Dodge City, the Cowboy Capital, and the great Southwest in the days of the wild Indian, the buffalo, the cowboy, dance halls, gambling halls and bad men E-Book
Robert Marr Wright
0,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Arcadia Press
- Kategorie: Lebensstil
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
"At the solicitation of many friends and acquaintances as well as a great many people who are desirous of knowing about early life in the wild west and the Great American Desert, especially in wicked Dodge City, I write these true stories and historical facts. The task is a pleasant one. As I look back and endeavor to recall the events of that period, a kaleidoscopic panorama presents itself to my mind — a picture ever changing, ever restless, with no two days alike in experience. In those days, one lived ten years of life in one calendar year. Indians, drought, buffaloes, bad men, the long horn, and, in fact, so many characteristic features of that time present themselves that I am at a loss where to begin..."
R.M.W.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Ähnliche
Robert Marr Wright
Dodge City, the Cowboy Capital
and the great Southwest in the days of the wild Indian, the buffalo, the cowboy, dance halls, gambling halls and bad men
Copyright © Robert M. Wright
Dodge City the Cowboy Capital
(1913)
Arcadia Press 2022
www.arcadiapress.eu
Table of Contents
DODGE CITY THE COWBOY CAPITAL
ROBERT M. WRIGHT
(1840-1915)
Plainsman, Explorer, Scout, Pioneer, Trader and Settler
PREFACE
WHETHER a preface is explanatory or apologetic, is immaterial, in the use we make of this one. Local history is both personal and public; but the narratives of a border life or from conspicuous events, having an origin and a purpose similar to the discovery of a new country. Local history is the result of development and progress; and each city or state history is the example of the whole country. The history of Dodge City, however, includes a wider environment than the ordinary city or town, because it was the focus of a range of country two hundred miles, north, south, east, and west. Therefore, its center of gravitation was equal in extent to that of a state. Upon this axis revolved and oscillated the bullwhacker, the buffalo hunter, the cowboy, the humble citizen, and the desperado. The character and life of this mixed class of citizenship was greatly sharpened and enhanced by reason of the strenuous and characteristic impulses which governed the circumstances in pursuit and development. There was nothing passive in the life of the plainsman. The objective was the supreme motive; for he stood in face of danger, and his quickness of intuition and sense of warning kept him always alert. A character built up under such conditions must have been able to cope with the dangers and hardships incident to a country infested with warlike bands of Indians, and of outlaws which followed on the flanks of civilization.
It is the author of this book. Honorable R. M. Wright, we wish to emphasize in this simple explanation. Mr. Wright came to the plains country a few years before the civil war. As a young man, active and vigorous, he became imbued with a spirit of chivalry and courage, followed by those traits of character inevitable to this kind of life; charity and benevolence. Many of the narratives in this book are largely his own personal experiences; and they are written without display of rhetoric or fiction. In everything, Mr. Wright took the initiative, for he had the ability and had acquired an influence to accomplish whatever he undertook. Possessing wealth, at one time, he fostered every enterprise and gave impetus to its accomplishment. These are living examples of his public spirit and generosity; and these are living memories of his charitable deeds and benevolent gifts. This book is a fitting testimonial to his life and character. Time is generous in its rewards; but no testimony endures which has not a basis upon which to found a character worthy of testimonial. Mr. Wright will give this book as furnishing an example of what constitutes greatness in life; for few men have passed a severer ordeal, in greater hardship, and in more danger to life.
N. B. KLAINE.
INTRODUCTION
AT the solicitation of many friends and acquaintances as well as a great many people who are desirous of knowing about early life in the wild west and the Great American Desert, especially in wicked Dodge City, I write these true stories and historical facts. The task is a pleasant one. As I look back and endeavor to recall the events of that period, a kaleidoscopic panorama presents itself to my mind — a picture ever changing, ever restless, with no two days alike in experience. In those days, one lived ten years of life in one calendar year. Indians, drought, buffaloes, bad men, the long horn, and, in fact, so many characteristic features of that time present themselves that I am at a loss where to begin.
I have often thought that did I possess but an atom of the genius of a Kipling, what an interesting narrative might I write of the passing events of that period. It would be another forceful proof of the trite saying that, "Truth is stranger than fiction". Had I but kept a diary of each day's events as they occurred, from the first time I entered the great West, what rich food it would be to the novelist, and how strange to the present generation would be the reading.
If you wish to feel yourself more comfortable than a king while listening to the sweetest strains of music, come back into a warm, pleasant home with its comforts and listen to the crackle of a cheerful, open wood fire, after being out in cold and storm for a month or two, never, during that time, being near a house or comfortable habitation, while every moment being in terror of Indian attack, or suffering from cold and storm really more terrible than Indian attack, sitting up the greater part of the night to keep from freezing, and riding hard all day on the morrow. In the joy of the change, you will imagine yourself in the heaven of heavens. How many of us have often experienced these feelings on the frontier of Kansas in the early days. Yet this kind of a life gives one a zest for adventure, for it is a sort of adventure to which he not only becomes accustomed but attached. In fact, there is a fascination about it difficult to resist, and, having once felt its power, one could not permit himself to give it up.
