THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL - COLONEL HENRY INMAN (surface ebook reader .TXT) 📗

The Fort,

Which Terrified these So Greatly That They Broke Away From The Herders,

And Started at Their Best Gait Toward The Mountains, Closely Followed

By The Savages.

 

 

 

The Astonished soldiers Used every Effort To Avert The Evident Loss

Of Their Charge, And Many Shots Were Exchanged in the Running Fight

That Ensued; But The Indians Were Too Strong For Them, And They Were

Forced to Abandon The Chase.

 

 

 

Among The Herders Was A Bugler Boy, Who Was Remarkable For His Bravery

In The Skirmish And For His Untiring Endeavours To Turn The Animals

Back Toward The Fort, But All Without Avail; On They Went, With The

Savages, Close To Their Heels, Giving Vent To The Most Vociferous

Shouts Of Exultation, And Directing The Most Obscene And Insulting

Gesticulations To The Soldiers That Were After Them.

 

 

 

While This Exciting Contest For The Mastery Was Going On, An Old

Apache Chief Dashed in the Rear Of The Bold Bugler Boy, And Could,

Without Doubt, Easily Have Killed the Little Fellow; But Instead Of

Doing This, From Some Idea Of A Good Joke, Or For Some Other

Incomprehensible Reason, His Natural Blood-Thirsty Instinct Was

Changed, And He Merely Knocked the Bugler'S Hat From His Head With

The Flat Of His Hand, And At The Same Time Encouragingly Stroked his

Hair, As Much As To Say: "You Are A Brave Boy," And Then Rode Off

Without Doing Him Any Harm.

 

 

 

Thirty Years Ago Last August, I Was Riding From Fort Larned to Fort

Union, New Mexico, In the Overland Coach.  I Had One Of My Clerks

With Me; We Were The Only Passengers, And Arrived at Fort Dodge,

Which Was The Commencement Of The "Long Route," At Midnight.

There We Changed drivers, And At The Break Of Day Were Some

Twenty-Four Miles On Our Lonely Journey.  The Coach Was Rattling

Along At A Breakneck Gait, And I Saw That Something Was Evidently

Wrong.  Looking Out Of One Of The Doors, I Noticed that Our Jehu Was

In A Beastly State Of Intoxication.  It Was A Most Dangerous Portion

Of The Trail; The Indians Were Not In the Best Of Humours, And An

Attack Was Not At All Improbable Before We Arrived at The Next

Station, Fort Lyon.

 

 

 

I Said To My Clerk That Something Must Be Done; So I Ordered the

Driver To Halt, Which He Did Willingly, Got Out, And Found That,

Notwithstanding His Drunken Mood, He Was Very Affable And Disposed

To Be Full Of Fun.  I Suggested that He Get Inside The Coach And

Lie Down To Sleep Off His Potations, To Which He Readily Assented,

While I And My Clerk, After Snugly Fixing Him On The Cushions,

Got On The Boot, I Taking The Lines, He Seizing an Old Trace-Chain,

With Which He Pounded the Mules Along; For We Felt Ourselves In a

Ticklish Predicament Should We Come Across Any Of The Brigands Of

The Plains, On That Lonely Route, With The Animals To Look Out For,

And Only Two Of Us To Do The Fighting.

 

 

 

Suddenly We Saw Sitting On The Bank Of The Arkansas River, About

A Dozen Rods From The Trail, An Antiquated-Looking Savage With His

War-Bonnet On, And Armed with A Long Lance And His Bow And Arrows.

We Did Not Care A Cent For Him, But I Thought He Might Be One Of

The Tribe'S Runners, Lying In wait To Discover The Condition Of The

Coach--Whether It Had An Escort, And How Many Were Riding In it, And

That Then He Would Go And Tell How Ridiculously Small The Outfit Was,

And Swoop Down On Us With A Band Of His Colleagues, That Were Hidden

Somewhere In the Sand Hills South Of The River.  He Rose As We Came

Near, And Made The Sign, After He Had Given Vent To A Series Of

"How'S!" That He Wanted to Talk; But We Were Not Anxious For Any

General Conversation With His Savage Majesty Just Then, So My Clerk

Applied the Trace-Chain More Vigorously To The Tired mules, In order

To Get As Many Miles Between Him And The Coach As We Could Before

He Could Get Over Into The Sand Hills And Back.

