I soon became better acquainted with Dr. Webb, through whose agency our town of Rome had fallen almost overnight. We visited him often in Hays, and eventually he presented my partner Rose and myself each with two lots in the new town.
Webb frequently accompanied me on buffalo-hunting excursions; and before he had been on the prairie a year there were few men who could kill more buffalo than he.
Once, when I was riding Brigham, and Webb was mounted on a splendid thoroughbred bay, we discovered a band of Indians about two miles distant, maneuvering so as to get between us and the town. A gallop of three miles brought us between them and home; but by that time they had come within three-quarters of a mile of us. We stopped to wave our hands at them, and fired a few shots at long range. But as there were thirteen in the party, and they were getting a little too close, we turned and struck out for Hays. They sent some scattering shots in pursuit, then wheeled and rode off toward the Saline River.
When there were no buffalo to hunt I tried the experiment of hitching Brigham to one of our railroad scrapers, but he was not gaited for that sort of work. I had about given up the idea of extending his usefulness to railroading when news came that buffaloes were coming over the hill. There had been none in the vicinity for some time. As a consequence, meat was scarce.
I took the harness from Brigham, mounted him bareback and started after the game, being armed with my new buffalo killer which I had named “Lucretia Borgia,” an improved breech-loading needle-gun which I had obtained from the Government.
As I was riding toward the buffaloes I observed five men coming from the fort. They, too, had seen the herd and had come to join the chase. As I neared them I saw that they were officers, newly arrived at the fort, a captain and four lieutenants.
“Hello, my friend!” sang out the captain as they came up. “I see you are after the same game we are.”
“Yes, sir,” I returned. “I saw those buffaloes coming. We are out of fresh meat, so I thought I would get some.”
The captain eyed my cheap-looking outfit closely. Brigham, though the best buffalo horse in the West, was decidedly unprepossessing in appearance.
“Do you expect to catch any buffaloes on that Gothic steed!” asked the captain, with a laugh.
“I hope so.”
“You’ll never catch them in the world, my fine fellow. It requires a fast horse to overtake those animals.”
“Does it?” I asked innocently.
“Yes. But come along with us. We’re going to kill them more for the sport than anything else. After we take the tongues and a piece of the tenderloin, you may have what is left.”
Eleven animals were in the herd, which was about a mile distant. I noticed they were making toward the creek for water. I knew buffalo nature, and was aware that it would be difficult to turn them from their course. I therefore started toward the creek to head them off, while the officers dashed madly up behind them.
The herd came rushing up past me, not a hundred yards distant, while their pursuers followed, three hundred yards in the rear.
“Now,” thought I, “is the time to get in my work.” I pulled the blind bridle from Brigham, who knew as well as I did what was expected of him. The moment he was free of the bridle he set out at top speed, running in ahead of the officers. In a few jumps he brought me alongside the rear buffalo. Raising old “Lucretia Borgia,” I killed the animal with one shot. On went Brigham to the next buffalo, ten feet farther along, and another was disposed of. As fast as one animal would fall, Brigham would pass to the next, getting so close that I could almost touch it with my gun. In this fashion I killed eleven buffaloes with twelve shots.
As the last one dropped my horse stopped. I jumped to the ground. Turning round to the astonished officers, who had by this time caught up, I said:
“Now, gentlemen, allow me to present you with all the tongues and tenderloins from these animals that you want.”
Captain Graham, who, I soon learned, was the senior officer, gasped. “Well, I never saw the like before! Who are you, anyway?”
“My name is Cody,” I said.
Lieutenant Thompson, one of the party, who had met me at Fort Harker, cried out: “Why, that is Bill Cody, our old scout.” He introduced me to his comrades, Captain Graham and Lieutenants Reed, Emmick, and Ezekial.
Graham, something of a horseman himself, greatly admired Brigham. “That horse of yours has running points,” he admitted.
The officers were a little sore at not getting a single shot; but the way I had killed the buffaloes, they said, amply repaid them for their disappointment. It was the first time they had ever seen or heard of a white man running buffaloes without either saddle or bridle.
I told them Brigham knew nearly as much about the business as I did. He was a wonderful horse. If the buffalo did not fall at the first shot he would stop to give me a second chance; but if, on the second shot, I did not kill the game, he would go on impatiently as if to say: “I can’t fool away my time by giving you more than two shots!”