In writing these stories, I have yielded to the request of my friends, principally, for the reason that there are but few men left who saw these things, and I, too, will soon pass away. But before I go, I want to leave behind a feeble description of the greatest game country on earth, as well as of the game that roamed over it, and of its people, and various phases of life.
No doubt, many readers of this book who are reared in Christian homes under proper influences and, by reason of wholesome teachings, parental care and guidance and pure environments, will naturally conclude that Dodge City, in its early period, did not offer the best social climate in the world.
Dodge City has been quoted all over the United States as the most wicked town in existence. The New York papers refer to it as such, the Washington papers do the same — so it goes. From New York to Washington, from Washington to New Orleans, from New Orleans to St. Louis, from St. Louis to Chicago, and from there back to Kansas, if horrible crime is committed, they say, "This is almost as bad, as wicked, as Dodge City."
But, in extenuation of the conduct of her early inhabitants, I plead the newness of the territory, the conditions of life, the dangers and associations of a western frontier, and the daring and reckless spirit that such conditions engender.
I also insist that Dodge City was not the worst place on earth and at last I have heard of a town which was equal to, if not worse than Dodge City, and, by way of comparison, I here quote a graphic picture taken from the "Virginia City Chronicle," published in the '70's, of another bad town:
"There are saloons all over the place, and whisky four bits a drink. They put two barrels upon end, nail a board across for a bar and deal out. A miner who wants to treat pours some gold dust on the barrel head and says, "Set 'em up!" They never weigh the dust. Sometimes a man won't put down enough dust, but they never say a word, and if he's a little drunk and puts up ten or fifteen dollars' worth they never mention it. They have three faro banks running all the time. They don't use checks, for the boys, when they won a pile of checks they threw them all over the place and some of them were too drunk to handle them. So the checks got played out. Now a man puts a little gold dust on a dollar greenback and it goes for two dollars' worth of dust, on a ten-dollar greenback goes for twenty dollars, and so on — don't weigh the dust at all but guess the amount. We have a daily newspaper — that is, sometimes it's daily, and then when the compositors get drunk it doesn't come out for several days. If a man wants gun wadding he goes and pays four bits for a newspaper. Whenever they start a new city government they print a lot of city ordinances, then there's a grand rush for the paper. Sometimes it comes out twice a week and sometimes twice a day. Every man in Deadwood carries about fourteen pounds of fire-arms hitched to his belt, and they never pass any words. The fellow that gets his gun out first is the best man and they lug off the other fellow's body. Our graveyard is a big institution and a growing one. Sometimes, however, the place is right quiet. I've known times when a man wasn't killed for twenty-four hours. Then again they'd lay out five or six a day. When a man gets too handy with his shooting irons and kills five or six, they think he isn't safe, and somebody pops him over to rid the place of him. They don't kill him for what he has done, but for what he's liable to do. I suppose that the average deaths amount to about one hundred a month."
CHAPTER I
The Country, Time, and Conditions that Brought About Dodge City
DODGE CITY is situated on or near the hundredth meridian. It is just three hundred miles in a direct western line from the Missouri river, one hundred and fifty miles south from the Nebraska line, fifty miles north of the Oklahoma line, and one hundred miles from Colorado on the west. As the state is just four hundred miles long and two hundred wide, it follows that Dodge City is located in the direct center of the southwestern quarter, or upon the exact corner of the southwestern sixteenth portion of Kansas. By rail it is three hundred and sixty-three miles from Kansas City, Missouri, toward the west. Dodge City was laid out in July, 1872, under the supervision of Mr. A. A. Robinson, chief engineer of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad, and, for many years afterwards, general manager of that road, and a more pleasant gentleman I never met. The town company consisted of Colonel Richard I. Dodge, commander of the post at Fort Dodge, and several of the officers under him. R. M. Wright was elected president of the town company, and Major E. B. Kirk, quartermaster at Fort Dodge, was made secretary and treasurer. Dodge City was located five miles west of Fort Dodge, on the north bank of the Arkansas River. The Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad reached Dodge City in the early part of September the same year, and the town was practically the terminus of the road for the next few months, when it reached out to Sargent, on the state line. Meanwhile, what a tremendous business was done in Dodge City! For months and months there was no time when one could get through the place on account of the blocking of the streets by hundreds of wagons — freighters, hunters and government teams. Almost any time during the day, there were about a hundred wagons on the streets, and dozens and dozens of camps all around the town, in every direction. Hay was worth from fifty to one hundred dollars per ton, and hard to get at any price. We were entirely without law or order, and our nearest point of justice was Hays City, ninety-five miles northeast of Dodge City. Here we had to go to settle our differences, but, take it from me, most of those differences were settled by rifle or six-shooter on the spot.
