THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL by COLONEL HENRY INMAN (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

And

Arapahoes, Which Always Took Place At Big Timbers, Near Fort William.

 

 

 

Hobbs Was Married to The Daughter Of Old Wolf, The Chief Of The

Comanches, A Really Beautiful Indian Girl, With Whom He Lived

Faithfully Many Years.  In the Early Summer Of 1835, He Went With His

Father-In-Law And The Rest Of The Tribe To The Great Feast Of That

Season.  He Stated that On That Occasion There Were Forty Thousand

Indians Assembled, And Consequently Large Hunting Parties Were Sent

Out Daily To Procure Food For Such A Vast Host.  The Entertainment

Was Kept Up For Fifteen Days, Enlivened by Horse Races, Foot Races,

And Playing Ball.  In these Races The Tribes Would Bet Their Horses

On The Result, The Comanches Generally Winning, For They Are The Best

Riders In the World.  By The Time The Feast Was Ended, The Arapahoes

And Cheyennes Usually Found Themselves Afoot, But Old Wolf, Who Was A

Generous Fellow, Always Gave Them Back Enough Animals To Get Home With.

 

 

 

The Game Of Ball Was Played with Crooked sticks, And Is Very Much

Like The American Boys' "Shinny."  The Participants Are Dressed in

A Simple Breech-Cloth And Moccasins.  It Is Played with Great

Enthusiasm And Affords Much Amusement.

 

 

 

At These Annual Feasts A Council Of The Great Chiefs Of The Three

Tribes Is Always Held, And At The One During The Season Referred to,

Hobbs Said The Cheyenne Chiefs Wanted old Wolf To Visit Bent'S Fort,

Where He Had Never Been.  Upon The Arrival Of The Delegation There,

It Was Heartily Welcomed by All The Famous Men Who Happened to Be At

The Place, Among Whom Were Kit Carson, Old John Smith, And Several

Noted trappers.  Whiskey Occupied a Prominent Place In the Rejoicing,

And "I Found It Hard Work," Said Hobbs, "To Stand The Many Toasts

Drank To My Good Health."  The Whole Party, Including Old Wolf And

His Companion The Cheyenne Chief, Got Very Much Elated, And Every

Person In the Fort Smelt Whiskey, If They Did Not Get Their Feet

Tangled with It.

 

 

 

About Midnight A Messenger Came Inside, Reporting That A Thousand

Comanche Warriors Were Gathering around The Fort.  They Demanded

Their Leaders, Fearing Treachery, And Desired to Know Why Their Chief

Had Not Returned.  Hobbs Went Out And Explained that He Was Safe;

But They Insisted on Seeing Him, So He And Hobbs Showed themselves

To The Assembled indians, And Old Wolf Made A Speech, Telling Them

That He And The Cheyenne Chief Were Among Good Friends To The Indians,

And Presents Would Be Given To Them The Next Morning.  The Warriors

Were Pacified with These Assurances, Though They Did Not Leave The

Vicinity Of The Fort.

 

 

 

It Was At This Time That Hobbs Was Ransomed by Colonel Bent, Who Gave

Old Wolf, For Him, Six Yards Of Red flannel, A Pound Of Tobacco, And

An Ounce Of Beads.

 

 

 

The Chief Was Taken In charge By A Lieutenant, Who Showed him All

Over The Fort, Letting Him See The Rifle Port-Holes, And Explaining

How The Place Could Stand A Siege Against A Thousand Indians.  Finally,

He Was Taken Out On The Parapet, Where There Was A Six-Pounder At

Each Angle.  The Old Savage Inquired how They Could Shoot Such A Thing,

And At Hobbs' Request, A Blank Cartridge Was Put In the Piece And

Fired.  Old Wolf Sprang Back In amazement, And The Indians On The

Outside, Under The Walls, Knowing Nothing Of What Was Going On,

Ran Away As Fast As Their Legs Could Carry Them, Convinced that

Their Chief Must Be Dead Now And Their Own Safety Dependent Upon

Flight.  Old Wolf And Hobbs Sprang Upon The Wall And Signalled and

Shouted to Them, And They Returned, Asking In great Astonishment

What Kind Of A Monstrous Gun It Was.

 

 

 

About Noon Trading Commenced.  The Indians Wished to Come Into The

Fort, But Bent Would Not Let Any Enter But The Chiefs.  At The Back

Door The Colonel Displayed his Goods, And The Indians Brought Forward

Their Ponies, Buffalo-Robes, Deer And Other Skins, Which They Traded

For Tobacco, Beads, Calico, Flannel, Knives, Spoons, Whistles,

Jews'-Harps, Etc.

