Читать книгу The Indians' Last Fight; Or, The Dull Knife Raid - Dennis Collins - Страница 13

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Further Reflections on Western Life; Also on the East; Why I Came West; Some Men I Have Met; Cowboy Acquaintances, etc.

When commencing to write this semi-historical work, it was my intention to confine myself to the early settlement of “No-Man’s-Land,” but find that I must include the Panhandle to Texas and the South-western part of Kansas, as the soil, climate, and social conditions were almost identical. The industries of all three localities were very much the same, excepting that the Panhandle was much better adapted to cattle raising than to agriculture. In fact, farming was looked upon by cattlemen as too menial an occupation for them to engage in, and, consequently, they knew little about it and cared less. Their indifference to agriculture was such that they would prefer literally to starve to death than endeavor to gain subsistence from the soil. The difference between the old-time cow-puncher and the Chyenne Indian as agriculturists was very little. The former might do a little at farming if he knew how, and the latter might know how if he would only do a little at it. It seemed to be the height of the average cow-puncher’s ambition to ride on a fifty-dollar saddle, wear a ten-dollar Stetson hat, a pair of silver mounted spurs, a pair of ten-dollar high-heeled boots, leather leggings, a slicker and a forty-five calibre white handled six-shooter. This made a complete outfit to suit his vanity. Riding broncos, roping wild cattle, running races, and branding mavericks were his principal business and amusement. Attending the spring and fall round-ups, and driving beef stock to market rounded out his season’s work.

It is true that there are some exceptions to the general rule. As an example, about twenty-eight years ago I became acquainted with a green cow-puncher, fresh from some Texas town, a tall, fair-haired lad, who was rather reticent, but very punctual in his work. He was the first out in the morning, last in at night and was ready for anything that was to be done in the meantime. His manner lacked the boisterousness of the swaggering swearing, blow-hard that was very frequently encountered in the days work. It was apparent to all that he was a man of reliability and integrity. He was employed by R. M. Wright and Martin Culver to superintend the “W-L” ranch. He was successful in his management and at the same time displayed an honesty that was something new to some of the settlers in his neighborhood. He never permitted a man to rope an animal until he was certain of the brand, and knew to whom the property belonged. Such a man was certain to rise in the world and today one would find it difficult to recognize in Mr. R. A. Harper, president of the First National Bank, Meade, Kansas, the stripling greenhorn of thirty years ago. Another of the old-time successful cow-punchers, who fought the battle of life alone and single-handed as cowmen, farmer, merchant, sometimes overtaken by adversity but never discouraged, who plodded on until he reached the top of the financial ladder beyond the reach of want, is Mr. C. M. Rice, of El Reno, Okla.

The majority of the early settlers who stayed throughout the first hard times, managed to do fairly well, accepting the changed conditions as law and order moved in, while a few developed foolish notions about the curtailment of their freedom, as they called it, and resented the encroachment and manifested their disposition by holding up trains, or other depredations. Such a course of conduct invariably proved a failure and brought disaster upon the defenders of such a cause. The state prisons are still harboring some of those misguided men, protecting them from themselves as well as defending society at large from their peculiar notions. It may seem strange to the reader, but the greater part of the so-called bad men of this country came from the East where they first conceived a false impression of the wildness of the West. The origin of their idea arose from the reading of a poor class of literature. Such reading created in their young minds the idea of being “bad men of the West” and they were not long in putting the idea into practice. Just to mention a few of the most notorious, I shall set down the names of Billy the Kid, from New York, Dutch Henry from Michigan, Sam Bass from Indiana. I might mention dozens of others whose careers of iniquity did not last as long as those mentioned above. As for the real Western-bred bad men, they were very few in number and were usually driven to it by being credited with the crimes of others.

One of the principal causes of the development of the outlaw was, as I said above, the publication of fiction and falsehood in such papers as the New York Weeklys and dime novels. These were scattered broadcast over the country in cheap editions and the result was the creation of false impressions of the West, and at the same time inflamed the imagination and corrupted the minds of many of the then rising generation.

