broken oxen, and would respond to the low-spoken word of "haw" or "gee," especially if the word were uttered in the peculiar musical tone of the whacker which cannot be described in print, not only because it is impossible to convey sound in that manner but because the language that goes with the music—the request to gee or haw—would not be pleasant reading. Alone, the leaders would trot like horses. The average person outside of Texas and the southwest and some of the western states has a mental picture, perhaps, of the Texas steer of the long-horn variety. Those who lived thirty or forty years ago, even in the East, remember him as a member of the quadruped family consisting largely of horn, for it was not an infrequent thing to see him in a cattle car on a sidetrack. He was, as a matter of fact, also entitled to a reputation for his legs, for they were unusually long. His body, too, was slim, and he never was fat for the reason that while free to roam the ranges at will he devoted most of his time to using his horns in goring his mates and neglected to eat. He raced about from place to place, whereas, if he had no horns he would have been a peaceful animal and consequently much more valuable for the market. The old-time Texas steer often was as fleet-footed as a Kentucky racehorse of the thoroughbred variety, and it took a good horse to catch him when he made up his mind to run. Nevertheless, thousands of these Texas steers were broken to yoke, and used in overland transportation; and once broken they were good workers, even though their horns were always in the way, and the cause of a great deal of trouble in a herd. While I have no authority for the statement, I believe practical dehorning began with the bullwhackers of the plains, for they frequently bored holes in the horns which in a few weeks caused the horns to drop off. Then it was noted that if the dehorned cattle were kept separate from those with horns, the dehorned ones, even when working hard every day, took on flesh and were better workers. Finally nearly all the work-oxen were dehorned, and they were as meek and quiet as lambs. The whacker always began his orders to his bulls in a low tone, increasing it as the necessity for action presented itself, and ending in a string of oaths that would make an old-time Mississippi steamboat mate ashamed of his reputation. Frequently teams were stalled on a high hill or in the sand, when it would be necessary to gee the team of seven yokes at an almost right angle, with chains between each yoke slackened and with "wheelers" filling their yokes. Then the whacker would walk out half way to his leaders and soothingly coax them to come haw—toward him—on a trot, until all the chains between the other yokes were tightened. By this time, however, Mr. Whacker was back to his wheelers, perhaps punching the near one in the ribs, and then throwing his eighteen or twenty foot lash over the backs of any of the yokes that were not clawing the sand properly. In this way the men often worked for days at a time, making sometimes only a few rods by each repetition of the operation. Then again, the wagon boss would order a doubling-up process and two whackers and fourteen yokes of oxen would work on one pair of wagons, taking them along perhaps a mile, and then returning, repeat the process until the bad road was left behind. This was transportation in the old days, and "trains" of this kind first hauled the heavy traffic from Leavenworth and Nebraska City to the Pacific and intermediate settlements in Colorado, Utah and Wyoming. After the Union Pacific was built this bullwhacker transportation increased, especially in the country between Utah and the Missouri River, in both directions away from the railroad, for the government had a line of forts on the North Platte River and Indian Agencies were established in Western Nebraska, Wyoming and what is now South Dakota. Two of these agencies, Red Cloud, on White River, and Spotted Tail, forty miles to the north, were big traffic points. Train loads of bacon, flour, sugar and other things were hauled to these agencies on government contract, the provisions being in payment to the Sioux and other tribes for the land they occupied near the North Platte River. Along the Platte there were forts—two famous in their day—Fort Laramie at the junction of the Platte and Laramie Rivers, and Fort Fetterman, one hundred miles west of Fort Laramie, on the Platte at Lapariel Creek. Soldiers here depended upon the "bull outfits" for their provisions, nearly all being hauled in over mountain range and plain by contractors. Those were wild and woolly days, and the man who lived the life of out-of-doors was a rugged, devil-may-care, hungry, healthy, happy