 

 

 

Whiskey Was Sold To Them The First Day, But As It Caused several

Fights Among Them Before Night, Bent Stopped its Sale, At Hobbs'

Suggestion And With Old Wolf'S Consent.  Indians, When They Get Drunk,

Do Not Waste Time By Fighting With Fists, Like White Men, But Use

Knives And Tomahawks; So That A General Scrimmage Is A Serious Affair.

Two Or Three Deaths Resulted the First Day, And There Would Have Been

Many More If The Sale Of Whiskey Had Not Been Stopped.

 

 

 

The Trading Continued for Eight Days, And Colonel Bent Reaped a Rich

Harvest Of What He Could Turn Into Gold At St. Louis.  Old Wolf Slept

In The Fort Each Night Except One During That Time, And Every Time

His Warriors Aroused him About Twelve O'Clock And Compelled him To

Show Himself On The Walls To Satisfy Them Of His Safety.

 

 

 

About A Hundred trappers Were In the Employ Of Bent And His Partners.

Sometimes One-Half Of The Company Were Off On A Hunt, Leaving But

A Small Force At The Fort For Its Protection, But With The Small

Battery There Its Defence Was Considered sufficient.

 

 

 

One Day A Trapping Party, Consisting Of Kit Carson, "Peg-Leg" Smith,

And James Hobbs, Together With Some Shawnee Indians, All Under The

Lead Of Carson, Started out From Bent'S Fort For The Picketwire To

Trap Beaver.

 

 

 

Grizzlies Were Very Abundant In that Region Then, And One Of The

Party, Named mcintire, Having Killed an Elk The Evening Before, Said

To Hobbs That They Might Stand A Good Chance To Find A Grizzly By

The Elk He Had Shot But Had Not Brought In.  Hobbs Said That He Was

Willing To Go With Him, But As Mcintire Was A Very Green Man In the

Mountains, Hobbs Had Some Doubts Of Depending On Him In case Of An

Attack By A Grizzly Bear.

 

 

 

The Two Men Left For The Ravine In which Mcintire Had Killed the Elk

Very Early In the Morning, Taking With Them Tomahawks, Hunting-Knives,

Rifles, And A Good Dog.  On Arriving at The Ravine, Hobbs Told

Mcintire To Cross Over To The Other Side And Climb The Hill, But On

No Account To Go Down Into The Ravine, As A Grizzly Is More Dangerous

When He Has A Man On The Downhill Side.  Hobbs Then Went To Where He

Thought The Elk Might Be If He Had Died by The Bank Of The Stream;

But As Soon As He Came Near The Water, He Saw That A Large Grizzly

Had Got There Before Him, Having Scented the Animal, And Was Already

Making His Breakfast.

 

 

 

The Bear Was In thick, Scrubby Oak Brush, And Hobbs, Making His Dog

Lie Down, Crawled behind A Rock To Get A Favourable Shot At The Beast.

He Drew A Bead On Him And Fired, But The Bear Only Snarled at The

Wound Made By The Ball And Started tearing Through The Brush, Biting

Furiously At It As He Went.  Hobbs Reloaded his Rifle Carefully,

And As Quickly As He Could, In order To Get A Second Shot; But,

To His Amazement, He Saw The Bear Rushing Down The Ravine Chasing

Mcintire, Who Was Only About Ten Feet In advance Of The Enraged beast,

Running For His Life, And Making as Much Noise As A Mad Bull.  He Was

Terribly Scared, And Hobbs Hastened to His Rescue, First Sending His

Dog Ahead.

 

 

 

Just As The Dog Reached the Bear, Mcintire Darted behind A Tree And

Flung His Hat In the Bear'S Face, At The Same Time Sticking His

Rifle Toward Him.  The Old Grizzly Seized the Muzzle Of The Gun In

His Teeth, And, As It Was Loaded and Cocked, It Either Went Off

Accidentally Or Otherwise And Blew The Bear'S Head Open, Just As The

Dog Had Fastened on His Hindquarters.  Hobbs Ran To The Assistance

Of His Comrade With All Haste, But He Was Out Of Danger And Had Sat

Down A Few Rods Away, With His Face As White As A Sheet, A Badly

Frightened man.

 

 

 

After That Fearful Scare, Mcintire Would Cook Or Do Anything, But

Said He Never Intended to Make A Business Of Bear-Hunting; He Had

Only Wished for One Adventure, And This One Had Satisfied him.

