CHAPTER XIV.

Next morning found us up and away. As the traveling was down grade, we got along nicely. We were very much pleased on reaching the river to find that the sand was packed down owing to the numbers of cattle that had forded the stream during the preceding weeks, and we were able to cross without much difficulty. Having crossed the stream we pulled our outfit into Clem’s ranch, where we sold the greater part of our supplies for a fair price. With a lighter burden, we set out on our way again, leaving the supply trail, and moved in a north-westerly direction toward Meade Co., Kansas. Frequently we were compelled to cross what is called a sand-draw, but we managed to do this without much trouble, as by fastening our lariat ropes to the end of the wagon tongue and fixing the other end to the horn of the saddle we could assist the team in pulling through the canyon and reach the firm footing on the other side. Our route lay through the section about midway the Beverly cow-ranch on the South Sand Creek, and the place where Ashland, the county seat of Clarke County now stands. We crossed several small trails, but as they were running in another direction they could not be of any assistance to us. That evening we made a dry camp, but expected early next day to reach the head waters of Little Sand creek, or as it was afterwards called, Johns Creek, in time to water our stock. We went through the usual procedure of picketing the horses we were using, and hobbling the loose ones, and getting the cattle in shape for the night.

On my tour around the herd I found that there was a dug-out in the neighborhood. I went on a visit of inspection to see if there was any one there, for there seemed to be some signs of improvement around it. I was agreeably surprised to find a solitary man walking around the dug-out, with his hands behind his back and his head bent as though deep in meditation. I decided to call on him and find out something about the topography of the country, also the distance to Crooked Creek, Kansas. I introduced myself and told him the purpose of my visit. Once the ice was broken, the conversation took several turns. From his remarks I gleaned that he had not been there very long, and was likewise anxious to sell out, in fact, he even seemed to insist that I should buy him out. I told him I was sorry that I could not take his offer, as I had some property of my own in Meade County and felt that was all the Kansas real estate I cared to handle just then.

During my interview I cast my eyes around the place to get a general view of my surroundings. I noted that he had placed four forks in the ground and roofed them over with hay and brush, the whole forming a sort of arbor to protect him from the sun and rain. About three feet from the ground he had fixed a scaffold for a bed. I was nonplussed at what I saw, and ventured to inquire the reason of the arbor-like structure. He replied that he was unable to sleep in the dug-out, for he had tried to do so, but found that it was impossible, owing to the number of tarantulas and centipedes that infested the place. The arbor was a partial solution of the difficulty, but did not quite meet all the demands of the situation. The fleas he could not escape, they were in his bedding, and he was unable to discover a means of putting them to flight. What he could not avoid, he had to endure. I could see at a glance that his opinion of farming in Western Kansas was not very elevated. He was determined to sell out at the first opportunity that presented itself. As I had to return to camp to make arrangements for standing night guard over the herd to prevent their wandering off, I bade my new-found acquaintance farewell, wishing him all manner of good fortune in his new home. When I reached our outfit, I found that supper was ready, and we were ready for it. We attended to the duty of providing for the wants of the inner man with considerable alacrity, though our manner of doing so might have lacked some of the etiquette required by the rules and regulations of refined society. After a chat over things in general and prospects in particular, the boys rolled up in their blankets for the night, and I went on my solitary errand of looking after the herd. The stillness of the night was unbroken save by the hooting of an owl in the neighboring canyon, or the barking of a coyote on a side hill. Even they would cease their clamor for a time and then the stillness of the night was appaling. I sat on my pony in meditation evolving thoughts and considerations induced by the calm of the surroundings in which I found myself. My reflections were interrupted by the musical notes of the lone settler, borne over the prairie on the wings of the night. He had a voice that was rich and melodious, though art had never tried to improve the natural gift. The first sweet tones that fell upon my ear were the strains of an old familiar strain I used to hear back home in Canada, and they never seemed sweeter than they did then. I listened entranced. A flood of memories came rushing from some long forgotten corner of my mind, and I sat entranced. I was in hopes that he would repeat the song again, but my hopes were not realized. Instead, he changed off into some old-time granger rhyme that had more philosophy than music in it. It might well be entitled “The Lament of a Kansas Granger.” I was glad when he was through it. Then he came back with one old and ever new, ever welcome and ever sweet, the song called “Home Sweet Home.” I do not believe that the effect produced by Jenny Lind, when she first rendered it could have been as great as that produced in my heart at that moment. The days of boyhood were returned again. I saw the old log house where I was born, and the surrounding forest. I saw my playmates on the green and took part once more in their merry games. Memories came rushing so fast that I could not analyze them in their kaleidoscopic passage through my brain. Half consciously I wiped away a tear that began to trickle down my cheek. The music ceased and I sat as one dazed; only to be rudely awakened by the resumption of the barking of the coyote near at hand. I looked across to where the settler had his home. The embers of his fire were burning low. He must have retired to his arbor for a rest. I could not then imagine why he had chosen that hour of the night to give vent to his feelings in the manner mentioned. It may have been out of the bitterness of a discouraged heart that he poured forth his soul in such harmony, but whatever it was, I must say that he had a very attentive listener in one lone horseman standing guard over a herd of weary cattle.

The hours of the night passed slowly. The silence of the tomb seemed to enfold everything in its mantel. I made my rounds to see that things were in proper condition, and then returned to camp to arouse my partner, Bill, to take up the burden of guarding the herd while I obtained some much needed sleep. It seemed to me that I had hardly lain down when I heard the cook calling to all hands, “Chuckaway,” which, in the language of the civilized nations, means breakfast is ready. I awoke with the call, and found the sun streaming into my face. In the meantime Bill had come in from his tour of inspection, leaving the cattle grazing quietly. It did not take me long to arrange my toilet, a ceremony that the cowpuncher does not usually give much attention to, and I was soon in the midst of the bustle of getting my share of provender for the morning meal. We simply took the first articles of tableware that we happened to find convenient, seized upon the proper allowance of food, and then we sat down on the prairie and gave our undivided attention to the work at hand. As it was agreeable work, we devoted a lot of energy to it, and accomplished the task in a very brief time. This done, we made arrangements to set out again. We rounded up the stock that had wandered off while grazing, got the ponies together, loaded the wagon and were on our way once more.

Having given the boys the direction to follow, I set out to pay a farewell visit to the singer of the night, saying that I would overtake them before they had proceeded very far.