fellow. He knew how to face a freezing blizzard, or a baking sun without flinching; he knew how to take care of himself with a minimum of discomfort under the most adverse circumstances. He was afraid of nothing. It wouldn't do otherwise. He was there, usually beyond the arm of any law other than ordinances made and provided by himself and companions and enforced by the same law-givers. Stealing was a worse crime than life-taking. There never was an excuse for the first, but nearly always one could be trumped up for the latter. To take a man's horse was worse than cold-blooded murder; to rob him of his gun or his blankets was equally as bad a crime. But if he had been cheated in a game of "freeze out," or called a name that reflected upon his origin it was not uncommon for him to become judge and executioner then and there. So men who engaged in this early day transportation of food and fodder for soldiers and their mounts and for the followers of Sitting Bull, Old Red Cloud and other chiefs, were careful in their social intercourse, and when the harsh word was passed, as frequently was the case, it was no uncommon thing for men to settle their score with pistols; and the winner in these duels seldom, if ever, was punished. But a cold-blooded murder—a wanton killing—was never tolerated. In a fight with pistols it was always considered that the man who did the killing was justified. Unlike the present day fliers, bull trains did not run on schedules, although there was a pretense of regularity about the day's routine, and it was about as follows: At break of day the night herder who had been out with the bulls all night—it is always daybreak to him whether three o'clock or five—drives his herd into the corral, usually singing some refrain of his own composition, but always having for its motive the same that animates the pestiferous alarm clock set by a master to disturb the slumber of a tired servant. However, a half hour before the herder appears the cook and his helper, both bullwhackers, doing their turn of a week, have been on the job with the coffee and bacon, and as soon as the herder sounds his first note, the cook takes up the song, which is perhaps: Bacon in the pan, Coffee in the pot; Get up and get it— Get it while it's hot. And then, and it is always so, some of the lively stock, as it approaches the corral, takes the notion that there is some nice sweet buffalo bunch grass to the rear that looks better than a day's work, and there is a bolt often approaching a stampede. Curses? You never heard the like, for the wagon boss and an assistant are already in their saddles helping the herder. If you tried to sleep just a minute longer it would be impossible, therefore you roll out from your bed on the ground, fold up your blankets, tie them with a strap and throw them on your trail wagon. Coffee and bacon are swallowed in haste, and if you are like the majority, you grab a piece of bacon and a chunk of bread, bang them together into a huge sandwich and put them in the jockey box of your wagon for a lunch at eight or nine o'clock. Yoking and stringing out the oxen is the next operation, and a short one in a well regulated outfit. Twenty minutes, usually, from the time the bulls are driven in, the lead team is moving, and when the "outfit," as every train is called, is well under way, the lead wagon is perhaps a half mile from the last one, which is the mess wagon, containing the provisions, cooking utensils, levers for raising a load of four or five tons, the iron jacks, extra tires, coils of rope, pulleys, wheels, extra spokes, bars of iron, and almost always a small forge—a regular wrecking outfit. In hot summer weather on fair roads a bull train would make four or five miles before the sun was high enough to burn —usually nine o'clock. Then, if the camp was to be a "wet" one—at a creek, river or spring—there would be a "layover" until four o'clock in the afternoon, during which time the boys could sleep under a wagon, wash their clothes, or if in a creek or river bottom, shoulder a gun and look for moccasin, lodge pole or bear tracks. All day long, however, the men who were on the cook trick would make bread in Dutch ovens. And let me tell you, no bull outfit ever stopped for a long mid-day rest without putting on a huge kettle of beans, for the army or white bean was the staple food in those days; and there was always, on these long mid-day stops, plenty of soup. Perhaps one of the boys in his meanderings up or down the creek would bag a deer. If he wandered out upon the plain he was sure of an antelope, if he was a good shot. The deer kept to the trees along the rivers and the hills, while the antelopes' territory was the open plain, hard to get at