Chapter XX (Pawnee Rock)

That Portion Of The Great Central Plains Which Radiates From

Pawnee Rock, Including The Big Bend Of The Arkansas, Thirteen Miles

Distant, Where That River Makes A Sudden Sweep To The Southeast,

And The Beautiful Valley Of The Walnut, In all Its Vast Area Of

More Than A Million Square Acres, Was From Time Immemorial A Sort Of

Debatable Land, Occupied by None Of The Indian Tribes, But Claimed

By All To Hunt In; For It Was A Famous Pasturage Of The Buffalo.

 

 

 

None Of The Various Bands Had The Temerity To Attempt Its Permanent

Occupancy; For Whenever Hostile Tribes Met There, Which Was Of

Frequent Occurrence, In their Annual Hunt For Their Winter'S Supply

Of Meat, A Bloody Battle Was Certain To Ensue.  The Region Referred

To Has Been The Scene Of More Sanguinary Conflicts Between The

Different Indians Of The Plains, Perhaps, Than Any Other Portion

Of The Continent.  Particularly Was It The Arena Of War To The Death,

When The Pawnees Met Their Hereditary Enemies, The Cheyennes.

 

 

 

Pawnee Rock Was A Spot Well Calculated by Nature To Form, As It

Has Done, An Important Rendezvous And Ambuscade For The Prowling

Savages Of The Prairies, And Often Afforded them, Especially The

Once Powerful And Murderous Pawnees Whose Name It Perpetuates,

A Pleasant Little Retreat Or Eyrie From Which To Watch The Passing

Santa Fe Traders, And Dash Down Upon Them Like Hawks, To Carry Off

Their Plunder And Their Scalps.

 

 

 

Through This Once Dangerous Region, Close To The Silent Arkansas,

And Running Under The Very Shadow Of The Rock, The Old Trail Wound

Its Course.  Now, At This Point, It Is The Actual Road-Bed of The

Atchison, Topeka, And Santa Fe Railroad, So Strangely Are The Past

And Present Transcontinental Highways Connected here.

 

 

 

Who, Among Bearded and Grizzled old Fellows Like Myself, Has Forgotten

That Most Sensational Of All The Miserably Executed illustrations

In The Geographies Of Fifty Years Ago, "The Santa Fe Traders Attacked

By Indians"?  The Picture Located the Scene Of The Fight At Pawnee

Rock, Which Formed a Sort Of Nondescript Shadow In the Background

Of A Crudely Drawn Representation Of The Dangers Of The Trail.

 

 

 

If This Once Giant Sentinel[61] Of The Plains Might Speak, What A

Story It Could Tell Of The Events That Have Happened on The Beautiful

Prairie Stretching Out For Miles At Its Feet!

 

 

 

In The Early Fall, When The Rock Was Wrapped in the Soft Amber Haze

Which Is A Distinguishing Characteristic Of The Incomparable Indian

Summer On The Plains; Or In the Spring, When The Mirage Weaves Its

Mysterious Shapes, It Loomed up In the Landscape As If It Were A Huge

Mountain, And To The Inexperienced eye Appeared as If It Were The

Abrupt Ending Of A Well-Defined range.  But When The Frost Came,

And The Mists Were Dispelled; When The Thin Fringe Of Timber On The

Walnut, A Few Miles Distant, Had Doffed its Emerald Mantle, And

The Grass Had Grown Yellow And Rusty, Then In the Golden Sunlight

Of Winter, The Rock Sank Down To Its Normal Proportions, And Cut

The Clear Blue Of The Sky With Sharply Marked lines.

 

 

 

In The Days When The Santa Fe Trade Was At Its Height, The Pawnees

Were The Most Formidable Tribe On The Eastern Central Plains, And

The Freighters And Trappers Rarely Escaped a Skirmish With Them

Either At The Crossing Of The Walnut, Pawnee Rock, The Fork Of The

Pawnee, Or At Little And Big Coon Creeks.  To-Day What Is Left Of

The Historic Hill Looks Down Only Upon Peaceful Homes And Fruitful

Fields, Whereas For Hundreds Of Years It Witnessed nothing But Battle

And Death, And Almost Every Yard Of Brown Sod At Its Base Covered

A Skeleton.  In place Of The Horrid Yell Of The Infuriated savage,

As He Wrenched off The Reeking Scalp Of His Victim, The Whistle Of

The Locomotive And The Pleasant Whirr Of The Reaping-Machine Is