Captain Graham told me that he would be stationed at Fort Hays during the summer. In the event of his being sent out on a scouting expedition he wanted me as scout and guide. I said that although I was very busy with my railroad contract I would be glad to go with him.
That night the Indians unexpectedly raided our horses, and ran off five or six of the best work-teams. At daylight I jumped on Brigham, rode to Fort Hays, and reported the raid to the commanding officer. Captain Graham and Lieutenant Emmick were ordered out with their company of one hundred colored troops. In an hour we were under way. The darkies had never been in an Indian fight and were anxious to “sweep de red debbils off de face ob de earth.” Graham was a dashing officer, eager to make a record, and it was with difficulty that I could trail fast enough to keep out of the way of the impatient soldiers. Every few moments the captain would ride up to see if the trail was freshening, and to ask how soon we would overtake the marauders.
At the Saline River we found the Indians had stopped only to graze and water the animals and had pushed on toward Solomon. After crossing the river they made no effort to conceal their trail, thinking they were safe from pursuit. We reached Solomon at sunset. Requesting Captain Graham to keep his command where it was, I went ahead to try to locate the redmen.
Riding down a ravine that led to the river, I left my horse, and, creeping uphill, looked cautiously over the summit upon Solomon. In plain sight, not a mile away, was a herd of horses grazing, among them the animals which had been stolen from us. Presently I made out the Indian camp, noted its “lay,” and calculated how best we could approach it.
Graham’s eyes danced with excitement when I reported the prospect of an immediate encounter. We decided to wait until the moon rose, and then make a sudden dash, taking the redskins by surprise.
We thought we had everything cut and dried, but alas! just as we were nearing the point where we were to take the open ground and make our charge, one of the colored gentlemen became so excited that he fired his gun.
We began the charge immediately, but the warning had been sounded. The Indians at once sprang to their horses, and were away before we reached their camp. Captain Graham shouted, “Follow me, boys!” and follow him we did, but in the darkness the Indians made good their escape. The bugle sounded the recall, but some of the darkies did not get back to camp until the next morning, having, in their fright, allowed the horses to run wherever it suited them to go.
We followed the trail awhile the next day, but it became evident that it would be a long chase, and as we were short of rations we started back to camp. Captain Graham was bitterly disappointed at being cheated out of a fight that seemed at hand. He roundly cursed the darky who bad given, the warning with his gun. That gentleman, as a punishment, was compelled to walk all the way back to Fort Hays.
The western end of the Kansas Pacific was at this time in the heart of the buffalo country. Twelve hundred men were employed in the construction of the road. The Indians were very troublesome, and it was difficult to obtain fresh meat for the hands. The company therefore concluded to engage expert hunters to kill buffaloes.
Having heard of my experience and success as a buffalo hunter, Goddard Brothers, who had the contract for feeding the men, made me a good offer to become their hunter. They said they would require about twelve buffaloes a day—twenty-four hams and twelve humps, as only the hump and hindquarters of each animal were utilized. The work was dangerous. Indians were riding all over that section of the country, and my duties would require me to journey from five to ten miles from the railroad every day in order to secure the game, accompanied by only one man with a light wagon to haul the meat back to camp. I demanded a large salary, which they could well afford to pay, as the meat itself would cost them nothing. Under the terms of the contract which I signed with them, I was to receive five hundred dollars a month, agreeing on my part to supply them with all the meat they wanted.
Leaving Rose to complete our grading contract, I at once began my career as a buffalo hunter for the Kansas Pacific. It was not long before I acquired a considerable reputation, and it was at this time that the title “Buffalo Bill” was conferred upon me by the railroad hands. Of this title, which has stuck to me through life, I have never been ashamed.
During my engagement as hunter for the company, which covered a period of eighteen months, I killed 4,280 buffaloes and had many exciting adventures with the Indians, including a number of hairbreadth escapes, some of which are well worth relating.
One day, in the spring of 1868, I mounted Brigham and started for Smoky Hill River. After a gallop of twenty miles I reached the top of a small hill overlooking that beautiful stream. Gazing out over the landscape, I saw a band of about thirty Indians some half-mile distant. I knew by the way they jumped on their horses they had seen me as soon as I saw them.