Hays City was also the point from which the west and southwest obtained all supplies until the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad reached Dodge. All the freighters, buffalo hunters and wild and woolly men for hundreds of miles gathered there. It was a second Dodge City, on a smaller scale. Getting drunk and riding up and down the sidewalks as fast as a horse could go, firing a six-shooter and whooping like a wild Indian, were favorite pastimes, exciting, innocent and amusing. At this place lived a witty Irishman, a justice of the peace, by the name of Joyce. One day, near Hays City, two section-hands (both Irish) got into an altercation. One came at the other with a spike hammer. The other struck him over the head with a shovel, fracturing his skull and instantly killing him. There was no one present. The man who did the deed came in, gave himself up, told a reasonable story, and was very penitent. Citizens went out and investigated and concluded it was in self-defense. When the Irishman was put on trial. Justice Joyce asked the prisoner the usual question, "Are you guilty or not guilty?" "Guilty, your honor," replied the prisoner. "Shut up your darned mouth," said Joyce; "I discharge you for want of evidence." Many couples did Justice Joyce make man and wife, and several did he divorce. He went on the principle that one who had the power to make had also the power to unmake. Many acts did he perform that, although not legal, were witty, and so many snarls were made in consequence that, after the country became civilized, the legislature was asked for relief, and a bill was passed legalizing Justice Joyce's acts.
Such is a sample of early day justice, and a glance at other phases of life on the plains, in early days, will make clear the conditions that made possible a town like Dodge City. During the '50's overland travel had become established, and communication between the Missouri River and Santa Fe, New Mexico, and Denver, Colorado, was regularly kept up, in the face of many dangers and difficulties. I made my first overland trip with oxen in the year 1859, reaching the town of Denver in May. Three times after that I crossed the plains by wagon and twice by coach. My second trip was made in war times, in the spring of 1863, when guerrilla warfare was rife in Kansas. I witnessed some evidences of the guerrillas in the work of Jim and Bill Anderson, hard characters from Missouri who, at the commencement of the war, had taken to the brush. It happened like this:
Traveling along I noticed that the country was dotted with bare chimneys and blackened ruins of houses along the old Santa Fe trail, from a few miles west of Westport to Council Grove. The day we reached Council Grove, two men rode in on fine horses and, dismounting, one of them said: "I expect you know who we are, but I am suffering the torments of hell from the toothache, and if you will allow me to get relief we will not disturb your town; but if we are molested, I have a body of men near here who will burn your town." These men, I learned afterwards, were Bill Anderson and Up. Hays. A friend by the name of Chatfield with his family, and I with my family, were traveling together. We drove about ten miles from Council Grove that day, and camped with an ox train going to Santa Fe. Chatfield and I had a very large tent between us. That night, about midnight, during a heavy rainstorm, these two men with about fifty others rode up and dismounted, and as many of them as could enter our tent crowded in and asked for water. We happened to have a large keg full. After they drank, they saw that our wives as well as ourselves were much frightened, and they said: "Ladies, you need not be frightened; we are not making war on women and children, but on 'blue coats.'" When we reached Diamond Springs we saw what their purpose was. They had murdered the people and burned their houses. The place, indeed, presented a look of desolation and destruction. Not a living thing could be seen about the premises and we were too scared to make an investigation. We learned afterward it was an old grudge they had against these people.
Various government posts were established along the trails for the protection of travelers and settlers, and the quelling of numerous Indian outbreaks. Fort Aubrey, Bent's Fort, and Fort Atkinson, were among the earlier posts, and Fort Larned, Fort Supply, Fort Lyon, and Fort Dodge were familiar points to the inhabitants of the plains before the establishment of Dodge City. Fort Lyon was in eastern Colorado, and was first established in 1860, near Bent's Fort on the Arkansas, but was newly located, in 1867, at a point twenty miles distant, on the north bank of the Arkansas, two and one-half miles below the Purgatory River. Fort Larned was established October 22, 1859, for the protection of the Santa Fe trade, on the right bank of the Pawnee Fork, about seven miles above its mouth. Fort Dodge was located in 1864, and the site for its location was selected because it was where the wet route and the dry route intersected. The dry route came across the divide from Fort Larned, on the Pawnee, while the wet route came around by the river, supposed to be about fifteen miles further. The dry route was often without water the whole distance, and trains would lay up to recruit after making the passage, which caused this point on the Arkansas River to become a great camping ground. Of course the Indians found this out, to their delight, and made it one of their haunts, to pounce down upon the unwary emigrant' and freighter. Numerous were their attacks in this vicinity, and many were their victims. Men were butchered in the most horrible manner, stock was killed, and women taken into captivity more terrible than death, and even trains of wagons were burned. Some of the diabolical work I have witnessed with my own eyes, and will speak of some of it later.
One day a Mexican Indian, or at least a Mexican who had been brought up by the Indians, came in and said his train had been attacked at the mouth of Mulberry creek, the stock run off, and every one killed but him. This was the first outbreak that spring. We afterward learned that this Mexican had been taken in his youth and adopted by the Indians, and had participated in killing his brothers. In fact, he had been sent to the train to tell them that the Indians were friendly. They captured the train and murdered every one in it, without giving them the ghost of a show. The Mexican was then sent to Fort Dodge to spy and find out what was going on there, because he could speak Spanish. Major Douglas sent a detachment down, and true enough there lay the train and dead Mexicans, with the mules and harness gone. The wagons were afterward burned. The train had passed over the old Fort Bascom trail from New Mexico, a favorite route, as it was much shorter than the Santa Fe trail and avoided the mountains, but scarce of water an very dangerous. At last it became so dangerous that if had to be abandoned. The trail which came into the Arkansas four miles west of the town of Cimarron had to be abandoned for the same reason.