unless the plain were rolling, and the hunter could be in the right place as regards the wind. Sometimes there were poker games, usually freeze-out, which the men played with plug tobacco cut up into small cubes. Others would spend their time braiding whips or mending clothing. The bullwhacker's whip not only made a tenderfoot open his eyes with wonder, but it usually shocked him. It was something he had never seen before, and if he had been told that a man of ordinary strength would be able to wield it he would have been decidedly incredulous. Differing from a cowboy's or herder's whip, the bullwhip lash was attached to a stalk of hickory or white ash three feet long upon which the whacker could firmly plant both hands. The lash at the butt, which was attached to the stick by a soft strip of buckskin, formed in a loop or swivel, frequently was more than an inch thick. These lashes were from eighteen to more than twenty feet long and were graduated in thickness from this great bulk to the tip, which was the thickness of a lead pencil. The number of strands in a bullwhip were also graduated. At the butt there were as many strands as the maker—usually the bullwhacker—could weave, often fourteen. At the tip, this number was reduced to six. The top, and down to six or eight feet from the end, the whip was made of leather, often old boot tops. The rest was of tough buckskin or elkskin. But on the very tip of the whip—the business end—was a "popper" of buckskin cut in the shape of a long V, the bottom end of the V running into a strand which was braided into the tip. The bullwhacker, when using this instrument, first threw it out before him upon the ground; then by the use of all his strength he swung it in over his head, to the right, often whirling it several times before he let it go upon the back of the bull he wanted to reach. To the man who never saw this operation before, there was a shock, for as the whip landed on the bull the popper made a roar like the report of a cannon. As a matter of fact the bull was uninjured, unless the bullwhacker was careless and allowed his popper to strike a tender spot, the nose, an eye or the belly. It was almost a crime for a bullwhacker to cut a bull and draw the blood, and he seldom did it unless his popper had been wet and then dried. The spot usually aimed for was the hip, and bulls that had been in service any length of time had a spot on the rump that was hairless, resembling the head of a drum. But the spot was tough. The noise of the popper, however, was what startled the team and caused it to "dig in." Frequently in the summer the afternoon drive lasted until ten or eleven o'clock, especially if there was a moon. You cannot imagine a more impressive, weird, wild sight. The shadows, the rattle of the wagons, perhaps the scream of a night bird or a wild cat—maybe the zip of an arrow from a redskin's bow, or the report of a gun, all calculated to keep even the hardened bullwhacker on his mettle. And for this the bullwhacker got $75 to $100 a month and "grub." He usually spent his money at the end of his trip much after the habit of the sailor who rounds the Horn. In the cold weather the hardships were many. There were, remember, no bridges and the roads crossed numerous streams, all of which had to be forded; and there was but one way to cross, and that was to wade and guide a team. Usually the heavy freighting was done before December, but often it was necessary to fight through blizzards and zero weather. It was this kind of work that tried the soul of even the hardy bullwhacker, and not infrequently his hands, feet, ears or face were frozen. It was hard on the cattle, too, although it was almost always possible to find plenty of good feeding ground of buffalo grass, which grew in heavy bunches and was very sweet in its dry state, for the wind usually kept places bare. If not, the bulls would nose it out from under several inches of snow and manage to get something approaching a meal. Otherwise, they went hungry, for no feed of any kind was ever carried for them. Indians, usually, were too lazy to hunt the white man in winter, so there was seldom any trouble from this source after the first snowfall. But when the grass was green it was different, especially in the mountains or foothills. Redskins seldom fought a real battle in the open. To the bullwhacker he was nearly always an invisible foe, shooting his arrows or his gun from behind a rock, or from the top of a bluff, well out of range himself. When the Indians were known to be following an outfit it was common practice to keep a couple of horsemen outriders on each side of the train where possible. Frequently bull trains were obliged to corral and put up a fight, and