I reached his dug-out and found him up and around. After the usual salutations, I offered my thanks for the pleasure he had afforded me during the preceding night. He thanked me for the compliment, and said that the pleasure was mutual. He said it was a boon to him to have some one call on him, as his nearest neighbor was seven miles distant. Not only that, but there were difficulties about his neighbor coming to visit him as he had only a team of oxen to travel with, and they were not very well broken yet, and travel under such conditions was not very inviting. I saw from the tone of his remarks that he was disconsolate, or rather discouraged by his present condition in life, and I ventured to repeat the advice given by Horace Greeley to young men, namely, “to go West and grow up with the country.” “Oh,” said he, “that is all bosh. That man, Horace Greeley did not know the first ‘jump in the road’ of what he was talking about. When he came through this country, he was riding in a Pullman car, with lackeys and servants to wait upon him. He knew absolutely nothing of the real condition of this country and I am willing to bet that he would not take a thousand dollars and sleep one night in that dug-out of mine. He was a very smart man, well versed in politics, living in New York where he could sit in his parlor and look into his neighbor’s house and see what the family had to eat. Such advice is sound enough in theory when delivered through the columns of the New York Tribune, or in the heat of some political campaign, to an audience composed of tenderfeet, but the same idea promulgated whilst leaning on a hoe handle, between two rows of sorghum, in Western Kansas, would have a different effect. Horace Greeley was a very good citizen, but knew comparatively nothing of the trials and tribulations, privations and hardships, to say nothing of the lives it cost to move the boundary line of civilization one step farther West.” Such were the sentiments of my philosophical friend, and they contained more truth than poetry. By this time the herd was almost out of sight, and I was forced to bid him good-bye, requesting him, at the same time, that if he were ever over in Meade County, to call on me, for there would be a welcome for him at all times and that he would always find the latch on the outside, that meant for him to walk right in and make himself at home. I left him, and as I was topping the crest of the hill I looked back and saw him sitting on the top of his dugout, waving farewell.

“GOOD BYE”

We did not delay for dinner, as we wanted to reach Little Sand Creek, where there was plenty of water. As this was to be our last night out, I can assure you that we did not lose any time along the way. We reached our camping ground about three in the afternoon. As we were only about eight miles from the home ranch, we turned everything loose, and laid ourselves out to have a general good time. The cook had been advertising his ability to make custard pie, and we thought this a convenient opportunity to put his ability to the test. Of course, he had to have milk, for there is no substitute for that article in a first-class custard pie. Being that Bill and I fairly doted on custard pie, it was our duty to provide the milk for the occasion. For the benefit of my readers, let me say that if you have a longing for custard pie, try to throttle it in infancy, or train it so as to render it subject to proper environment, but do not, at any cost, let that hankering exercise its influence on you when you have to invade the rights and privileges of a wild Texas cow,—unless you are prepared to fight to a finish. Bill and I felt equal to the occasion and set out to produce the required article. We chose a cow that seemed to have more milk than her calf required. Bill roped her, threw her down,—which was a cruel thing to do to a young mother—and hog-tied her. I was on hand with a can. I held her down while he was endeavoring to separate her from her milk. With much labor and some verbal protests against her restlessness, he succeeded in extracting about a pint. I took the fruit of our labors and rope up to the camp and proudly gave it to the cook. He informed me that there was not enough for a first-class pie, and I had to enlist the services of Bill once more, to procure the required quantity. It took considerable wrangling with two more of those restless creatures to persuade them to favor us with some of their milk, but in the end we succeeded and returned to camp again. In the meantime the cook had uncovered some turkey eggs that he had found a day or so before, and set to work on his masterpiece—a custard pie. Needless to say, his production was up to the advertisement, and, also, to our expectations.

Our cook was a genius in his line of endeavor. It was a rare thing to meet a cowpuncher who could not turn out biscuits of some degree of edibility, but we had a master hand. When he turned over to the inspection of an outfit such an article of food they were light and fluffy, and when dipped in antelope gravy, one would have to have a case of indigestion in an alarming condition if he could not eat them with an appetite like a section hand. His manner of preparing the dinner table was simplicity itself. He used to spread out the wagon sheet for a table cloth, and use mother earth for the table. When everything was ready he called out “Chuckaway,” and found us ready and willing to pay a compliment to his endeavors.

When we had demolished the supper, and particularly the custard pie, Bill went down to the creek to wash out a few shirts as he did not wish to return to the ranch with his clothing in an unpresentable condition. While he was gone the cook and I played checkers to see who would wash the dishes. I lost.

When the usual routine of camp life with the herd had been completed, we turned in to have one good rest to be ready for the final drive next day. As a reward to Old Jimmie for his fidelity I gave him an extra measure of grain and a few caresses to show that I remembered what he had done for me. Next morning found us about ready to start, when we met with an unavoidable delay, Bill’s shirts were not dry and we could not go without him. We filled in our time picking up wood and filling the waterbucket for future use. In due time Bill’s lingerie was in a proper condition for use, and we were on our way once more.

We set out in a north-westerly direction. When we had gone about two miles we crossed the trail of the wood-haulers coming over from Meade county, for fire wood and fence posts, which they were compelled to collect from the vicinity of Sand Creek, or its tributaries. As the trail was nearly parallel to the direction we were going, we followed it slowly homewards. We halted our herd for the purpose of getting dinner, and to permit the cattle to graze or rest as they wished. We remained a couple of hours, knowing that we could make the home ranch by sundown. We set out for the final drive, moved along slowly, taking things easy as there was no need to hurry. About four o’clock, much to our surprise, it clouded up and a drizzle set in. It was the first rain we had seen in months, and we fairly enjoyed it. However, we put on our slickers to avoid too much of a good thing. It lasted only a short time and then the sun shone again. When the sun broke through the overhanging clouds a peculiar phenomenon presented itself to our view. Not more than two hundred yards in advance of the lead cattle was formed, as if by flash light, a small rainbow directly across the trail. It did not seem to be more than one hundred and fifty yards from side to side, and not more than half that distance in height to the arch overhead. I have seen cyclones, blizzards, and mirages, but I was totally unprepared for such a phenomenon as I then witnessed. I confess, if I had been alone, I would have ridden around it rather than pass through the archway. I could not give a scientific explanation of the affair, and luckily for me Bill did not ask for one, as he was one of those impulsive, unimaginative men who take things as they see them and inquire not into the causes that lead to their existence. Not so with the teamster, he was from Arkansaw, and was very superstitious. When he saw the wondrous arch stretched from side to side before him, he stopped the team until Bill shouted at him to go on and not be a fool. He got in motion with fear and trembling. The cattle seemed to realize that there was something strange about the affair and crowded through as though going through a gateway. When we had passed on for some distance I looked back, and the phenomenon was gone. I asked the teamster why he had stopped the team, and he gave me a characteristic reply, “Gosh, I was afraid it would fall on me. I heard a Sunday School teacher say once that the Lord was going to put up one of those things every once in a while to show that he was not going to destroy the earth by flood any more.” “That’s all right for Western Kansas,” said Bill, “but it does not apply to Arkansaw where they are drowned out every spring.”