My one chance for my life was to run. I wheeled my horse and started for the railroad. Brigham struck out as if he comprehended that this was a life-or-death matter. On reaching the next ridge I looked around and saw the Indians, evidently well mounted, and coming for me full speed. Brigham put his whole strength into the flight, and for a few minutes did some of the prettiest running I ever saw. But the Indians had nearly as good mounts as he, and one of their horses in particular, a spotted animal, gained on me steadily.
Occasionally the brave who was riding this fleet horse would send a bullet whistling after me. Soon they began to strike too near for comfort. The other Indians were strung out along behind, and could do no immediate damage. But I saw that the fellow in the lead must be checked, or a stray bullet might hit me or the horse. Suddenly stopping Brigham, therefore, I raised old “Lucretia” to my shoulder and took deliberate aim, hoping to hit either the horse or the rider. He was not eighty yards behind me. At the crack of the rifle down went the horse. Not waiting to see if he regained his feet, Brigham and I went fairly flying toward our destination. We had urgent business just then and were in a hurry to attend to it.
The other Indians had gained while I stopped to drop the leader. A volley of shots whizzed past me. Fortunately none of them hit. Now and then, to return the compliment, I wheeled and fired. One of my shots broke the leg of one of my pursuers’ mounts.
But seven or eight Indians now remained in dangerous proximity to me. As their horses were beginning to lag, I checked Brigham to give him an opportunity to get a few extra breaths. I had determined that if the worst came to the worst I would drop into a buffalo wallow, where I might possibly stand off my pursuers. I was not compelled to do this, for Brigham carried me through nobly.
When we came within three miles of the railroad track, where two companies of soldiers were stationed, one of the outposts gave the alarm. In a few minutes, to my great delight, I saw men on foot and on horseback hurrying to the rescue. The Indians quickly turned and galloped away as fast as they had come. When I reached my friends, I turned Brigham over to them. He was led away and given the care and rub-down that he richly deserved.
Captain Nolan of the Tenth Cavalry now came up with forty men, and on hearing my account of what had happened determined to pursue the Indians. I was given a cavalry horse for a remount and we were off.
Our horses were all fresh and excellent stock. We soon began shortening the distance between ourselves and the fugitives. Before they had fled five miles we overtook them and killed eight of their number. The others succeeded in making their escape. Upon coming to the place where I had dropped the spotted horse that carried the leader of my pursuers I found that my bullet had struck him in the forehead, killing him instantly. He was a fine animal, and should have been engaged in better business.
On our return we found old Brigham grazing contentedly. He looked up inquiring, as if to ask if we had punished the redskins who pursued us. I think he read the answer in my eyes.
Another adventure which deserves a place in these reminiscences occurred near the Saline River. My companion at the time was Scotty, the butcher who accompanied me on my hunts, to cut up the meat and load it on the wagon for hauling to the railroad camp.
I had killed fifteen buffaloes, and we were on our way home with a wagonload of meat when we were jumped by a big band of Indians.
I was mounted on a splendid horse belonging to the company, and could easily have made my escape, but Scotty had only the mule team, which drew the wagon as a means of flight, and of course I could not leave him.
To think was to act in those days. Scotty and I had often talked of what we would do in case of a sudden attack, and we forthwith proceeded to carry out the plan we had made.
Jumping to the ground, we unhitched the mules more quickly than that operation had ever been performed before. The mules and my horse we tied to the wagon. We threw the buffalo hams on the ground and piled them about the wheels so as to form a breastwork. Then, with an extra box of ammunition and three or four extra revolvers which we always carried with us, we crept under the wagon, prepared to give our visitors a reception they would remember.
On came the Indians, pell-mell, but when they got within a hundred yards of us we opened such a sudden and galling fire that they held up and began circling about us.
Several times they charged. Their shots killed the two mules and my horse. But we gave it to them right and left, and had the satisfaction of seeing three of them fall to the ground not more than fifty feet away.
When we had been cooped up in our little fort for about an hour we saw the cavalry coming toward us, full gallop, over the prairie. The Indians saw the soldiers almost as soon as we did. Mounting their horses, they disappeared down the cañon of the creek. When the cavalry arrived we had the satisfaction of showing them five Indians who would be “good” for all time. Two hours later we reached the camp with our meat, which we found to be all right, although it had a few bullets and arrows imbedded in it.