usually the Indian lost. CHAPTER III HUNTON AND CLAY, BULL-TRAIN MAGNATES. Among the bull-train magnates of the early 70's were Charley Clay, said to be a relative of the famous statesman, and Jack Hunton. They were pioneers of Wyoming who have no doubt been quite forgotten, though in their day none in the then sparsely settled frontier territory was better known. They were not only pioneer freighters, but among the very first of the daring frontiersmen to go beyond the limits of civilization, and into the stamping grounds of the warlike tribes of Indians to establish homes. Both built ranches in the Chugwater country along the trail leading from Cheyenne to Fort Laramie. Clay's log house was directly under one of the famous landmarks of the territory—chimney rock—a chalky butte formed, geologists say, by erosion. Hunton built his ranch on the northwest end of the Chugwater at a point near Goshen's Hole, a great basin, where the Laramie trail wheeled directly north to Eagle's Nest, another butte. At Hunton's a trail less used branched off to the northwest, across what was then considered a desert and reaching Fort Fetterman, perhaps 125 miles away on the North Platte river at Lapariel creek. This part of Wyoming is now, I understand, a vast wheatfield. To a bullwhacker of the early 70's this is almost a miracle. Both Hunton and Clay used their ranches to range their work cattle in off seasons, although both had beef herds and lots of horses. These ranch houses were protected from Indians by less than a dozen men at any time; but these men were fighters and were known to be such by the chiefs of the tribes that frequently roamed the territory south of the Platte, although in a treaty with the Federal government they had promised to stay north of the famous stream, the consideration being, on the part of Uncle Sam, a contribution of hundreds of tons of flour, bacon, tobacco and other things. Strictly speaking, this food was in payment for land south of the Platte. Both Hunton and Clay had a knack of dealing with these roaming bands, however, that prevented any serious raids, although at one time, when Clay had closed a contract with the government and found himself in Cheyenne with his big bull outfit, consisting of a couple of hundred head of oxen and thirty or forty men, word was brought to him that on his return trip to his Chugwater quarters, a band of Sioux would attack him. So he left Cheyenne one night, and taking a course almost due east avoided the Laramie trail, and by a circuitous route reached the Chugwater without having traveled a mile on a trail. Hunton's and Clay's ranch houses were loaded with firearms, looked like armories, and at the height of the shoulder in the log walls were fort holes through which guns could be fired. These were used several times, but none of the skirmishes approached in any degree the present-day pictures one sees in the movies, and I doubt if they ever did, in the West. In the first place, while the Sioux, Cheyenne and other redskins were considered especially bloodthirsty, none of them was fond of exposing his worthless carcass to a shower of bullets, even though outnumbering the whites 100 to 1. The Indian of that day—of the day that history was making on the frontier—was a most miserable coward when dealing with frontiersmen of the Hunton or Clay calibre. Of course, there were open battles with United States troops, but even then only when, as in the case of Custer and his Seventh Cavalry, the troops were outnumbered and trapped. Even Sitting Bull's band, which has wrongly been represented by some historians as brave, were entitled to no credit of that kind. Custer was trapped in a big bowl and his 300-odd fighters surrounded on all sides by several thousand well mounted and well-armed young bucks. The Custer and the earlier so-called Indian battles both at old Fort Phil Kearney and earlier in Minnesota, were not battles at all—simply massacres. There is no record of an even fight between redskins and whites in the settlement of the country between the Missouri River and the Rocky Mountains. The Modocs fought for months in the lava beds, but seldom did a soldier see a Modoc. So it was with old Geronomo and his Apache followers. They fought from cover, never in the open unless overtaken and surrounded. Nevertheless, the raiding bands of Ogalala Sioux that slipped over the Platte in the season of good grass were a problem for these pioneer ranchmen and transportation outfits, and it was not an uncommon thing for a bullet or an arrow to reach a vital spot in a bullwhacker from some hiding place just in range of the road. When this happened it was the common practice for members of the outfit to mount their saddle horses, with