We reached our ranch by sundown, and turned the cattle loose to graze. We unsaddled our horses with a sigh of relief that the long trip into the Territory was over. By the time we washed ourselves and combed the sand out of our whiskers, supper was ready and we sat down and placed our feet under a table for the first time in months.

CHAPTER XV.

On the day set aside for the opening of the new territory to homeseekers, all those who had filed on an allotment, were to take their position on a line marked for the purpose, just as the foot-racer toes the scratch awaiting the signal for the dash. Some had been there for some time, others came at the last moment. No one was permitted to invade the new territory until a signal was given and then they were to rush pell-mell to secure the claim they found to be the most in accordance with their wishes. It was a strange sight to behold them drawn up in every conceivable kind of vehicle, and those who had no vehicle were on horse back, mule back, or on foot. Anxiety was pictured on every countenance. Those who had waited longest had their patience tried to the limit. In order to insure every man a chance for an equal opportunity, a company of soldiers was drawn up to prevent any one taking any undue advantage of his neighbor. At least, they were supposed to do so, but under the cover of darkness during the night before, hundreds of persons known afterwards as “Sooners,” crept through the line and hid themselves in some convenient ravine and remained there under cover until the signal was given next day. These men, as soon as the word was given to go, rushed out and staked a claim, and when the lawful owners appeared, they were ordered to move on, and the order was enforced at the end of a gun. The Sooner was not only in possession, but stood ready to defend his claim against all comers as he had witnesses to prove his statements about the preemption of the property and his prior right to the land in question.

On the day appointed for the start of the race, every one was in a fever of expectancy. The starter was eyed keenly in his every move to detect some indication of the signal about to be given. Horses heads were pushing over the line, the driver standing in his wagon ready to ply the whip to produce the required speed for the occasion, old ramshackle buggies were there whose very appearance signified that this was likely to be their last run. Even oxen with their necks bent beneath the weight of their bows, felt the fever of the excitement and were anxious to be off. Horsemen stood in the stirrups with a quirt ready, to make a dash across the rolling plains. As the hands of the watch crept toward twelve, one could notice a tightening of the jaws and a look of grim resolve come over the countenances of those participating in the race. Eagerly they looked for the signal, slowly the hands of the watch in the timekeepers hand moved on. The starter was seen to move hand to the pistol scabbard and draw his weapon. Up it rose slowly in the air and absolute silence prevailed. For one moment he held the gun aloft and then, “Bang” went the forty-five and the race was on. Yelling, whooping, swearing, off they dashed in their mad flight. Wagons rumbled and bounded over the uneven ground, whips were wielded with pitiless abandon; horses dashed in mad affright to gain the front of the wild careening mob; oxen tossing their wide-spreading horns, with lumbering gait, dragged their burden of a rattling wagon in their mad dash. All was confusion in the first mad plunge. Then slowly but surely the better mounted and better bred gradually drew away from their slower-footed competitors, and disappeared on the horizon. Naturally those in advance secured the better locations, excepting where the sooners had stealthily pre-empted some desirable location. With the slower ones, it was a case of take that was left and make the best of it. In case a man found himself dispossessed by a Sooner, there was only one recourse remaining and that was to buy him out at once, or go to court about the matter, and that was as hazardous as trying to drive him out, as the courts were largely operated on the kangaroo plan. The judge of today might be the criminal of tomorrow, and the criminal of today might be tomorrow seated on the judge’s bench administering justice? in a very summary manner.

This transpired a quarter of a century ago, and some of those who went into court to contest for their rights are still pleading their cases with little likelihood of their ever attaining a solution of the difficulty as long as there are fees to be collected.

I noticed in my experience during the opening of the territory to homeseekers, that Cash, Clemency, and Justice traveled on parallel lines, and when the Cash failed to put an appearance, Clemency and Justice disappeared also, as the dew dissolves before the morning sun. There were some Sooners sent to the penitentiary for perjury, but they were likely to be pardoned in time to vote at the next election. In view of the number of felons who have been set at liberty, one is forced to conclude that there have been some very tender-hearted Governors in the state.

When the first homeseekers were drawing up in line for the mad race across the plain, I joined them. I was very curtly told that I had not any right to take part in the free-for-all scramble for property, as I had 640 acres of land in the Panhandle of Texas. Being that they felt that way about it, I did not press my right, but gracefully withdrew, and took only an observer’s interest in the headlong gallop that occurred. When the excitement had somewhat subsided, I returned to my holdings in the Panhandle and took up the burden of making what improvements I thought necessary to make it a desirable homestead. I had in view the completion of an irrigation ditch that I had begun before I left to see the opening in Oklahoma. On my return I hired a few laborers to help with the work. It took considerable labor and money to complete the task, and when I had it done, I found that all my labor and money had been in vain. When I did not need water, there was too much of it, and when I did need it, the creek that was to furnish me the supply, was as dry as a bone. I became disgusted with that place and sold out for about fifty per cent of what the improvements cost me. Times were hard just then. There was but little money in the country, a long hard winter had killed off multitudes of the range cattle, and the long dry summer had killed off all hopes of relief to be found in successful farming. To make our condition more lonely, the mail facilities were not what they should have been for some time. Sometimes a week would elapse, and very frequently several weeks would pass by without our hearing anything from the outside world. Our postmaster was not entirely to blame as he did the best he could in fulfilling his duties. As he could read or write very little, it placed him at a great disadvantage, but he struggled along against the disadvantage of his lack of training to try to satisfy his patrons. When the mail arrived, he opened the sack and dumped the contents out on a barrel head and permitted each patron to help himself. If Big Jim, or Little Ike happened to be in from some ranch or other, they would look over the pile and take the number of letters they thought belonged to their respective ranches, put them in the pocket of their slicker, mount their ponies and ride away. Perhaps, in a week or so, some of the letters would be returned to the office marked, “opened by mistake,” and others were never returned at all. I will say that there were more letters opened by mistake in that office than in any office in the whole United States, taking into consideration the numbers of letters received. As many years have passed since that time, I have often wondered what became of the efficient postmaster of Wolf Creek. As he was a good, loyal Democrat of the Andrew Jackson type, I thought I might see him some time in the Oklahoma Senate, but have looked in vain. He may have received an appointment to an Ambassadorship in Mexico, but I have not heard of it. However, wherever he is, if he be living, I wish him well.