 

 

 

It Was, Fortunately, A False Alarm; The Old Warrior Perhaps Had No

Intentions Of Disturbing Us.  We Arrived at Fort Lyon In good Season,

With Our Valorous Driver Absolutely Sobered, Requesting Me To Say

Nothing about His Accident, Which, Of Course, I Did Not.

 

 

 

As Has Been Stated, The Caravans Bound For Santa Fe And The Various

Forts Along The Line Of The Old Trail Did Not Leave The Eastern End

Of The Route Until The Grass On The Plains, On Which The Animals

Depended solely For Subsistence The Whole Way, Grew Sufficiently To

Sustain Them, Which Was Usually About The Middle Of May.  But A Great

Many Years Ago, One Of The High Officials Of The Quartermaster'S

Department At Washington, Who Had Never Been For A Moment On Duty

On The Frontier In his Life, Found A Good Deal Of Fault With What He

Thought The Dilatoriness Of The Officer In charge At Fort Leavenworth,

Who Controlled the Question Of Transportation For The Several Forts

Scattered all Over The West, For Not Getting The Freight Caravans

Started earlier, Which The Functionary At The Capital Said Must And

Should Be Done.  He Insisted that They Must Leave The Missouri River

By The Middle Of April, A Month Earlier Than Usual, And Came Out

Himself To Superintend The Matter.  He Made The Contracts Accordingly,

Easily Finding Contractors That Suited him.  He Then Wrote To

Headquarters In a Triumphant Manner That He Had Revolutionized the

Whole System Of Army Transportation Of Supplies To The Military Posts.

Delighted with His Success, He Rode Out About The Second Week Of May

To Salt Creek, Only Three Miles From The Fort, And, Very Much To His

Astonishment, Found His Teams, Which He Had Believed to Be On The

Way To Santa Fe A Month Ago, Snugly Encamped.  They Had "Started,"

Just As Was Agreed.

 

 

 

There Are, Or Rather Were, Hundreds Of Stories Current Thirty-Five

Years Ago Of Stage-Coach Adventures On The Trail; A Volume Could Be

Filled with Them, But I Must Confine Myself To A Few.

 

 

 

John Chisholm Was A Famous Ranchman A Long While Ago, Who Had So Many

Cattle That It Was Said He Did Not Know Their Number Himself.  At One

Time He Had A Large Contract To Furnish Beef To An Indian Agency

In Arizona; He Had Just Delivered an Immense Herd There, And Very

Wisely, After Receiving His Cash For Them, Sent Most Of It On To

Santa Fe In advance Of His Own Journey.  When He Arrived there,

He Started for The Missouri River With A Thousand Dollars And

Sufficient Small Change To Meet His Current Expenses On The Road.

 

 

 

The Very First Night Out From Santa Fe, The Coach Was Halted by A

Band Of Men Who Had Been Watching Chisholm'S Movements From The Time

He Left The Agency In arizona.  The Instant The Stage Came To A

Standstill, Chisholm Divined what It Meant, And Had Time To Thrust

A Roll Of Money Down One Of The Legs Of His Trousers Before The Door

Was Thrown Back And He Was Ordered to Fork Over What He Had.

 

 

 

He Invited the Robbers To Search Him, And To Take What They Might

Find, But Said He Was Not In a Financial Condition At That Juncture

To Turn Over Much.  The Thieves Found His Watch, Took That, And Then

Began To Search Him.  As Luck Would Have It, They Entirely Missed

The Roll That Was Down His Leg, And Discovered but A Two-Dollar Bill

In His Vest.  When He Told Them It Was All He Had To Buy Grub On

The Road, One Of The Robbers Handed him A Silver Dollar, Remarking

As He Did So: "That A Man Who Was Mean Enough To Travel With Only

Two Dollars Ought To Starve, But He Would Give Him The Dollar Just

To Let Him Know That He Was Dealing With Gentlemen!"

 

 

 

One Of The Essentials To The Comfort Of The Average Soldier Is

Tobacco.  He Must Have It; He Would Sooner Forego Any Component Part

Of His Ration Than Give It Up.