which every bull-train was well supplied, and give chase unless the lead of the Indians was too great, and usually it was. Once in a while, however, the Indian made a miscalculation, and the bullwhacker would return to the temporarily corralled outfit with a scrubby Indian pony, a few rawhide thongs, and an Indian's ear freshly amputated for use as evidence at the first camp of bullwhackers or army post that one more "Good Indian" had been put on the list. This cutting off of ears was reprisal, for the Indians scalped their white victims and mutilated their bodies when they had a chance. Hunton and Clay hauled with their big outfits, at one time, about everything that was sent to the northern line of forts by Uncle Sam. Clay's contracts were largely confined to Port Laramie, although Hunton hauled a good deal of the provisions to that post. Hunton and others supplied Fort Fetterman, the principal route being from Medicine Bow station on the Union Pacific across the mountain range of the same name. It took several days to load the prairie schooners from the freight cars on a sidetrack that was laid upon the sod; and while this work was going on there was sometimes a good deal of drinking and many gun fights. It was while a bull outfit was loading for one of the fall trips to Fetterman that the first billiard table came to Medicine Bow. I think it was the only one in the territory outside of Cheyenne and Laramie City, both division points on the Union Pacific. There were no women in Medicine Bow, good or bad, at the time and not more than 100 regular residents, yet the town had a saloon because the bull outfits, Hunton's and others, in their occasional trips, and a few adventurers who were prospecting south and west of the "Bow," furnished ample patronage to make the enterprise profitable. It was this saloonkeeper who conceived the idea of importing a billiard table, and also a back bar and mirror. The bullwhackers watched the installation of the new furniture, and that night informed the saloonkeeper that as there were no women in the camp it had been decided to have a stag dance in the saloon. He protested, but it did no good. A few drinks in a dozen leaders was followed by a deliberately aimed shot which shattered the mirror, after which the operation of removing the billiard table began. It was a rough job, and would have given a Brunswick-Balke man a chill. The table went out onto the prairie in sections, and the sections were not always separated at the regulation point. The green cover was ruined. Then the dance began. The German saloonkeeper smiled his protests, but when he became too much concerned about what was going on, someone would snuff a light or plug a barrel of whisky with a bullet. So the night's debauch continued, and it did not end until daybreak. The place was a wreck, and the saloonkeeper was in despair when the wagon boss came along with a roll of money as big around as a ship's cable, saying: "What's the damage, Fritz?" "Ach," he replied, "the table cost me $500; a barrel of whisky and cigars, beer, my fine mirror—everything is gone?" "Yes, I see, the whole bizness," said the boss. "Well," said Fritz, "the boys spent $600 mit me, so I make it $600 more; maybe I can repair the table." So the bill was paid, the wagons were loaded, and the outfit sallied forth across the plains, the bridgeless rivers, and the mountain passes to Fetterman where there was a pay-day. Deductions pro-rata were made from every man's wage to even up the score with Fritz, and every bullwhacker paid his share willingly, saying it was cheap sport for the price. There was no feeling against Fritz because Fritz had not shown fight. If he had—well, most of the men in the outfit were wild and woolly, and rough, but not killers. Still one or two could not be trusted. Hunton put up a log house, a forge and a charcoal kiln just outside the south limit of the Fort Fetterman government reserve, a section five miles square south of the Platte. Just before this plant was erected a series of Indian depredations began; several men engaged in cord wood chopping for a government contractor were murdered by small bands of Sioux, and many saddle horses stolen. There were also several raids in the Lapariel bottoms; and one day a small band of Sioux, well mounted, forded the Platte almost in sight of the fort, stampeded a herd of mules and drove them far into the Indian country before a company of soldiers took up the chase. A military telegraph line ran from Fort Fetterman to Fort D. A. Russell at Cheyenne, and the northwestern end of the line was down most of the time, the Indians taking the wire away to use in ear and nose rings and for other purposes, although the line was destroyed