Well do I remember my introduction to the name of Buffalo Bill. It was in the columns of the New York Weekly, in 1874, when in a lumber camp in Northern Michigan, that I read of his alleged engagement with the chief of the tribe of the Sioux Indians. It ran as follows, as near as I can remember it: “They met on the plains and each measured his chances to overcome his adversary, etc.” It would take no great philosopher to tell that the Indian with no weapon but the bow and a bunch of arrows, stood but a very meager chance with Bill armed with two six-shooters and a winchester. “At the first crack of Bill’s trusty rifle the wily savage toppled over and fell to the ground. Then, as if by magic, about fifty braves galloped out of a canyon and set out to capture the heap-big pale face who had slain their chief. That purpose was more easily planned than accomplished, for at the psychological moment Bill was re-inforced by his favorite scouts, Little Buckshot and Hotfoot John. After a brief engagement in which they killed about fifteen warriors, they retreated to headquarters for more re-inforcements.” This is but a sample of the lies that filtered through the columns of the Eastern papers regarding the Indian outbreaks of the West, and the worst part of it was that such trash was believed by thousands, myself among the number.

Whenever I read of the hair-breadth escapes of “Dare-devil Dick,” “Shuffle-foot Sam,” “Moccasin Mike,” and “Goodeye, the Scout,” I felt that I would like to take a hand in some of those adventures, having had a rather fair training in Canada by attending the county fairs, and having had the advantage of a course of training in collar-and-elbow wrestling under Prof. John Lennon. Besides these advantages I was rather proficient in the hop-sted-and-leap, high jumping, high kicking, foot racing, but not in shin kicking.

Shin kicking was introduced into Canada by Cornishmen. As I have never seen it practiced in this country I shall endeavor to describe it for the advantage of the reader. Like all games of competition it had its champions. On occasions of merriment it was customary to indulge in this sport, though I do not think that everyone will agree with me that it was a sport. When the crowd had assembled and some preliminary feats of skill were performed, then a man with a voice on him like the Bashan bull would announce in stentorian tones that the champion shin-kicker was requested to appear. A ring was immediately formed by the bystanders locking arms. Into this ring so formed the champion threw his hat as a challenge to all and each. After fifteen minutes delay if no one appeared to take up the challenge, the champion retained his title by default, and to add to the occasion a prize of some kind was added as a reward for his willingness to entertain them by his skill. If an opponent stepped into the enclosure, judges were chosen and preparations made for a battle royal. First, the shoes of the contestants were examined by the judges to see that there were no spikes, nor toe-plates, and to see that the shoes were the common clog type. Then their trousers and drawers were rolled back above the knees leaving the leg bare from the knee cap to the shoe top. Things were then ready for the performance. They caught each other by the shoulders and at the dropping of a hat, or other signal, the Battle was on. Kicking as high as the knee was called a foul and judgement rendered accordingly. It required great skill and agility to take part in a contest of the kind. From what I can hear, the game has fallen into oblivion as times have changed the notions of games of the kind. For myself I did not indulge in it very freely as I felt that my legs lacked sufficient side action to permit me to become sufficiently expert at it, to issue a challenge to the champion.

Returning to the thread of my story, I must say that after reading several numbers of the New York Weekly, I came to the conclusion that Buffalo Bill was getting short handed, and that unless he received some help rather soon the Indians would drive him out of the country and the advantages already gained by his prowess would be lost to succeeding generations. With such ideas running through my head, I bought a railway ticket and started West to look over the field and see for my own satisfaction how things were getting along. I stopped off at Leavenworth and made the acquaintance of several military men stationed at the fort. They seemed to know nothing of the Indian troubles as published in the Eastern papers. Thinking, perhaps, that they might not be well informed on the matter, I left that place and set out for Topeka. I was certain that the officers there would know something definite about affairs of the kind. I made inquiries and soon found that they, like all politicians, were too busy fixing political fences to pay any attention to such matters. The nearer I approached the seat of war, the less I heard about it. I continued my journey and finally reached Dodge City, Kansas, and secured lodging in the Western Hotel, managed by a genial host, Dr. Gallard.