 

 

 

In November, 1865, A Detachment Of Company L, Of The Eleventh Kansas

Volunteers, And Of The Second Colorado Were Ordered from Fort Larned

To Fort Lyon On A Scouting Expedition Along The Line Of The Trail,

The Savages Having Been Very Active In their Raids On The Freight Caravans.

 

 

 

In A Short Time Their Tobacco Began To Run Low, And As There Was No

Settlement Of Any Kind Between The Two Military Posts, There Was No

Chance To Replenish Their Stock.  One Night, While Encamped on The

Arkansas, The Only Piece That Was Left In the Whole Command, About

Half A Plug, Was Unfortunately Lost, And There Was Dismay In the

Camp When The Fact Was Announced.  Hours Were Spent In searching For

The Missing Treasure.  The Next Morning The March Was Delayed for

Some Time, While Further Diligent Search Was Instituted by All Hands,

But Without Result, And The Command Set Out On Its Weary Tramp,

As Disconsolate As May Well Be Imagined by Those Who Are Victims To

The Habit Of Chewing The Weed.

 

 

 

Arriving at Fort Lyon, To Their Greater Discomfort It Was Learned

That The Sutler At That Post Was Entirely Out Of The Coveted article,

And The Troops Began Their Return Journey More Disconsolate Than Ever.

Dry Leaves, Grass, And Even Small Bits Of Twigs, Were Chewed as A

Substitute, Until, Reaching The Spot Where They Had Lost The Part Of

A Plug, They Determined to Remain There That Night And Begin A More

Vigorous Hunt For The Missing Piece.  Just Before Dark Their Efforts

Were Rewarded; One Of The Men Found It, And Such A Scramble Occurred

For Even The Smallest Nibble At It!  Enormous Prices Were Given For

A Single Chew.  It Opened at One Dollar For A Mere Sliver, Rose To

Five, And Closed at Ten Dollars When The Last Morsel Was Left.

 

 

Chapter XXII (A Desperate Ride)

In The Rocky Mountains And On The Great Plains Along The Line Of The

Old Trail Are Many Rude And Widely Separated graves.  The Sequestered

Little Valleys, The Lonely Gulches, And The Broad Prairies Through

Which The Highway To New Mexico Wound Its Course, Hide The Bones Of

Hundreds Of Whom The World Will Never Have Any More Knowledge.

The Number Of These Solitary, And Almost Obliterated mounds Is Small

When Compared with The Vast Multitude In the Cemeteries Of Our Towns,

Though If The Host Of Those Whose Bones Are Mouldering Under The

Short Buffalo-Grass And Tall Blue-Stem Of The Prairies Between The

Missouri And The Mountains Were Tabulated, The List Would Be Appalling.

Their Aggregate Will Never Be Known; For The Once Remote Region Of

The Mid-Continent, Like The Ocean, Rarely Gave Up Its Victims.

Lives Went Out There As Goes An Expiring Candle, Suddenly, Swiftly,

And Silently; No Record Was Kept Of Time Or Place.  All Those Who

Thus Died are Graveless And Monumentless, The Great Circle Of The

Heavens Is The Dome Of Their Sepulchre, And The Recurring Blossoms

Of Springtime Their Only Epitaph.

 

 

 

Sometimes The Traveller Over The Old Trail Will Suddenly, In the Most

Unexpected places, Come Across A Little Mound, Perhaps Covered with

Stones, Under Which Lie The Mouldering Bones Of Some Unfortunate

Adventurer.  Above, Now On A Rude Board, Then On A Detached rock, Or

Maybe On The Wall Of A Beetling Canyon, He May Frequently Read, In crude

Pencilling Or Rougher Carving, The Legend Of The Dead Man'S Ending.

 

 

 

The Line Of The Atchison, Topeka, And Santa Fe Railroad, Which

Practically Runs Over The Old Trail For Nearly Its Whole Length To

The Mountains, Is A Fertile Field Of Isolated graves.  The Savage

And Soldier, The Teamster And Scout, The Solitary Trapper Or Hunter,

And Many Others Who Have Gone Down To Their Death Fighting With The

Relentless Nomad Of The Plains, Or Have Been Otherwise Ruthlessly

Cut Off, Mark With Their Last Resting-Places That Well-Worn Pathway

Across The Continent.

 

 

 

The Tourist, Looking From His Car-Window As He Is Whirled with The

Speed of A Tornado Toward The