About the time of which I am writing, it was currently reported and generally believed that a millionaire named George R. Timms was building a city at the head of Kiowa Creek, and that there were churches, schools, and all the improvements that go to make a prosperous town. One could get all the advantages of such a place by buying a lot or two on the installment plan. I decided to take advantage of such a brilliant opportunity of getting into closer touch with civilization. I rounded up my horses and cattle and set out toward the land of so much promise. Imagine my surprise and even astonishment when I reached the place, to find it almost totally abandoned. I rode around through the deserted streets without seeing a single person. I was about to pronounce the thing a complete failure, from the point of view of population, when I discovered a bench-legged, bullet-eyed individual approaching me. Where he came from I do not know. In questioning him about the place I was informed that he had been one of the original inhabitants, that the rest had left, but he couldn’t get away for lack of means. In his desire to take advantage of opportunity, he offered to sell me a town lot. I replied that I did not think there was any great demand for town lots just then, and that there was little likelihood of a boom there for some time if present conditions were any indication of the business prospects of the town. I inquired where I could find a house to move into, and he told me to take my choice of the whole place. I looked the town over and finally decided that the hotel was about the best building for my purposes just then. There I remained during my stay in Timms City. I made some further inquiries of my fellow townsman as soon as I had taken up my abode in the Timms House, and he told me that all the population had gone away to Oklahoma to take up land; that there were only two persons left behind. I remained in the forsaken city for some time, and spent my leisure moments in hunting antelope. I did not meet with much success in this line of endeavor, as there were very few left in the locality.

One day, while sitting in front of my new abode, I was called upon by some ranchmen in the neighborhood. They asked me if I would take charge of the postoffice. They explained that it was very difficult for them to get their mail, and if that office was closed up, it would leave them in a very serious predicament. I replied that it was impossible for me to take charge of the office as I was about to take a trip East, and hence would not be able to attend to the official duties of the place. I told them that I appreciated the confidence they had in me, a stranger, thanked them for the offer, but declined firmly to undertake the duties of the position. I made mention of the fact that my wife had had some experience in the work, and if she would be willing to undertake the running of the place, it would be agreeable to me. She undertook the task and after three months of trouble and worry incident to the business, the returns showed that she had received ONE DOLLAR AND THIRTY-NINE CENTS, a handsome sum for the time and energy spent upon the thankless task. After that matter was disposed of, they requested me to accept the office of “Justice of the Peace,” an offer that I declined, as I never had any hankering for political preferment. They told me they had to find some one to fill the office until the next election took place. They gave me to understand that the man who had filled that important position knew nothing of the Texas laws. To give me an example of his mental acumen and his judicial integrity, they said that, on one occasion he tried a man for stealing a cow. The theft was proven beyond the shadow of a doubt. When the evidence was all in, he took the case under advisement for ten days, and then he sent the man who owned the cow to jail for ninety days and turned the thief loose. When asked why he had taken such a course in his administration of justice, he replied that, in his judgment, they were both thieves, and he had sent the man to jail who could best endure the confinement.

CHAPTER XVI.

I made up my mind to make a journey down through that section to learn something of the topography of the place and also to find a good location in which to make a settlement when it was opened for the purpose. I fitted out my wagon with the necessary supplies for the jaunt, took five head of horses, and took my little boy, Emmet, then about twelve years of age, for company. When all preparations were properly made, we started out on what was to be a perilous journey.

On our first night out, we stayed with Judge Gard, on Mammoth Creek. He was County Judge, one of those whole-souled men who never knew what it was to pull in the latch-string-that hung on his door. We spent the evening very pleasantly exchanging experiences of former days. Next morning we set out before dawn, and sunrise found us on Wolf Creek trail. We followed this along the creek until we reached its mouth, where it joins the Beaver, and forms the head-waters of the North Canadian River, about a mile and a half from Ft. Supply. From there we took the trail leading to the little town of Woodward, only a station erected alongside the railroad which had been recently built through that country. Here I had the pleasure of meeting Thomas Bugbee, an old-time cowmen who was shipping his cattle preparatory to leaving the Cherokee Strip. I had a friendly chat with him, and then pulled out and proceeded on my way along the Canadian River. We had not gone very far on our way when we met an old frontiersman and prince of scouts, Amos Chapman, taking a band of Cheyenne Indians to Camp Supply to draw their rations. As it was now past noon, we stopped to let the horses graze while we prepared something for our wants. Whilst there we inquired of Amos how things were running down the river. He told us something about the excitement that had been stirred up. While we were eating the Indians filed by, and their appearance was not any too encouraging. Before parting with us, he advised us to keep a close watch on them as they were all affected with the Messiah Craze; that they had been making medicine, and were liable to break out at any time, but that up to the present they had done nothing more than was customary with them. As he had several bullet marks as souvenirs of former encounters with them, and had also lost one leg in an Indian fight, I knew that I was talking to a man of no small experience, and felt that his advice was worth taking. He noticed that I had some good horses with me, and warned me to keep them picketed close to me while I slept, as a good horse was a very great temptation to an Indian, especially a bad one, but generally speaking my stock was safe enough. I thanked him for his counsel, and as the afternoon was fast slipping away, I moved on.

As the cowmen had nearly all left that part of the country, and as the Indians had all gone to Camp Supply for their rations, we did not meet many travelers on the trail that afternoon. We went into camp early, and pursuant to the advice given us, we picketed our horses near at hand. There was no curfew rung that night, but there was a good substitute, for, about a mile away there was camped a company of soldiers, sent out from the Fort ostensibly for the purpose of exercise, but in reality to watch the movements of the Indians. At the passing of every hour we could hear the sentry call out that all was well. As this was my first night to camp out in some time I did not sleep very well, and, consequently, was up at daybreak ready to start. The usual formalities of breakfast for ourselves and attention to our outfit had been attended to, and we took up our journey once more. We had not gone more than a mile when I discovered a lone man standing beside the trail with a gun in his hands. What he was doing there was a mystery to me. I could not see any horse near him, nor was there anything else in sight to give a clue to his presence there. In the meantime I kept moving on, with one eye on the man and the other on the trail. When I was within a few hundred yards of him, he raised his gun and fired. I could see the smoke and hear the report, but could not discover the object he was trying to shoot. As I approached him, I discovered that the man before me was an Indian, bare-headed with his hair plaited down his back, and wearing a good suit of Uncle Sam’s clothes. His foot-gear consisted of a nicely beaded pair of moccasins. His was a majestic figure as he stood there straight as an arrow and measuring about six feet, four inches in height. He saluted me with the customary Indian, “How,” and I returned his salutation. I enquired of him what the difficulty was, as it was an unusual thing to meet a lone Indian on the prairie. I knew there was something out of the ordinary, or he would not be there. Then my difficulty began. He knew comparatively nothing of the English language and I knew less of his sign mode of communication. He seemed rather eager to communicate with me, and I was anxious to know the cause of his rather unusual predicament. It seemed a hopeless task to try to make anything out of what he was trying to tell me. However, by battling with his broken English, and mixing in a few Cheyenne words that I knew, I arrived at some solution of the difficulty. The fact was that he had been over on the South Canadian on some mission from the sub-agency, and his horse had thrown him and left him afoot on the prairie. As there were no Indians in the neighborhood from whom he could borrow a horse, (they were all away attending the Messiah dance), he was trying to make his way back on foot. As he had had nothing to eat since the day before he had been trying to shoot a prairie dog, but he had met with no success. Then I knew that he was hungry.