many times, no doubt, for pure cussedness. One time I traveled for fifty miles on horseback along this telegraph line, and in places the wires were connected with insulators which were mounted on buffalo horns. In many places the wire was on the ground. It was said at the time of the running off of the mules that the Fort Fetterman commandant was unable to follow the Indians without orders from Washington via Fort Russell. However, this was not confirmed. Anyway, on this and many other occasions the army moved slowly and was past understanding on the part of the few citizens in the country. Nevertheless, the soldiers of those days, whenever in conflict with the redskins, usually gave a good account of themselves. Things got so warm one spring in the vicinity of Fort Fetterman that the thirty or forty citizens camping outside the military reservation organized a secret society known as the Buckskin Militia, and determined to avenge the deaths of several men, Jesse Hammond, a woodchopper, and others, if opportunity should present itself. The only qualification for membership in the Buckskins was a willingness to take the oath, which was as follows: I, John Smith, do solemnly swear that I will shoot on sight any male Indian, no matter whether he is attacking me or other white men, stealing or attempting to steal my property or the property of others, or whether he is approaching or moving from me. Furthermore, I will answer any call from another member of this band or any other good white citizen, for assistance in the destruction of any male Indian found on the south side of the North Platte river; and will join in any raid upon an Indian camp when called upon by the Chief Buckskin. So help me God. This oath was taken while standing on the stump of a cottonwood tree in the Lapariel bottoms, the candidate being loaded down with as many log chains as he could hold, and the ceremony, usually taken on a moonlight night, was as weird a sight as one can imagine. The raids from the north continued nearly all summer. Several more white men were killed, one a lone prospector who thought there was mineral in the hills southwest of Fort Fetterman and near old Fort Caspar. "Whistled to Give His Quarry the Chance He Would Give a Mad Dog, and No More." One of the Buckskins hunting antelope one day in the vicinity of La Bonte Creek crossed the trail of a single tepee or family, and three ponies. This he knew from the lodge pole tracks made by a horse dragging the poles over the ground. The Buckskin took the trail, keeping well out of sight, but finally cut off a lone Indian who had dismounted to drink from a spring, allowing his young buck sons to go on. Buckskin whistled to give his quarry the chance he would give a mad dog—and no more. Then he put a bullet in his head. He remained on the spot from which he fired, waiting to hear from the rest of the tepee, which he did in a few minutes, although the young bucks kept out of sight. They fired a few shots before Buckskin decided to make a dash, and when he did it was a race of ten miles to a ford in the Platte. The young bucks escaped. Buckskin returned to his "Good Indian," removed a lock of his hair, took his gun and ammunition and a greasy card from the folds of his blanket upon which some white man had written: This is Cut Nose, a "Good" Sioux Indian; but he is a Murderer and Thief. There was a big session of the Buckskin Militia a few nights later, and great rejoicing. Cut Nose was a whole tribe of Indians in himself, and many dark crimes had been laid at his door by the white men who were engaged in freighting food to the Indian agencies and army posts. It must be understood that there were no settlers or settlements or families in this section of Wyoming at this time, therefore there were never any of those horrible affairs common farther East a hundred years or more ago. There were no women and children for these red devils to kill, and year in and year out the fight was between bullwhackers, a few ranchmen, not more than half a dozen, government woodchoppers, and a few prospectors. The professional hunters usually "stood in" with the red man, being possessed of some kind of magic that was never fully explained. In those days beaver, bear, buffalo, deer, antelope and other game abounded. The hunter usually had a hut or "dug-out" near a beaver dam, and it usually was well supplied with food and sometimes a squaw was the hunter's companion. Her relatives were sure of good treatment, and I presume for that reason the relatives were able to give the "squaw man" hunter protection. Still hunters were murdered, but not often. Finally, along in July, after the grass had lost its sap and turned brown, one of the Buckskins saddled...