Many attacks were made along the route, and three trains that I know of were burned, and several had to be abandoned and stock driven into the Arkansas River on account of the scarcity of water. The route was called the "Hornado de Muerti" (the journey of death; very significant was its name). At one time you could have followed the route, even if the wagon trail had been obliterated, by the bleaching bones. There are two places now in Grant or Stevens county, on the Dry Cimarron, known as Wagon Bed Springs and Barrel Springs. One was named because the thirsty freighters had sunk a wagon bed in the quick-sand to get water; and in the other place because they had sunk a barrel. Sixty miles above where this route came into the Arkansas there was another called the Aubrey route, which was less dangerous because less subject to Indian attacks, and water was more plentiful. Colonel F. X. Aubrey, a famous freighter, established this route, and it became more famous on account of a large wager that he could make the distance on horseback, from Santa Fe to Independence, Missouri, in eight days. He won the wager, and had several hours to spare. Colonel Aubrey had fresh horses stationed with his trains at different places along the whole route. He afterwards made his famous trip down through the wilds of Arizona and California, accompanied by a single Indian, and came back to Santa Fe, after a six months' journey, with marvelous stories of the rich finds he had made. He had the proof with him in the shape of quartz and nuggets. When some gentleman questioned his veracity, immediately a duel was fought, in which the Colonel was killed. No money, bribe, threats or coaxing could induce that Indian to go back and show where these riches lay. He said: "No, I have had enough. Nothing can tempt me again to undergo the hardships I have endured from want of food and water and the dangers I have escaped. Death at once would be preferable."
A few miles east of where the Aubrey trail comes into the Arkansas is what is known as the "Gold Banks." Old wagon bosses have told me that along in the early fifties a party of miners, returning from California richly laden, was attacked by Indians. The white men took to the bluffs and stood them off for several days and made a great fight; but after a number were killed and the others starved out for water, they buried their treasure, abandoned their pack animals, and got away in the night, and some of the party came back afterwards and recovered their buried riches. Another version of the story says that they were all killed before they reached the states. At any rate, long years ago there were many searches made, and great excitement was always going on over these bluffs. In 1859 I saw a lot of California miners prospecting in the bluffs and along the dry branches that put into the Arkansas; and I was told they got rich color in several places, but not enough to pay. In this vicinity, and east of the bluffs, is what is named Choteau's Island, named after the great Indian trader of St. Louis, the father of all the Choteaus. Here he made one of his largest camps and took in the rich furs, not only of the plains, but of the mountains also.
At this side of the point of Rocks, eight miles west of Dodge City, used to be the remains of an old adobe fort. Some called it Fort Mann, others Fort Atkinson. Which is correct I do not know. When I first saw it, in May, 1859, the walls were very distinct and were in a good state of preservation, excepting the roofs gone. There had been a large corral, stables, barracks for troops, and a row of buildings which I supposed were officers' quarters. Who built it, or what troops had occupied it, I do not know. There were many legends connected with old Fort Mann. Some say that a large Mexican train, heavily loaded with Mexican dollars, took shelter there from the Indians, and finally lost all their cattle, and buried their money to keep it out of the hands of the Indians, and got back to Mexico as best they could. When they returned, the river had washed all their cache away, and it was never recovered; but the following is the best information I could gather, and I think it is the most plausible story: In the '50's, and a long while before, the government did its own freighting with ox teams. Many a horn have I seen branded "U.S." One of these trains was on its way back to the states, loaded with ox chains, for the simple reason that the government usually sold its wagons after they had delivered their loads of supplies, at their respective destinations, to the miners, hunters, and trappers, and turned the cattle over to the commissary for beef. This would naturally leave a large accumulation of ox chains. Now, this train loaded with chains met the heavy snowstorm in or near Fort Mann, and they cached their chains at the fort, and went in with a few light wagons, and the river washed the chains away; for the banks have washed in several hundred feet since I have known the place.
There was some inquiry made from Washington about Fort Mann, about thirty years ago, and I remember going with an escort, and, on the sloping hillside north of the fort, finding three or four graves. Of these, one was that of an officer, and the others of enlisted men; also two lime-kilns in excellent condition and a well-defined road leading to Sawlog. In fact, the road was as large as the Santa Fe trail, showing that they must have hauled considerable wood over it. This leads me to believe that the fort had been occupied by a large garrison.
Another story, and a strange one, of very early times deals with the ever interesting subject of buried treasure, hinting of the possibility of companies being organized to dig for such treasure, supposed to have been concealed near Dodge City. About four miles west of Dodge, perhaps many of our readers have noticed a place where the earth seems to have been, a long time ago, thrown up into piles, holes dug, etc., indicating that some body of soldiers, hunters, or freighters had made breastworks to defend themselves against an enemy.
We have often noticed this place and wondered if a tale of carnage could not be told, if those mounds only had mouths and voices to speak. But we leave this to be explained, as it will be, in the after part of this article, and will proceed to tell all we have learned of the story, just as it was told in the early days of Dodge.