The Government has succeeded in moving the Indians around from one agency to another, and in some instances the agents have plundered the wards of the Government of their provisions and clothing, but they have never succeeded in removing a live Indian’s appetite.

That Indian’s condition aroused my sympathy, and I felt that something should be done to relieve his immediate wants. I reached behind the seat to the grub-box, and brought forth some cold biscuits that remained from the meal of the day before. When he saw what I had in my hand, a broad smile of satisfaction spread over his face. When I saw that he relished the biscuits so much, I cut open a can of tomatoes and handed it to him. This seemed to delight him even more than did the biscuits, and it was a pleasure to see him drink the liquid first and then with a broad grin eat the tomatoes one after another with all evidence of deep content. There I was doing as the Good Samaritan had done, to the man that I thought was standing beside the trail to shoot me. During my interview with the Indian, one of the horses had strayed away some distance, and Emmet had ridden after him to bring him back to the buck-board. When the Indian saw him, he said admiringly, “Heap good papoose.” He seemed to take a great interest in the boy, but I was wondering whether it was the boy or the rifle he was carrying on his saddle. As I had learned the direction of his teepee I invited him to take a seat beside me so that we might be moving onward. When he settled himself into the seat, he gave a loud grunt of satisfaction. We rode along for several miles to where the river make a bend, and came close to the trail. There I decided to camp as it was convenient for wood and water. I turned in there, and I had no sooner stopped than the Indian was out gathering wood and kindling to start a fire. I unhitched and Emmet drove the horses down to the river to get a drink, and let them graze until they were needed again. At this time I needed no interpreter. I handed the Indian a knife and a side of bacon, pointed to the skillet, and he understood the signs perfectly. He immediately set to work to attend to the frying and I undertook the work of getting the dishes ready for our meal. As I had a guest, I took out an extra quantity of coffee, and an extra plate, etc. The Indian showed himself no novice in the line of cooking, and we soon had a repast ready that would satisfy the craving of any hungry man, prince, potentate, or plebeian. Some folks might think it intolerable to dine in the manner employed on such occasions. We bade defiance to all the germ theories that were being advanced at that time, and adapted ourselves to the conditions of time and place. After the horses had grazed for some time we hooked up again, and set forth without any further ceremony. My guest seemed to wish to communicate some idea to me and kept his hands and fingers as busy as a Drogheda weaver, but all to no purpose as I could not understand him. I drove along on my mission, the Indian all the time making his signs. At times he looked disgusted because he could not break through my ignorance. Probably, if I had made more of an effort, I might have understood enough to avoid some unpleasant complications which followed soon afterwards. In the meantime, Emmet, boylike, had been keeping his eye open for anything in the shape of game and held his gun in readiness to bring it into immediate play. We were jaunting along rapidly enough, and the rattling of the buckboard disturbed the repose of a coyote that was lying in the sage brush along the trail. When he jumped up to take a survey of the situation, Emmet fired at him and, whether through accident or good marksmanship, I cannot say, brought down the beast on the spot. At the crack of the gun, the Indian turned his head just in time to see the coyote fall, then turned loose some more sign language and closed his efforts by saying, “heap good papoose.” We proceeded along our way until we were in the neighborhood of Cantonment. Then my fellow-traveller made a sign that he wanted me to stop, which I did. He left the buckboard and started off through the brush, I suppose, to where his teepee was located, some place along the river.

I learned afterwards through an interpreter that my companion was not a bad Indian, but one of the numerous Red Men appointed by Uncle Sam to look after the movements of the different tribes who at that time were taking part in the Messiah craze, and report to the fort or agency the condition in which he found them.

In the distance I could see the timber which skirts a small creek running into the river, where I concluded there would be a good place to camp as there would be plenty of wood and water there, and likewise good pasture for the horses. It was now past the middle of the afternoon, and I decided to go into camp early so as to have a good night’s rest, and give the horses an opportunity for a good graze to freshen up after the long drive.

It did not take me long to reach the creek, and when I drove over the hill and down into the bottom lands, what was my surprise and consternation to find that I had driven into the storm center of the Messiah Dance then being held on the bank of the river. There were between five hundred and a thousand Chyennes and Arpahoes in the assemblage. Just at the moment they were holding what the cowmen call a “powow.” I was evidently in a very ticklish situation. What to do I did not know. One thing I decided on in a very hasty manner, and that was that there was no use in showing the white feather just then. I drove up within about twenty rods of their headquarters. I got out and began to unhitch. I was certainly taking the dilemma by the horns and determined to make the most of the situation. While trying to make myself feel comfortable, which I was far from doing, I told Emmet to hobble the rest of the ponies to prevent their wandering away. Then I set to work to make flap-jacks and coffee, and I do not believe that flap-jacks were ever turned out under such circumstances before or since. I had been doing a lot of thinking over the situation, but found that, no matter what angle I viewed it from, I was in difficulties. I did not dare to tell Emmet what was passing through my mind for fear he would lose his courage, and I must say that my own was fast ebbing. I did not like to acknowledge to my boy that I was afraid. They say that God hates a liar, and I must say that I am no greater admirer of such a man myself, but when Emmet ask me what the disturbance was all about, I had to evade his question and put him off by saying that there was nothing wrong, that the Indians were out on one of their picnics, which they were accustomed to hold frequently. I knew I was deceiving him, but felt that it was the best I could do under the circumstances. I knew that the Indians claimed to be in touch with Messiah and Messiah had promised to remove the white man and restore the buffalo to his native plains, and I began to think seriously that I might be the first pale-face on which that order might take effect.