It was while I was hunting for the railroad that I became acquainted with Kit Carson, one of the most noted of the guides, scouts, and hunters that the West ever produced. He was going through our country on his way to Washington. I met him again on his return, and he was my guest for a few days in Hays City. He then proceeded to Fort Lyon, Colorado, near which his son-in-law, Mr. Boggs, resided. His health had been failing for some time, and shortly afterward he died at Mr. Boggs’s residence on Picket Wire Creek.
Soon after the adventure with Scotty I had my celebrated buffalo shooting contest with Billy Comstock, a well-known guide, scout, and interpreter. Comstock, who was chief of scouts at Fort Wallace, had a reputation of being a successful buffalo hunter, and his friends at the fort—the officers in particular—were anxious to back him against me.
It was arranged that I should shoot a match with him, and the preliminaries were easily and satisfactorily arranged. We were to hunt one day of eight hours, beginning at eight o’clock in the morning. The wager was five hundred dollars a side, and the man who should kill the greater number of buffaloes from horseback was to be declared the winner. Incidentally my title of “Buffalo Bill” was at stake.
Winning My Name—"Buffalo Bill”. |
The hunt took place twenty miles east of Sheridan. It had been well advertised, and there was a big “gallery.” An excursion party, whose members came chiefly from St. Louis and numbered nearly a hundred ladies and gentlemen, came on a special train to view the sport. Among them was my wife and my little daughter Arta, who had come to visit me for a time.
Buffaloes were plentiful. It had been agreed that we should go into the herd at the same time and make our “runs,” each man killing as many animals as possible. A referee followed each of us, horseback, and counted the buffaloes killed by each man. The excursionists and other spectators rode out to the hunting-grounds in wagons and on horseback, keeping well out of sight of the buffaloes, so as not to frighten them until the time came for us to dash into the herd. They were permitted to approach closely enough to see what was going on.
For the first “run” we were fortunate in getting good ground. Comstock was mounted on his favorite horse. I rode old Brigham. I felt confident that I had the advantage in two things: first, I had the best buffalo horse in the country; second, I was using what was known at the time as a needle-gun, a breech-loading Springfield rifle, caliber .50. This was “Lucretia,” the weapon of which I have already told you. Comstock’s Henry rifle, though it could fire more rapidly than mine, did not, I felt certain, carry powder and lead enough to equal my weapon in execution.
When the time came to go into the herd, Comstock and I dashed forward, followed by the referees. The animals separated. Comstock took the left bunch, I the right. My great forte in killing buffaloes was to get them circling by riding my horse at the head of the herd and shooting their leaders. Thus the brutes behind were crowded to the left, so that they were soon going round and round.
This particular morning the animals were very accommodating. I soon had them running in a beautiful circle. I dropped them thick and fast till I had killed thirty-eight, which finished my “run.”
Comstock began shooting at the rear of the buffaloes he was chasing, and they kept on in a straight line. He succeeded in killing twenty-three, but they were scattered over a distance of three miles. The animals I had shot lay close together.
Our St. Louis friends set out champagne when the result of the first run was announced. It proved a good drink on a Kansas prairie, and a buffalo hunter proved an excellent man to dispose of it.
While we were resting we espied another herd approaching. It was a small drove, but we prepared to make it serve our purpose. The buffaloes were cows and calves, quicker in their movements than the bulls. We charged in among them, and I got eighteen to Comstock’s fourteen.
Again the spectators approached, and once more the champagne went round. After a luncheon we resumed the hunt. Three miles distant we saw another herd. I was so far ahead of my competitor now that I thought I could afford to give an exhibition of my skill. Leaving my saddle and bridle behind, I rode, with my competitor, to windward of the buffaloes.
I soon had thirteen down, the last one of which I had driven close to the wagons, where the ladies were watching the contest. It frightened some of the tender creatures to see a buffalo coming at full speed directly toward them, but I dropped him in his tracks before he had got within fifty yards of the wagon. This finished my “run” with a score of sixty-nine buffaloes for the day. Comstock had killed forty-six.
It was now late in the afternoon. Comstock and his backers gave up the idea of beating me. The referee declared me the winner of the match, and the champion buffalo hunter of the Plains.
On our return to camp we brought with us the best bits of meat, as well as the biggest and best buffalo heads. The heads I always turned over to the company, which found a very good use for them. They were mounted in the finest possible manner and sent to the principal cities along the road, as well as to the railroad centers of the country. Here they were prominently placed at the leading hotels and in the stations, where they made an excellent advertisement for the road Today they attract the attention of travelers almost everywhere. Often, while touring the country, I see one of them, and feel reasonably certain that I brought down the animal it once ornamented. Many a wild and exciting hunt is thus called to my mind.