"In the year of 1853, when this country was as wild as the plains of Africa, only traversed at intervals by tribes of Indians and bands of Mexicans, there were no railroads running west of St. Louis, and all the freight transmitted by government was carried over this country by large freighting trains, such as now run between here and Camp Supply. In the summer of that year, a freighting train consisting of eighty-two men with one hundred and twenty wagons started from Mexico, across these plains, for Independence, Missouri, to purchase goods. The whole outfit was in charge of an old Mexican freighter named Jesus M. Martinez, whom many of the old plainsmen of thirty years ago will remember. They traveled along what is now known as the old Santa Fe trail and every night corralled their wagons and kept guards posted to give the alarm if danger should approach in the way of Indians, bandits or prairie fires. One evening they halted about sundown, formed the usual corral, and prepared to rest for the night. Little did they think what that night had in store for them. They had observed Indians during the day, but the sight of these children of the plains was no source of annoyance to them, as they had never been troubled and had seen no hostile manifestations. Some time during the night the men who were on watch observed objects not far from camp, the dogs commenced making a fuss, and presently the watchmen became suspicious and aroused old man Martinez. Martinez, being an old plainsman and understanding the tactics of the Indians, after closely observing through the darkness, came to the opinion that Indians were lurking around, and that their intentions were not good. He awoke some of his men and they held a kind of consultation as to the best course to pursue, and finally decided to prepare for the worst. They immediately commenced digging trenches and preparing for defense. The objects around them during all this time seemed to grow more numerous every moment, and finally could be seen on all sides. The Mexicans waited in suspense, having intrenched themselves as well as possible in ditches and behind piles of dirt. Finally, with yells and shouts, as is always their custom, the Indians made a dash upon the camp from all sides. The Mexicans received them like true martyrs, and being well fortified had every advantage. Their eighty-two guns poured fatal balls into the yelling enemy at every report. The Indians finally fell back and the Mexicans then hoped for deliverance, but it was like hoping against fate. The next day the attack was renewed at intervals, and at each attack the Mexicans fought like demons. For five days the siege continued, a few of the Mexicans being killed, in the meantime, and many Indians. During the time the Mexicans had scarcely slept, but what struck terror to their hearts was the consciousness that their ammunition was nearly gone. On the sixth night the Indians made a more desperate attack than before. They seemed crazed for blood and vengeance for the chiefs they had already lost. As long as their ammunition lasted the Mexicans continued their stern resistance, but powder and lead was not like the widow's oil. It steadily decreased until none was left. Then their guns were still, and they were swallowed up like Pharaoh's hosts in the Red Sea, by wild Cheyennes, Arrapahoes and Kiowas, who made deathly havoc with the little handful of brave Mexicans. We need not dwell upon this scene of butchery, and it is only necessary to relate that but one man is known to have escaped in the darkness, and that man, somewhat strange to note, was old Jesus M. Martinez. How he managed to secrete himself we can hardly divine, others might have been carried away and held captive until death, but he alone never told the story to the pale-face. The Indians pillaged the train of all the flour, bacon, etc., took the stock, set fire to some of the wagons, and then, Indian like, immediately left the field of carnage. Old Martinez remained in his hiding place until morning and until the Indians were miles away, then creeping out he surveyed the remains of what a few days ago was his jolly, jovial companions. He was alone with the dead.
"As is nearly always the case with persons when no eye is near, he thought of the valuable, and knowing that quite an amount of silver was stored in one of the wagons, he searched and found a portion of it. As near as he remembered, when he related this occurrence to his son, he founds twenty-one small bags, each one containing one thousand silver Mexican dollars. These bags he carried some distance from the camp, we cannot learn exactly how far, or which way, and buried them. He then started out and made his way on foot back to his old home in Mexico, where, it seems, he died soon afterwards. But before he died he told his son what we have related above, and advised him to hunt this treasure. What goes to corroborate this story was the evidence of Dr. Wilber of Kansas City, who sold goods to these Mexicans and knew of their having a considerable quantity of silver in their possession.
"Pursuant to his father's advice young Martinez came up to this country some years after the death of his father for the purpose of following his instructions. There are two men now living in this city to whom he revealed the secret, one of whom assisted him in searching for the buried treasure. From the directions marked out by old Martinez they found the spot where the massacre took place, about four miles west of Dodge City — the spot described above, where the pits and dirt piles are still plainly visible. For days and even weeks young Martinez searched the ground in that vicinity using a sharpened wire, which he drove into the ground wherever he supposed the treasure might lie concealed. But he was not successful, and not being of a persevering nature abandoned the search and remained around Fort Dodge for some time, when he fell into the habit and became a hard drinker. He finally returned to Mexico and has not been back here since, that we are aware of. After he left, one of the men to whom he had revealed the secret (and this man now lives in this city) made a partial search for the treasure. He hired men and after swearing them to secrecy as to what they were searching for, set them to digging ditches. They found nothing and abandoned the work."