While making my flap-jacks for supper, I had a visit from some eight or ten bucks dressed up in white sheets. They came and stood around me in a half circle. They did not speak a word, nor even utter a grunt. I continued to give my undivided attention to the work at hand, apparently unaware of their presence. They remained there motionless as statues for fifteen or twenty minutes. If one of them moved a muscle, I did not know it. Their presence was rather disconcerting, to say the least, but what could I do about it? Why they were wearing those white sheets, I could not understand. It might, probably, have been a part of their regalia for the ceremony. Whatever it was, it did not add anything to my feelings of comfort. At a signal from headquarters they left me as uncerimoniously as they had come. I had a winchester leaning against the front wheel of the wagon, and a six-shooter lying on the top of the grub-box, and Emmet had a rifle close at hand, which went to show that we were pretty well able to look after ourselves in case of emergency. Just then my attention was attracted by the rumbling of wheels and on looking around I saw a man driving a small team of ponies in my direction. I was rather glad of his arrival, whoever he might be. Some one has said that “misery loves company,” and I have yet to learn which was the greater nuisance, my misery or my new-found arrival. I was anxious for a relief from the present embarrassing conditions, and invited him to stop and have something to eat. He complied with my request, or rather invitation. He unhitched his ponies, not a very difficult task as he employed a simplified harness of the chain variety, with corn-husk collars, and no throat-latch to the bridles. When he went towards the wagon the old ponies seemed to know what was coming, and shook their heads and the bridles fell off, and they went to grazing. While Emmet was making more coffee and frying an extra quantity of meat, I went over to inspect his outfit. It was certainly a strange make-up for a man on a journey. There was no bedding in sight, and no kind of cooking outfit. There was an old gun that had once been a flint-lock, and might have seen service in the battle of Waterloo. The breach had been cut off and it had been restocked. The barrel was about four feet long, and for a front sight it had something that very much resembled a brass collar button. The butt of the stock was wrapped in a gunny sack and tied up carefully with binder twine, which I learned afterwards was for the purpose of lessening the concussion on his shoulder when firing it.

My guest sat down to eat, and while he was thus occupied, I made bold to question him as to whence he came and whither he was going. He informed me that he was from Arkansaw and was on his way to No-Man’s Land where he had relations. I then ask him to mention some of the folks he was going to bless with his presence. From the reply he gave me I knew that I was face to face with an artistic liar, as I knew all the settlers up in that part of the country. Having in earlier years made a study of phrenology, I thought this the proper time to put some of the principals I had learned to the test. I began to make a sort of mental examination of the formation of his cranium and came to the conclusion that he would violate at least seven of the commandments without a second thought, and the remaining three would have to depend upon circumstances for their observation. One thing I found in his favor and that was that he would not commit murder as the bump of combativeness was almost entirely lacking a view which in a very short time proved to be correct, for almost immediately, without any preliminaries or forewarning, as if by magic the Messiah Dance was opened, and the man from Arkansaw almost melted away through fear.

As it was now dark, I could see plainly the movements of the Indians by the glare of the camp fires around their teepees. Their leader commenced intoning a wierd Hi-Yi-Hi-Oh-Yip-Yip-Hi-Oh, and maintained the monotonous chant as an accompaniment to the tom-tom. This was kept up without intermission until the first set of dancers became exhausted. Then everything became quiet once more. The silence remained unbroken until the next performance was ready. When the recess had lasted about half an hour, the signal was given a second time, and all the dancers, bucks and squaws, fell into line and began a performance which resembled very much a continuation of the old-time hop-step. They leaped and chanted at the same time. The melody of their song was very much in keeping with the music of the tom-tom, but entirely unlike anything I had ever heard, before or since. Most of the bucks were decorated with the insignia of the rank they held in their respective tribes, while the remainder were clothed in the regulation blanket, moccasins, and breach clouts. The squaws, like their white sisters, endeavored to outdo each other in the matter of fantastic habiliments. They wore no head dress, and their hair was done up in the latest style. They wore some splendid blankets which I judged were of Navajoe make, and were highly ornamented. Besides this they wore moccasins beaded in many colors, and leggings.

Still the dance went on with the same powow, with no variation in the music. It was left for the third and final dance to make the grand display of the evening. When they had enjoyed the second recess in sullen silence, they broke forth in one grand effort to make the finale the piece-de-resistance of the evenings entertainment. They seemed to have restrained themselves for this special production of their hideous and welkin-splitting pandemonium. Everything they had done in the way of cavorting in the complex measures of their former dance, seemed to be nothing to what was expected of them in the last grand splurge. From my own observation of the performance I should best describe it by saying that it seemed as if the infernal regions had been turned loose for a holiday. The readers imagination will have to picture what really took place in that final orgy of riot and disorder. Words cannot adequately describe it, and I would be unwise to attempt to do so. But just to give a faint idea of what really took place I will say that at a given signal they all fell into line again as in the previous performance. In addition to their former efforts, they included the call or cry of every bird or beast known to them, from the guttural growl of the wild bear to the call of the peewee. It was all there in one jumble of discordant sound, the neighing of the horse, the roaring of the bull, the call of the bobwhite, the barking of dogs, the howl of the coyote, the call of the peacock, the familiar gobbling of the wild turkey, etc. This was continued until they dropped from sheer exhaustion. The revel and riot was at length completed and silence reigned again.

In all my experience I have never heard or seen anything like it. Anything that I had ever seen before was like a children’s picnic when compared with the Messiah Dance. I had read of Tam O’Shanter peeping through the crannies of the Auld Kirk of Alloway, feasting his eyes upon the dance of the witches, but it was not to be compared with the Messiah Dance, for here there were real, live mortals enacting a dance that was incomparable in its weird peculiarities.

When the festivities had ceased, I asked my Arkansaw guest what he thought of it. He replied that he had just about concluded to leave at once. “If,” said he, “they do such things in play, what would they do to us if they took the notion to put into practice some of the barbarities for which the Indian is famed.” I told him to get that notion out of his head immediately, for, if he did, the Indians would likely follow him and take his scalp for a prelude to what they would do afterwards to him. I assured him that there was some security in remaining where we were, but that there would be none in leaving, as they would think he was afraid and then would follow him with results not to be desired. After a good deal of persuasion, I induced him to share my blankets with me and my boy, which was a great trial for him.

The bucks and squaws had, by this time, retired to their tents, and everything, was quiet. The camp fires were still burning and lit up the trees and shrubbery so plainly that one could see each separate branch and twig. The reflection of the blaze lit up the little valley in such a way that we seemed to be walled in by a cordon of liquid fire.

As I was fatigued after the day’s journey, I turned in like a trooper’s horse, with my shoes on, to be ready to meet any emergency that might arise. As innocence knows neither crime, nor danger, Emmet was curled up in sleep like a babe in its mother’s arms. But such was not the case of the Arkansaw Traveller. He was lying on the opposite side of the “bed,” next to Emmet, but in spite of the fact that he was removed from me in that manner, I could hear his heart beating so distinctly that it seemed like the fluttering of a bird trying to break from its cage. For myself, I just trusted in a kind Providence, and slept the sleep of the weary.