In May, 1868, the Kansas Pacific track was pushed as far as Sheridan. Construction was abandoned for the time, and my services as buffalo hunter were no longer required. A general Indian war was now raging all along the Western borders. General Sheridan had taken up headquarters at Fort Hays, in order to be on the job in person. Scouts and guides were once more in great demand, and I decided to go back to my old calling.
I did not wish to kill my faithful old Brigham by the rigors of a scouting campaign. I had no suitable place to leave him, and determined to dispose of him. At the suggestion of a number of friends, all of whom wanted him, I put him up at a raffle, selling ten chances at thirty dollars each, which were all quickly taken. Ike Bonham, who won him, took him to Wyandotte, Kansas, where he soon added fresh laurels to his already shining wreath. In the crowning event of a tournament he easily outdistanced all entries in a four-mile race to Wyandotte, winning $250 for his owner, who had been laughed at for entering such an unprepossessing animal.
I lost track of him after that. For several years I did not know what had become of him. But many years after, while in Memphis, I met Mr. Wilcox, who had once been superintendent of construction on the Kansas Pacific. He informed me that he owned Brigham, and I rode out to his place to take a look at my gallant old friend. He seemed to remember me, as I put my arms about his neck and caressed him like a long-lost child.
When I had received my appointment as guide and scout I was ordered to report to the commandant of Fort Larned, Captain Daingerfield Parker. I knew that it would be necessary to take my family, who had been with me at Sheridan, to Leavenworth and leave them there. This I did at once.
When I arrived at Larned, I found the scouts under command of Dick Curtis, an old-time scout of whom I have spoken in these reminiscences. Three hundred lodges of Kiowa and Comanche Indians were encamped near the fort. These savages had not yet gone on the warpath, but they were restless and discontented. Their leading chief and other warriors were becoming sullen and insolent. The Post was garrisoned by only two companies of infantry and one troop of cavalry. General Hazen, who was at the post, was endeavoring to pacify the Indians; I was appointed as his special scout.
Early one morning in August I accompanied him to Fort Zarrah, from which post he proceeded, without an escort, to Fort Harker. Instructions were left that the escort with me should return to Larned the next day. After he had gone I went to the sergeant in command of the squad and informed him I intended to return that afternoon. I saddled my mule and set out. All went well till I got about halfway between the two posts, when at Pawnee Rock I was suddenly jumped by at least forty Indians, who came rushing up, extending their hands and saying, “How?” “How?” These redskins had been hanging about Fort Larned that morning. I saw that they had on their warpaint, and looked for trouble.
As they seemed desirous to shake hands, however, I obeyed my first friendly impulse, and held out my hand. One of them seized it with a tight grip and jerked me violently forward. Another grabbed my mule by the bridle. In a few minutes I was completely surrounded.
Before I could do anything at all in my defense, they had taken my revolvers from the holsters and I received a blow on the head from a tomahawk which rendered me nearly senseless. My gun, which was lying across the saddle, was snatched from its place. Finally two Indians, laying hold of the bridle, started off in the direction of the Arkansas River, leading the mule, which was lashed by the other Indians who followed along after.
The whole crowd was whooping, singing, and yelling as only Indians can. Looking toward the opposite side of the river, I saw the people of a big village moving along the bank, and made up my mind that the redmen had left the Post, and were on the warpath in dead earnest.
My captors crossed the stream with me, and as we waded through the shallow water they lashed both the mule and me. Soon they brought me before an important-looking body of Indians, who proved to be the chiefs and principal warriors. Among them I recognized, old Satanta and others whom I knew. I supposed that all was over with me.
All at once Satanta asked me where I had been, and I suddenly had an inspiration.
I said I had been after a herd of cattle or “Whoa-haws” as they called them. The Indians had been out of meat for several weeks, and a large herd of cattle which had been promised them had not arrived.
As soon as I said I had been after “Whoa-haws” old Satanta began questioning me closely. When he asked where the cattle were I replied that they were only a few miles distant and that I had been sent by General Hazen to inform him that the herd was coming, and that they were intended for his people. This seemed to please the old rascal. He asked if there were any soldiers with the herd. I said there were. Thereupon the chiefs held a consultation. Presently Satanta asked me if the general had really said they were to have the cattle. I assured him that he had. I followed this by a dignified inquiry as to why his young men had treated me so roughly.