This story, as told above, is an historical fact, and portions of it have been heretofore published. We can give names of men who know more about it than we do but by request we do not publish them. This treasure will probably be found some day, and probably will lie buried forever, and never see the light. No eye but the Omnipotent's can tell the exact spot where it lies. As we said above, it is rumored that parties are preparing to institute a search. They may find it and they may not. We hope they will as it is of no benefit to mankind where it is. It certainly exists.
Such were some of the traces which the feet of the white man left behind in their first passing over the plains of the southwest. One almost lost sight of the natural features and attractions of the region, in viewing these intensely interesting evidences of the beginning of the conquest of the wilds by civilization. Yet the natural beauties and attractions were there in superlative degree.
An old darkey, living in the Arkansas valley, thus explains how it happened that the territory of Kansas exists. On being asked by a land looker what he thought of the country, he said:
"Well, sah, when the good Lord made dis whole world. He found out that He had made a mistake, dat He had not made any garden, so He jest went to work and made Hisself a garden, and we call it Kansas."
And a natural garden, indeed, in many respects, was the Arkansas valley in southwestern Kansas. Pages could be filled with descriptions of its beauties without exhausting the subject. But no less than the charms and interest of its physical features, were the charms and interest of other of its natural attributes, atmospheric peculiarities, for instance, which, as in the blizzard, arose at times to the height of the grand and terrible. Other phases of atmospheric conditions, however, peculiar to the great plains in pioneer days, were very beautiful, and perhaps the best example of such was the mirage.
Mirage, Webster describes as an "optical illusion, arising from an unequal refraction in the lower strata of the atmosphere, and causing remote objects to be seen double, as if reflected in a mirror, or to appear as if suspended in the air. It is frequently seen in deserts, presenting the appearance of water."
If I were gifted with descriptive powers, what wonderful scenes could I relate of the mirage on the plains of Kansas. What grand cities towering to the skies have I seen, with their palaces and cathedrals and domed churches, with tall towers and spires reaching almost up to the clouds, with the rising sun glistening upon them until they looked like cities of gold, their streets paved with sapphire and emeralds, and all surrounded by magnificent walls, soldiers marching, with burnished spears and armor! There would arise at times over all a faint ethereal golden mist, as if from a smooth sea, shining upon the towers and palaces with a brilliancy so great as to dazzle the eyes — a more gorgeous picture than could be painted by any artist of the present, or by any of the old masters. The picture as has presented itself to me I still retain in good recollection, in its indescribable magnificence. At other times the scenes would change entirely, and, instead of great cities there would be mountains, rivers, seas, lakes, and ships, or soldiers and armies, engaged in actual conflict. So real have such sights appeared to me on the plains that I could not help but believe they were scenes from real life, being enacted in some other part of the world, and caught up by the rays of the sun and reflected to my neighborhood, or perhaps that some electrical power had reproduced the exact picture for me.
How many poor creatures has the mirage deceived by its images of water. At times one unacquainted with its varied whims would be persuaded that it really was water, and would leave the well-beaten track to follow this optical illusion, only to wander farther from water and succor, until he dropped down from thirst and exhaustion, never to rise again, never again to be heard of by his friends, his bleaching bones to be picked by the coyote, unburied and forgotten. On other occasions you would see immense towering forests, with every variety of trees and shrubbery. In some places it would be so dark and lowering, even in the daylight, as to appear dangerous, though one could not help admiring its gloomy grandeur. Then there would be fair spots of picturesque beauty, with grottoes and moonlit avenues, inviting you to promenade, where one seemed to hear the stroke of the barge's oars on lake and river, and the play of the fountains, and the twitter of the birds.
With the trail of the plow, followed by immigration and civilization, the wonderful mirage is a thing of the past. It is only now and then that one gets a glimpse of its beauties; its scenes of magnificence, far beyond any powers of description, I will never see again.
CHAPTER II
Travel on Old Trails
ON a beautiful spring morning in early May, 1859, I was awakened at the break of day — having gone into camp the preceding evening after dusk — by the singing of birds and lowing of cattle, and last, but not least, the harsh and discordant voice of the wagon boss — of whom I stood in wholesome fear — calling, "Roll out! roll out!" to the men as the cattle were driven into the corral to yoke up and get started. Indeed all nature seemed alive and pouring out the sweetest notes on that lovely morning when I first saw the great Pawnee Rock.
It was, indeed, a curious freak of nature, rising abruptly out of a fertile stretch of bottom land several miles wide, three or four miles north of the Arkansas River, which flowed sluggishly along its way, its muddy current on its usual spring rise caused by the melting of snow in the mountains. The time of the year, the ideal weather, and the lovely greensward, interspersed with the most beautiful variegated wild flowers, combined to make one of the most beautiful sights I ever witnessed. The scene impressed itself not only upon me, but the other drivers — "Bull whackers," we were called — shared my admiration, and through our united petition to the wagon boss, the train was halted long enough to allow our going to the Rock, from the summit of which I obtained the grand view that so impressed me. It seemed as if I could never tire of gazing on the wonderful panorama that spread before me.