As I arrived there after dark I did not venture out until I had a good night’s rest and a hearty breakfast. Next morning I took up my position on the porch to take in a view of the surroundings, and I confess they looked strange and weird to me. I had been told that Dodge City was the ante-chamber of the Infernal Regions; that the temperature began to rise at Great Bend and did not return to normal until one crossed the Colorado line; that the population was made up of cut-throats and thieves; that vice and crime walked brazenly in the streets, while virtue and innocence were unknown in that region of iniquity. Funerals were reported to me to be held every morning, to bury those killed during the preceding night. The cemetery where the unfortunates were to find their last resting place was called “Boot Hill,” because those who were buried there were laid to rest with their boots on. The above impression is only a sample of what I had gleaned from the Eastern journals. From where I took my stand I could see thirty or forty cow-ponies tied to the hitch racks. Each pony wore a good saddle with a Winchester in a scabbard hanging at the side. After viewing the situation for some time, and not hearing any shooting, nor seeing any funerals, as everything appeared peaceful and quiet, I decided to take in the sights, although I confess I had a rather creepy feeling when I ventured out. I felt somewhat encouraged, as I remembered I was wearing a Stetson hat, and a pair of high-heeled boots, which, from the reports I had received, were considered the passport to the best society in those days. I crossed the railroad tracks which ran up Main street, and took my course along the sidewalk, encountering in my way men with their pant-legs in their boots, wearing wide-leafed sombreros with snakeskin bands around them, with wide cartridge belts around their waists supporting six-shooters large enough to kill a buffalo. Everyone I met seemed to be peaceable. The only representative of the weaker sex I encountered was a lady dressed in fine style with her face painted and powdered, her hair done up a la mode, and decked out in a mother-hubbard large enough to cover a corn shock.

To my great surprise I spent the first day in Dodge City without any evidence of shootings or funerals, and in my meanderings about the place formed the acquaintance of men who afterwards proved themselves to be as high-principled as could be found in the whole country.

The horses that I had seen hitched to the racks, were all ridden across the river to the different herds to stand guard over the cattle and prevent stampedes. Some of the herds were waiting to be shipped, while others were rounded-up to drive them to the branding pens, after which they would be turned back to the range. In this way the natural increase of the herd was maintained for the owner.

Next morning I set out with a better opinion of the town and of its inhabitants. I found the same ponies tied to the same racks, and the streets full of wagons, some loading for the different ranches, others at the shop for repairs. I found the river banks on both sides lined with campers, a mixed lot of immigrants, looking for land, freighters resting their stock, horse traders, Mexicans, and a multitude of others with their old-time prairie schooners. Everybody was busy, some greasing their wagons, others mending harness, repairing ox yokes, or oiling and refitting six-shooters and Winchesters. The stock had all been turned loose in the care of herders who remained with them to keep them from straying off, and who would bring them in when they were required. The old familiar camp kettle and coffee pot were kept simmering over a slow fire so as to have everything hot at meal time. When the noon hour arrived, the tail gate of the wagon, which was the door of the grub-box, was let down to form a table. Each man found for himself a plate, knife, fork, and tin cup to help himself when the meal was ready. As soon as dinner was over, they scattered again through the town, some to the saloon, others to the dance-halls, others to their trading, or to make arrangements for their next load of freight. After spending some time in observing all that was to be seen, I returned again to the town. As I was walking up the street I overheard a conversation between two cow-punchers whom I afterwards found to be known as “Broncho Jack” and “Slim Jim.” They were arguing about Slim’s ability to ride a broncho called “Gabe,” that Jack had brought to camp that morning. This argument led to the general result—not a fight, as I supposed it would, but to a bet. The conversation ran about as follows:

S. J.—Say, Jack, I see you bringing in Old Gabe this morning. What are you dragging that old skate around for? Why don’t you shoot him, or don’t you want to waste a cartridge? Going to sell or trade him?

B. J.—Oh, I just brought him in, as I thought some tenderfoot might want to take his lady-love out for a ride, and Gabe would afford some fun.

S. J.—You don’t suppose any tenderfoot, nor anybody else wants to be seen riding that old crow-bait around with a young lady? He can’t travel fast enough to work up a sweat.