He intimated that this was only a boyish freak, for which he was very sorry. The young men had merely wanted to test my courage. The whole thing, he said, was a joke. The old liar was now beating me at the lying game, but I did not care, since I was getting the best of it.
I did not let him suspect that I doubted his word. He ordered the young men to restore my arms and reprimanded them for their conduct. He was playing a crafty game, for he preferred to get the meat without fighting if possible, and my story that soldiers were coming had given him food for reflection. After another council the old man asked me if I would go and bring the cattle down. “Of course,” I told him. “Such are my instructions from General Hazen.”
In response to an inquiry if I wanted any of his young men to accompany me I said that it would be best to go alone. Wheeling my mule around, I was soon across the river, leaving the chief firmly believing that I was really going for the cattle, which existed only in my imagination.
I knew if I could get the river between me and the Indians I would have a good three-quarters of a mile start of them and could make a run for Fort Larned. But as I reached the river bank I looked about and saw ten or fifteen Indians who had begun to suspect that all was not as it should be.
The moment my mule secured a good foothold on the bank I urged him into a gentle lope toward the place where, according to my story, the cattle were to be brought.
Upon reaching the top of the ridge and riding down the other side out of view, I turned my mount and headed westward for Fort Larned. I let him out for all he was worth, and when I reached a little rise and looked back the Indian village lay in plain sight.
My pursuers were by this time on the ridge I had passed over, and were looking for me in every direction. Soon they discovered me, and discovered also that I was running away. They struck out in swift pursuit. In a few minutes it became painfully evident that they were gaining.
When I crossed Pawnee Fork, two miles from the Post, two or three of them were but a quarter of a mile behind. As I gained the opposite side of the creek I was overjoyed to see some soldiers in a Government wagon a short distance away. I yelled at the top of my lungs that the Indians were after me.
When Denver Jim, an old scout, who was with the party, was informed that there were ten or fifteen Indians in the pursuit he said:
“Let’s lay for them.”
The wagon was driven hurriedly in among the trees and low box-elder bushes, and secreted, while we waited. We did not wait long. Soon up came the Indians, lashing their horses, which were blowing and panting. We let two of them pass, then opened a lively fire on the next three or four, killing two at the first volley. The others discovering that they had run into an ambush, whirled around and ran back in the direction from which they had come. The two who had passed heard the firing and made their escape.
The Indians that were killed were scalped, and we appropriated their arms and equipment. Then, after catching the horses, we made our way into the Post. The soldiers had heard us firing, and as we entered the fort drums were beating and the buglers were sounding the call to fall in. The officers had thought Satanta and his warriors were coming in to capture the fort.
That very morning, two hours after General Hazen had left, the old chief drove into the Post in an ambulance which he had received some months before from the Government. He seemed angry and bent on mischief. In an interview with Captain Parker, the ranking officer, he asked why General Hazen had left the fort without supplying him with beef cattle. The captain said the cattle were then on the road, but could not explain why they were delayed.
The chief made numerous threats. He said that if he wanted to he could capture the whole Post. Captain Parker, who was a brave man, gave him to understand that he was reckoning beyond his powers. Satanta finally left in anger. Going to the sutler’s store, he sold his ambulance to the post-trader, and a part of the proceeds he secretly invested in whisky, which could always be secured by the Indians from rascally men about a Post, notwithstanding the military and civil laws.
He then mounted his horse and rode rapidly to his village. He returned in an hour with seven or eight hundred of his warriors, and it looked as if he intended to carry out his threat of capturing the fort. The garrison at once turned out. The redskins, when within a half mile, began circling around the fort, firing several shots into it.
While this circling movement was taking place, the soldiers observed that the whole village had packed up and was on the move. The mounted warriors remained behind some little time, to give their families an opportunity to get away. At last they circled the Post several times more, fired a few parting shots, and then galloped over the prairie to overtake the fast-departing village. On their way they surprised and killed a party of woodchoppers on Pawnee Fork, as well as a party of herders guarding beef cattle.
The soldiers with the wagon I had opportunely met at the crossing had been out looking for the bodies of these victims, seven or eight in all. Under the circumstances it was not surprising that the report of our guns should have persuaded the garrison that Satanta’s men were coming back to make their threatened assault.