The road, if recollection serves me right, ran only a few hundred feet south of the base of the Rock, parallel to its face. The Rock faced the south, rearing itself abruptly, and presenting almost a perpendicular front with a comparatively smooth surface, having thousands of names inscribed on its face, and also on a great many slabs that had, in the process of time and exposure to the elements, been detached from its top and sides and lay flat at its base. Most of the names were those of "Fortyniners" who had taken that route in their mad rush for the gold fields of California during that memorable year. Among the names cut in the Rock were those of officers and enlisted men in the United States army as well as a number of famous men and frontiersmen.
There were also a great many Indian paintings, or pictographs, and hieroglyphics done by the red man — crude and laughable, and some of them extraordinarily funny, but I have been told since there was a great deal of significance attached to these paintings, some of them portraying important tribal history, others representing brave and heroic deeds, performed by members of the tribes.
Of course, there were a great many stories told of the Rock, romances the most of them, I suppose.
An old plainsman and mountaineer told me that the name "Pawnee Rock" was taken from a great fight lasting several days, between the Pawnees and their life-long enemies, the Plains Indians composed of a mixed band of Cheyennes, Arapahoes, Kiowas, Comanches, and a few Sioux, all pitted against the Pawnees, and numbering more than ten to one. What a desperate battle it was!
The Pawnees had come over to the Arkansas on their usual buffalo hunt, and, incidentally, to steal horses from their enemies, the Plains Indians. They crossed the river and proceeded south, penetrating deep into the enemy's country, where a big herd of ponies grazed and lived in supposed security. The Pawnees reached the herd without arousing the least suspicion of the owners that the animals were in danger. Surrounding and cutting out what they wanted, they started on the return trip, greatly elated over their easy success, and reached the Arkansas.
River without meeting with the slightest resistance, but found the river very high and out of its banks. The ponies refused to take the river, which delayed them considerably. In the meantime, the band of Indians, composed of Cheyennes, Arapahoes, Kiowas, Comanches, and a few Sioux, was on a buffalo hunt, too, when some of them discovered the trail of the Pawnees and quickly notified the others. They all gave chase, overtaking the Pawnees just as they were crossing the Arkansas. The Pawnees might still have gotten away had they abandoned the stolen horses; but this they refused to do until it was too late.
Finally, pressed on all sides by overwhelming odds, they were glad to retreat to the rock where they made a final stand, fortifying themselves as best they could by erecting mounds of loose rock, and loading and firing from behind this crude shelter with such daring and bravery that their enemies were kept at bay. They were sorely in need of water. Of meat they had plenty, as they lived upon the flesh of their dead horses. At night, some of them usually crept through the line of sentinels that guarded them and made their way to the river, filling canteens of tanned hide or skins and working their way back to their beseiged friends.
The fight was kept up for three days and nights, the Cheyennes and allies making frequent charges during the day, but always being compelled to fall back with severe loss, until they had almost annihilated the little band of Pawnees. On the fourth night they were reduced to three or four men. Knowing their desperate situation and realizing that there was no chance for any of them to escape, they determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible. Every man stripped stark naked, and, watching his opportunity, when the guards were less vigilant than usual, crept stealthily toward the foes. Having approached as near as they could without detection, the Pawnees burst upon the enemy with all the fury of desperate men going to their death, and, with blood-curdling yells, fought as never men fought before. One of them was armed with a long spear and knife only. (These spears were used in killing buffaloes.) Many a man went down before the weapon, but, finally the Pawnee drove it so deeply into one of his victims that he could not withdraw it. Then he fell back on his butcher knife and made terrible havoc with it, until overpowered by numbers, he died a warrior's glorious death, reeking with the blood of his enemies. He certainly had sufficient revenge.
The time we camped at the foot of the Rock we did not go into camp until after nightfall. Another man and I were placed on first guard around the grazing cattle. After being out some time, we were startled by something dropping, zip! zip! into the grass around us and near us. We thought it was Indians shooting at us with arrows. There were all sorts of rumors of attacks from Indians, and this certainly was a great Indian camping ground and country, so we were greatly alarmed and continually on the lookout, expecting at any time to be attacked. We finally concluded to go to camp and notify the wagon boss. He came back with us and for a long time believed that Indians were shooting at us, but the question was, where were they concealed? The mystery was finally solved. The peculiar sound was made by the little birds called sky-larks, flying up and alighting, striking the earth with such force that the noise seemed like that produced by the fall of an arrow or of a stone. The skylarks and meadow larks sang at all hours of the night on the plains.
The great Pawnee Rock has found its way into the history of the west. Around its rugged base was many a desperate battle fought and won; and many a mystic rite, performed within its shadow, has stamped upon the grand old mass the weird and tragic nature of the children of the plains.
It was in the immediate vicinity of the rock that I inadvertently started one of the most disastrous stampedes in the history of the plains.