B. J.—Can’t he? He has enough life and vinegar in him to throw any puncher on the “81” ranch, and don’t you forget it!

S. J.—Oh, pshaw! Jack, you talk like an old parrot my mother used to have down in San Antonio. He would repeat anything he heard and when he could not hear anything, he talked to himself.

B. J.—Money is what talks in Dodge City, and I’ll bet you five dollars you can’t ride that broncho two blocks without getting thrown.

S. J.—I’ll take that bet if you’ll make it three blocks. I don’t care about short rides. Why, I can ride all over the old goat and make cigarettes while doing it.

B. J.—Say, Slim; that old horse will throw you so high that the sparrows will build nests in your leggins before you come down.

S. J.—That will be all right! Where have you got that old mouse-colored critter, and where do you want the money put up?

B. J.—He’s around here in Cox’s corral, and we can put the money up in Kelly’s hands.

S. J.—All right! Let’s go and put the money up and get down to business.

I went along to see the fun, and especially to see how it would terminate. We entered a saloon finely furnished, with a mirror behind the bar that cost more than the average 160-acre farm in that country. We approached a big, two-fisted, well-dressed man who stood before the bar. Jack addressed him as Mr. Kelly, the man decided upon to hold the stakes. He explained his mission and asked him to hold the money pending the test of horsemanship. Mr. Kelly replied, “I’ll hould anything yese give me, but I would loike to know what will be done with the money in case the young man is kilt.” “Oh,” says Jack, “just treat the crowd and let the balance go to the house.” “All right,” said Kelly. Slim agreed to the proposal.

B. J.—Well, Slim, you had better take a cold drink before you start, or make arrangements to have some one throw you a bottle of water, as the old pony will throw you so high that you may die of thirst before you come down.

S. J.—Never mind! I’ll take that drink after the job is done. Let’s go and get busy.

By this time quite a crowd had collected and set out to see the fun. I joined them for the same purpose. It was but a short distance to Cox’s corral. When we arrived there, Slim said to Jack, “Go in and rope your old dry land turtle. Bring him out here and I’ll see what I can do for him.”

Jack went in and pitched his rope on a sleepy-looking, pot-bellied, dun-colored pony that would weigh in the neighborhood of eight hundred pounds, and led him into the street. Slim procured his saddle, bridle, and blanket, and proceeded to saddle him. He first put on the bridle and then put a gunny-sack over it. The purpose of this was to blindfold him till the saddling was complete. When the saddling began, Old Gabe stood perfectly quiet, except to take a few short steps, apparently to make sure that all of his four feet and legs were there. As soon as he was saddled, Slim said to Jack, “When I crawl his hump, you take off the gunny-sack and I will take a little ride.” As soon as the sack was removed, Old Gabe put his nose to the ground and went to bucking and bawling like an old cow. He bucked about six or eight rods, but found he could not throw Slim in that manner. Then he stood straight up on his hind feet and fell over backwards. As soon as he struck the ground, Slim was standing beside him. When he regained his feet Slim was on his back, and then the bucking and bawling began in earnest. He did the figure eight several times, jumped up and turned half-way ’round and repeated the same, going in the opposite direction, alternately. When he found that this was not successful he headed for an alley close by, bucking and bawling all the time. He worked like a cyclone among a lot of oil barrels and dry goods boxes, wheel-barrows, and obstacles of all kinds that littered the alley. He drove his way through that strange assortment of difficulties until he reached the open street. Then Slim, by means of the application of spurs and quirt got him into a gallop. Then I knew that the battle was over and Old Gabe had met his master. Slim rode back to the crowd and dismounted, and he and Jack went over to Kelly’s to collect the wager. Then the bantering was continued, as follows:

B. J.—Well, Slim, how does it go?

S. J.—Oh, not bad. I guess I’ll take that cold drink you spoke of. I feel a little thirsty.

B. J.—Yes, and I reckon you feel a little bit sore, too.

S. J.—Oh, shucks! he was a little bit fussy, but he is nothing like those outlaw horses on the 81 ranch.