There was much excitement at the Post. The guards had been doubled. Captain Parker had all the scouts at his headquarters. He was seeking to get one of them to take dispatches to General Sheridan at Fort Hays. I reported to him at once, telling him of my encounter and my escape.
“You were lucky to think of that cattle story, Cody,” he said. “But for that little game your scalp would now be ornamenting a Kiowa lodge.”
“Cody,” put in Dick Curtis, “the captain is trying to get somebody to take dispatches to General Sheridan. None of the scouts here seem willing to undertake the trip. They say they are not well enough acquainted with the country to find the way at night.”
A storm was coming up, and it was sure to be a dark night. Not only did the scouts fear they would lose the way, but, with hostile Indians all about, the undertaking was exceedingly dangerous. A large party of redskins was known to be encamped at Walnut Creek, on the direct road to Fort Hays.
Observing that Curtis was obviously trying to induce me to volunteer, I made an evasive answer. I was wearied from my long day’s ride, and the beating I received from the Indians had not rested me any. But Curtis was persistent. He said:
“I wish you were not so tired, Bill. You know the country better than the rest of us. I’m certain you could go through.”
“As far as the ride is concerned,” I said, “that would not matter. But this is risky business just now, with the country full of hostile Indians. Still, if no other man will volunteer I will chance it, provided I am supplied with a good horse. I am tired of dodging Indians on a Government mule.”
At this, Captain Nolan, who had been listening, said:
“Bill, you can have the best horse in my company.”
I picked the horse ridden by Captain Nolan’s first sergeant. To the captain’s inquiry as to whether I was sure I could find my way, I replied:
“I have hunted on every acre of ground between here and Fort Hays. I can almost keep my route by the bones of the dead buffaloes.”
“Never fear about Cody, captain,” Curtis added; “he is as good in the dark as he is in the daylight.”
By ten o’clock that night I was on my way to Fort Hays, sixty-five miles distant across the country.
It was pitch-dark, but this I liked, as it lessened the probability of the Indians’ seeing me unless I stumbled on them by accident. My greatest danger was that my horse might run into a hole and fall, and in this way get away from me. To avoid any such accident I tied one end of my rawhide lariat to my belt and the other to the bridle. I did not propose to be left alone, on foot, on that prairie.
Before I had traveled three miles the horse, sure enough, stepped into a prairie dog’s hole. Down he went, throwing me over his head. He sprang to his feet before I could catch the bridle, and galloped away into the darkness. But when he reached the end of his lariat he discovered that he was picketed to Bison William. I brought him up standing, recovered my gun, which had fallen to the ground, and was soon in the saddle again.
Twenty-five miles from Fort Larned the country became rougher, and I had to travel more carefully. Also I proceeded as quietly as possible, for I knew I was in the vicinity of the Indians who had been lately encamped on Walnut Creek. But when I came up near the creek I unexpectedly rode in among a herd of horses. The animals became frightened, and ran off in all directions. Without pausing to make any apology, I backed out as quickly as possible. But just at that minute a dog, not fifty yards away, set up a howl. Soon I heard Indians talking. They had been guarding the horses, and had heard the hoofbeats of my horse. In an instant they were on their ponies and after me.
I urged my mount to full speed up the creek bottom, taking chances of his falling into a hole. The Indians followed me as fast as they could, but I soon outdistanced them.
I struck the old Santa Fe trail ten miles from Fort Hays just at daybreak. Shortly after reveille I rode into the post, where Colonel Moore, to whom I reported, asked for the dispatches from Captain Parker for General Sheridan. He asked me to give them into his hands, but I said I preferred to hand them to the general in person. Sheridan, who was sleeping in the same building, heard our voices and bade me come into his room.
“Hello, Cody!” he said. “Is that you?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I have dispatches for you.”
He read them hurriedly, told me they were very important, and asked all about the outbreak of the Kiowas and Comanches. I gave him all the information I possessed.
“Bill,” said General Sheridan, “you’ve had a pretty lively ride. I suppose you’re tired after your long journey.”
“Not very,” I said.
“Come in and have breakfast with me.”
“No, thank you. Hays City is only a mile from here. I know every one there and want to go over and have a time.”
“Very well, do as you please, but come back this afternoon, for I want to see you.”
I got little rest at Hays City, and yet I was soon to set out on another hard ninety-five-mile journey.