At daybreak we were up and thankful that we were still alive. We went about the preparation of breakfast as though nothing unusual was taking place around us. As the weather looked as though we would have rain very soon, I set about the task of building a teepee, as I had no shelter. I intended to cover it with a wagon sheet, as that was the most serviceable for the purpose of keeping us dry. In the meantime Emmet had strayed off through the trees and brush to see what he could find in the way of game. I had just cut some willows to make the framework of my teepee, when the boy came running excitedly back to camp and exclaimed, “papa, papa come down to the river and see what those Indians are doing!” As I saw he was excited about something, I dropped everything and followed him to the river which was not far from our camp. There I saw something that was novel to me. There were about five hundred bucks and squaws in the water taking their morning bath. They were not in one group, but were separated about seventy-five yards, bucks in one group and squaws in another. Between them was an imaginary dead line over which, by tribal custom, no young buck or brave had the temerity to cross. They were splashing around in the water like nymphs, disporting themselves after their own fashion. I did not notice that indispensable attache of refined society, the chaperon domineering over those simple, stainless daughters of the plains to keep them from drifting from the path of moral rectitude. A native sense of modesty, as well as tribal traditions dispensed with such a guardian. There was no need of one. There were no ladies of high-degree lolling on benches on the bank, with a broad brimmed hat, and all the other follies that go to make up what is called “style,” neither were there any little, black nosed, red eyed, fluffy-haired dogs with expensive collars around their necks, nor pugs with tails curled up so tightly that it would be almost impossible for their hind legs to touch the ground. No, they were not there, neither were many other devises that go to improve the figure to make it Juno-like, nor were bathing suits in evidence, but in spite of all that they seemed to be enjoying the frolic in the water.

As I had left the kettle of beans simmering on the fire, I had to return and look after them as the mind of the man from Arkansaw was too much perturbed to be in condition to mind anything so commonplace as beans. When I reached my outfit, I was surprised to find a half dozen Indian police awaiting me. They bore a message from the Indian agent stating that he wished to see me. As I was rather anxious to depart from that locality, I was not long in making the necessary arrangements to do so. When I arrived at the agency, I made inquiries of those who were there as to the whereabouts of the agent. I was directed to the office. I entered and introduced myself and inquired what was wanted of me. The agent, who introduced himself as Boak, a very nice gentleman, told me that the Indians were holding their Messiah Dance and did not care for the presence of white folks, as witnesses. As they had seen me begin to build a teepee they came to the conclusion that I was going to become a permanent fixture there, and they requested the agent to invite me to choose another locality for my habitation. Of course, he informed me that I was welcome to such hospitality as the agency could furnish. I believed him and thanked him for his generosity. I assured him that it had not been my intention to disturb the Indians in their religious proceedings. I did not say anything about my being afraid that I would be disturbed by them. It chanced that our feelings in regard to the matter were mutual. The more we discussed the matter, the more he seemed to insist upon my partaking of his hospitality, which led me to believe that he was rather uneasy on account of the Messiah Dance and wanted not only my company, but whatever assistance I could give in case the Indians became threatening. I did not find any fault with him for having that feeling, and it would take a man better versed in Indian lore to tell what was likely to happen next.

As it was getting along in the forenoon, and I saw there was no further use in prolonging the interview, I left the agency, went and got my belongings and set out on my journey up along the river. I took the bottom trail that wound a zig-zag course through the timber. My progress seemed to be made through a leafy tunnel. The trees on each side of the trail were heavily leaved, and the branches above reached across the trail, forming a beautiful corridor-like passage. When I had gone on my way for a mile or more, I happened to glance behind and saw an Indian on a pony, with a winchester across his saddle, who seemed to be following me. I did not like the looks of things just then. I concluded that if the Indian had any trouble he wanted to settle, the best thing was to have the matter attended to without delay. I drove on until I came to a rather lengthy passage, free from windings, and then stopped the team. I motioned for him to come up to where I was. He did so. When he arrived, I asked him in an uncertain tone of voice what he wanted? He uttered but one word, “tobac.” I had about half a sack of Duke’s Mixture which I handed to him. He took it hastily, turned his horse around and plunged into the brush at the side of the trail, and that was the last that I saw of him. I found it hard to reconcile myself to the belief that it was tobacco alone that he was wanting.