In the fall of 1862 I was going back east with one of Major Russell's and Waddell's large ox teams. I think we had thirty or forty wagons, with six yoke of oxen to the wagon. Our wagons were strung five or six together and one team of six yoke cattle attached to each string. It was the latter part of November, and we were traveling along the Arkansas River bottom about ten miles west of where Great Bend is now located. It was a very hot afternoon, more like summer than winter — one of those warm spells that we frequently have in the late fall on the plains. I was driving the cavayado (cave-yard — that is, the loose cattle). The Mexicans always drove their cavayado in front of their trains, while the Americans invariably drove theirs behind. I had on a heavy linsey woolsey coat, manufactured from the loom in Missouri lined with yellow stuff, and the sleeves lined with red; and, as I said, it was very warm; so I pulled off my jacket, or coat, and in pulling it off turned it inside out. We had an old ox named Dan, a big, old fellow with rather large horns, and so gentle we used him as a horse in crossing streams, when the boys often mounted him and rode across. Dan was always lagging behind, and this day more than usual, on account of the heat. The idea struck me to make him carry the coat. I caught him and by dint of a little stretching placed the sleeves over his horns and let the coat flap down in front.
I hardly realized what I had done until I took a front view of him. He presented a ludicrous appearance, with his great horns covered with red and the yellow coat flapping down over his face. He trudged along unconscious of the appearance he presented. I hurried him along by repeated punches with my carajo pole, for in dressing him up he had gotten behind. I could not but laugh at the ludicrous sight, but my laughter was soon turned to regret, for no sooner did old Dan make his appearance among the other cattle than a young steer bawled out in the steer language, as plain as good English, "Great Scott! what monstrosity is this coming among us to destroy us?" and with one long, loud, beseeching bawl, put all the distance possible between himself and the terror behind him. All his brothers followed his example, each one seeing how much louder he could bawl than his neighbor, and each one trying to outrun the rest. I thought to myself, "Great guns! what have I done now!" I quickly and quietly stepped up to old Dan, fearing that he too might get away, and with the evidence of my guilt, took from his horns and head what had created one of the greatest stampedes ever seen on the plains, and placed it on my back where it belonged. In the meantime the loose cattle had caught up with the wagons, and those attached to the vehicles took fright and tried to keep up with the cavayado. In spite of all the drivers could do, they lost control of them, and away they went, making a thundering noise. One could see nothing but a big cloud of dust. The ground seemed to tremble.
Nothing was left but Dan and me after the dust subsided, and I poked him along with my carajo pole as fast as possible, for I was anxious to find out what damage was done. We traveled miles and miles, and it seemed hours and hours, at last espying the wagon boss still riding like mad. When he came up he said: "What caused the stampede of the cavayado?" I replied that I could not tell, unless it was a wolf that ran across the road in front of the cattle, when they took fright and away they went, all except old Dan, and I held him, thinking I would save all I could out of the wreck. There stood old Dan, a mute witness to my lies. Indeed, I thought at times he gave me a sly wink, as much as to say: "You lie out of it well, but I am ashamed of you." I thought that God was merciful in not giving this dumb animal speech, for if He had they certainly would have hung me. As it was, the wagon boss remarked: "I know it was the cussed wolves, because I saw several this afternoon, while riding in front of the train. Well," he continued, "that wolf didn't do a thing but wreck six or eight wagons in Walnut creek, and from there on for the next five miles, ten or twelve more; and most of them will never see the states again, they are so completely broken up. Besides, one man's leg is broken and another's arm, and a lot of the men are bruised up. Three steers have their legs broken, and the front cattle were fifteen miles from where we are now, when I overtook them."
I have seen many stampedes since, but never anything to equal that. I have seen a great train of wagons heavily loaded, struggling along, drivers pounding and swearing to get the cattle out of a snail's pace, and one would think the train too heavily loaded, it seemed such a strain on the cattle to draw it, when a runaway horse or something out of the usual would come up suddenly behind them, and the frightened cattle in the yoke would set up a bawl and start to run, and they would pick up those heavily loaded wagons and set off with them at a pace that was astonishing, running for miles and overturning the wagons. The boss in front, where he was always supposed to be, would give the order to roughlock both wheels, which would probably be done to a few of the front wagons. Even these doubly locked wagons would be hurled along for a mile or two before the cattle's strength was exhausted, and apparently the whole earth would shake in their vicinity.
My experience with old Dan and the yellow-lined coat was laughable, with but a touch of the tragic at its close, but all the travel along the Santa Fe trail and large part of it was tragedy from beginning to end, kindred highways, in those old days, had not so happy a tone, and much of it had a much more tragic ending — unlightened by any touch of humor. Indeed, had all the blood of man and beast, that was shed beside them, been turned, unlessened, into the trails, their course across the plains would have been marked in unbroken crimson, from Westport to Santa Fe, and from Leavenworth to Denver. Moreover, the tragedy was greater than will ever be known, for mute evidences of mysterious bloodshed were not wanting along the old trails. Many times, in the early days of Fort Dodge, I have picked up little bunches of cattle wandering on the plains aimlessly that had been run off by the Indians, as well as horses and mules, and turned them over to some Mexican train from which they had been stampeded. Once I found a buggy all smashed to pieces in the timbered breaks of Duck Creek, but we could never discover whom the unfortunate occupants had been. They had been killed and dumped out, no doubt, miles from where the vehicle was wrecked. One day I found one of the most beautiful horses I ever saw, with a fine saddle on his back. The saddle was completely saturated with blood.