The rain had begun falling in the meantime, and to say that it was merely raining will not convey the proper idea to the mind. It poured in torrents, and continued to do so all day long. About noon we stopped and tried to make some coffee for dinner, but it was no use. We set out again and plodded along in the deluge until late in the afternoon. I was continually on the look-out for some sort of shelter, and my sight was at last gratified by observing at some distance from the river, a stockade building. I set off in the direction of the expected shelter, and when I reached it, found that it had a good dirt-roof, but no windows nor doors. It was what is called a wind-break and I determined to preempt it for the night. I knew it belonged to some Indian, but as he was likely off to the Messiah Dance, he would not return just then, and even if he did, I would try to make him as comfortable as circumstances would permit, divide my chuckaway with him, even go so far as to share my blanket with him, but as for deserting that shelter just then, it was not to be thought of. If he were to become hostile and wanted to fight, I would accommodate his longing as there would be little or no chance to seek safety in flight. I made preparations to cook some supper, and Emmet attended to the horses, hobbled them and turned them loose to graze. In the meanwhile, I must not forget to say that Arkansaw had been following me like a shadow ever since I left the agency. To see him as he was then in his bedraggled condition, with his ramshackle outfit, one would think that the genius of famine and desolation had descended upon the land. I carried the chuck-box, bedding, guns, and utensils into the shelter preparatory to getting things ready for supper and bed. I enlisted the services of Arkansaw to gather some wood to build a fire, and I must say as a hauler of wood he was a dismal failure. However, we finally managed to get a fire started and set in to dry our clothes, bedding, etc., along with getting something to eat. We were all ravenously hungry, and the flap-jacks disappeared with wonderful alacrity. When our appetites had been satisfied, things did not look so bad to us. It was not the most comfortable place to spend the night, but it was far better than the rain soaked ground. To add to our discomfort, it began to turn cold. We crawled under the partially dried blankets in the hope that wearied nature would provide a good sound sleep. As we were not distracted by such howling and yelling as we had endured the night before, things would have been favorable for a good night’s rest. But I cannot say there was much prospect for a refreshing sleep as it is one thing to find repose under dry blankets, and another to seek the same balm for a wearied body under bedding that has been exposed to a downpour of rain for hours. No, it was not going to rest, it was just lying down for want of something else to do. I noticed that the heart of the Arkansaw Traveller did not beat as loudly as on the preceding night, and it was not long until he began to snore with all the variations of a steam calliope. I was glad to know that he at least could find sleep under such conditions, but for me, there was not much comfort. I thought that by this time my fellow traveller was over his scare, but in the midst of his dreams he let a yell out of him and exclaimed, “Let up on that, you can’t scalp me, I’m from Arkansaw.” I reached over and gave him a poke in the side and told him that it made no difference whether he was from Arkansaw or New Jersey, that he would be scalped unless he was ready to put up a pretty stiff fight. When we rolled out shivering in the morning, we found that it had frozen during the night. We welcomed the coming of the dawn, as the night had been one continual toss from one side to the other, and no comfort was found. I arose and shook myself to see if I were all there, and found myself intact. The others followed my example with the same results. I stepped outside to see how the horses were faring and found they had wandered off. I left word for Arkansaw to prepare something to eat and went off in search of the ponies. I had a rather good idea of where they had gone, and after walking about a mile I found them. They were huddled together for warmth. Their hobbles were frozen stiff. I removed the frozen hobble from one of them, mounted him, and drove the others back to camp. When I returned to the shelter, breakfast was ready and soon attended to. I gathered up my belongings once more and we set out again. It was a beautiful morning and the sun seemed to be trying to compensate us for the hardship we had endured during the night. The horses seemed anxious to go, and their speed shortened the time of our journey considerably. We rode on for about ten or twelve miles, when we came to a beautiful grazing ground sheltered by a sand hill. With such a fine location I decided that this was a good opportunity to spread out the bedding to dry, and attend to our other wants. It seemed as if we were always hungry, and when a fine opportunity presented itself for preparing a repast, we simply had to yield to the occasion. I set Emmet and Arkansaw to cooking, while I attended to the horses. I then took a ramble around for I had seen where there was evidence of a flock of wild turkeys in the neighborhood. It was no great difficulty to follow their trail in the soft earth, and I soon happened upon a flock of forty or fifty feeding on the heads of wild rye that was growing in a sort of pocket formed by the hill. I took in my surroundings at a glance, and to my agreeable surprise I saw a deer about two hundred yards away nibbling at the leaves of a shin oak. I determined to take a chance with the deer first. I took careful aim and fired. My shot was not true, but I succeeded in breaking his hind leg. He did not seem to realize where the shot came from, and turned and came straight for me. I will admit that his advance upon me was disconcerting as it was so unusual. I waited until he had come within about twenty yards from me, and fired again. The bullet struck within about six inches of where I was aiming, which showed that I was influenced by what is called “buck fever.” While all this was taking place, the turkeys had flown off over the hill. I followed them, knowing that they would not be far away. I came upon them. They were all huddled together in one dense mass. I sent a bullet into the midst of them and succeeded in killing two of them. The others flew away, and I knew by their flight that more of them had been hit. I gathered up the two that I had brought down and took them back to where the deer was lying. I found that I had carried them about as far as I cared to, and went off to get some dinner, intending to have Emmet saddle up his pony and bring them in later. I accompanied him as he was too young to attend to the matter alone. I hung the turkeys on the saddle horn, and the pony seemed to object as he bucked considerably. He did not take kindly to dragging the deer after him and showed his displeasure by performing such gyrations as only a Texas cow pony can accomplish. However, we succeeded in persuading him to perform the task and set out for camp. When we had returned to our outfit, and I had begun to dress the deer, Arkansaw came to me in an apparent state of trepidation and told me that, during my absence, a band of Indians, seven in number had called at the camp and left word for me to leave the reservation. To be sure that I understood him aright, I asked, ‘how many?’ “Seven” said he. I asked him if they were all on horseback and he said that they were, that one of them wore a war-bonnet. I made no reply to this, but when I had completed the task of dressing the deer and turkeys, I made a circle around the camp, about fifty yards out, and found no traces of any Indians being there. When I returned to the camp, I felt satisfied that Arkansaw was about the most artistic and monumental liar west of the Mississippi. I then knew that he was still frightened and wanted to get as far away from there as he could and that as soon as possible. He was afraid to go alone and originated the tale to induce me to set out at once. I did not tell him what I thought of the originality of design he manifested, but if he had an ounce of judgment he would have seen that I would easily detect his falsehood as my horses were all shod, and I could easily detect the marks of the unshod Indian ponies in the soft earth if they had been in the neighborhood. I did not make any preparations to depart immediately, but left Emmet and Arkansaw to look after the things about the camp, and set out again to secure more game if possible. It was with reluctance that my brave? friend consented to do such a little thing as greasing the buckboard, as he felt there was grave danger in delaying there any longer. Before leaving I informed him that I was thinking of departing next morning, but if any more Indians appeared on the scene while I was gone, to inform them that I was not in a hurry to leave those parts, and, furthermore, if they were looking for trouble, I was there to accommodate them.

The absence of danger is sometimes a great stimulus to a man’s courage, and I felt that there was no peril in store for us as it was most likely that there was not an Indian within fifteen miles of us, and, besides I wanted to scare the Arkansaw Traveller properly.

I took my gun and sauntered off over the hill, enjoying the walk after being cramped up in the buckboard. I could have killed several turkeys, but preferred to get another deer if possible. In my meanderings I came upon an Indian grave. He had been laid to rest upon a platform, rolled in his blanket and wrapped in an outer covering of bark. I must confess that I had an uncanny feeling as I approached the last resting place of that noble red man, but it was a sensation entirely different to the ones I had experienced in meeting some of them in the flesh. However, since he was there and I was close by, I thought it a good opportunity to satisfy my curiosity about their customs of burial. I approached him with about as much alacrity as one would expect under the circumstances. I found the blanket in which he was rolled, incrusted with sand that had blown upon it from the neighborhood. It was rotten from long exposure to the elements and had about the same consistency as paper. I turned back one corner to get a view of the condition of the remains. The flesh had disappeared, the long braided hair was there, but from its appearance I could not tell whether he had been there thirty days, or three years. It had a gloss to it that seemed to indicate that his burial took place recently. I turned back the blanket and left him as I found him. I retraced my steps towards camp, as I was beginning to have another attack of what usually ailed me, hunger. On my way, I discovered another deer near the place where I had killed the first one, and was able to bring him down at the first shot. I left him where he fell and went back to where Emmet and Arkansaw were whiling away the time making ready for the next lap of our journey. I sent the boy back with the pony to bring in the game.