The Second William Penn Part 5

We stopped at Big c.o.o.n Creek to get our supper, that was twenty-two miles from where the Indians camped. (We only cooked twice a day, supper was about four o'clock, then we drove long after nightfall). After starting on our journey about five o'clock, going over the hills down to the Arkansas river, we came in sight of the Indian camp which was some ten miles distant. At this camp there were perhaps thirty thousand Indians. At about nine o'clock we were within three miles of their camp and could hear distinctly the drums beating and Indians singing. Col.

Leavenworth said, "That is a war dance, now we must find out the cause of the excitement." There were no roads into the camp and we couldn't get the mules to venture any further on account of the scent of green hides always around an Indian camp, so Col. Leavenworth Jr. and I got off the coach and walked in as close as we consistently could. Soon we saw an Indian boy and Col. Leavenworth asked him in Indian language what was going on at the big camp. The boy told him that the Kiowas and the p.a.w.nees had been at war with each other and that two of the Kiowas had been killed and one of the p.a.w.nees. They had secured the scalp of the p.a.w.nee and had fastened it to a pole, one end of which was securely planted in the ground, and were mourning around it for their own dead.

An Indian thinks he is shamefully disgraced if one of his tribe gets scalped. They will go right to the very mouth of a cannon to save their tribe of such disgrace. Col. Leavenworth says, "I tell you, Billie, I was afraid that some of the whites had been disturbing the Indians, but I knew if I could but get word to Satanta we would be safe." When the boy told us how matters really stood our "hair lowered" and Col.

Leavenworth asked the boy to take us to Satanta's tent.

When we reached Satanta's tent the Indian boy went in and told him that a white man wanted to see him. The old chief came out--we were about twenty feet from the tent--he looked at Colonel Leavenworth first, then at me, whom he recognized. He walked up to within a few feet of Colonel Leavenworth, eyeing him sharply. Colonel Leavenworth spoke his name in the Indian language. Satanta looked at him amazedly--he had not seen him since he had developed into a man and could not realize that this was the favored idol of his hunting trip through the Rocky mountains of Colorado so many years ago. After this moment of surprise had subsided Satanta gave one savage yell and leaped toward Leavenworth Jr. His blanket fell off and he patted the cheek of the colonel, kissed him, hugged him, embraced him again and again, then turned and took me by the hand, grasping it firmly. He gave me a thrilling ill.u.s.tration of his joy over the return of his old-time boy friend which impressed me with the sincerity and true instinct of the Indian attachment for his friends.

Satanta called Col. Leavenworth "ma chessel."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "SATANTA."]

CHAPTER XII.

Billy Ryus and Col. Leavenworth Invade Camp Where There Are 30,000 Hostile Indians.

When Col. Leavenworth introduced Satanta to me he grinningly answered "Si; all my people know this driver, for we have drank coffee with him on the plains before this day." This was spoken in the Indian tongue and interpreted by Col. Leavenworth.

Satanta immediately ordered some of his young warriors to go out and herd our mules for the night--he told them to stake them where they could get plenty of gra.s.s and put sufficient guard to protect them. I told Satanta that we would want to start on our journey by daylight.

Leaving Col. Leavenworth with Satanta I returned to my two coaches two and a half miles back, accompanied by about two hundred or more young Indian lads and la.s.sies. The drivers unhitched the mules from the Concord coach and put the harness up on the front boot of the coach. One of the Indian herders asked me if I had some lariats. I told him I did and he got one and tied it to the end of the coach tongue, then put two lariats on the tongues of each coach, leaving a string about sixty feet long--much to the wonderment of the pa.s.sengers--motioned for me to mount the seat and take up my whip. When I did this all these young Indians, both boys and girls, laughingly took hold of the lariats and started to pull our coach into camp. This occasioned much mirth. This was a great sight for the tender-foot. My pa.s.sengers declared it excelled any fiction they had ever read. The boys and girls pulling and pushing the coaches went so fast that I had difficulty in keeping the little fellows from being run over. I applied the brakes several times.

When we reached the camp the whole tribe began such screeching that many pa.s.sengers took the alarm again. Satanta came out, looking very erect and soldierly, commanded the young men to haul our coach to the front of his lodge so we could see all that was going on. Satanta's next order was for the squaws to get supper. He said to the pa.s.sengers, "We must eat together, lots of buffalo meat and deer." After kindling their fire of buffalo chips they soon had supper "a-going." I ordered my drivers to take bread, coffee and canned goods from our mess box and we dined heartily and substantially.

At eleven o'clock I laid down in the front of my coach and s.n.a.t.c.hed a little sleep. I doubt whether the pa.s.sengers took any sleep. I know that Col. Leavenworth and Satanta were talking at three o'clock in the morning, at which time Satanta called out his cooks and informed us that we must "eat again." We breakfasted together. Just at daybreak the Indians gave the whoop and the little fellows were on hand to haul our coaches outside the camp. They hitched our mules and Satanta and the chiefs of the other tribes went with us about ten miles and stopped and lunched again.

These chiefs begged Leavenworth to come back to their country and take charge of the tribes, giving him as their belief that if he were in charge there would be peace. Satanta called his attention to the battle on the Nine Mile Ridge as well as to the ma.s.sacre where they had suffered so unmercifully.

Satanta told Col. Leavenworth during his ride with us that morning that for the inconvenience suffered by the public the Indian was totally blameless. At no time did his people make the first attack on the whites and take their lives, but that in approaching their caravans and asking for food they were shot down as they had been on the Nine Mile Ridge.

The American soldiers had burned their wigwams, slaughtered their decrepit men, women and children and carried away their provision.

Satanta told Col. Leavenworth that he had heard of the newspapers, the press, and so on. He told him that he knew that they were for the purpose of prejudicing white people against his race. Satanta said that the Indians desired peace as much as did the white man. Leavenworth told the old chief that he regretted the loss of life, but Satanta told him that his regret was no greater than his regret for both the Indians and the whites. This ended the conversation between these two friends. After many adieus they separated, each going his own way.

On our journey to Fort Lyon I casually mentioned the name of Major Anthony (nephew of Governor George T. Anthony, the sixth governor of Kansas). I told him that Major Anthony was very friendly toward the Indians. This is the same Major Anthony who took charge of the Indian agency when Macaulley was discharged so unceremoniously. I told Col.

Leavenworth that Major Anthony had such a rare character that if he had his way about it there would be no war.

Colonel Leavenworth Jr. asked me to introduce him to Major Anthony when we reached Fort Lyon, which I did. Major Anthony asked me if I would wait a couple of hours so he and Colonel Leavenworth could talk over Indian matters a while before we proceeded to Bent's Old Fort, forty miles south of Fort Lyon.

After we started on our route Colonel Leavenworth remarked about the rains which had been falling. I told him I was afraid we would experience some difficulty in crossing the Arkansas river. Sure enough when we reached there the river was a seething ma.s.s of turbulent waters, but we succeeded in crossing safely at Bent's Old Fort. Then we had eighty miles to go before we struck the foothills of the Raton mountains, fording the Picketwaire river at the little town of Trinidad, Colorado, over the Raton mountains. In going up the mountain we crossed the creek twenty-six times.

On this route was a place known to the train men as "The Devil's Gate."

This was a very large rock extending out over the road running close to the creek with a precipice below. We had to use great care and precaution in handling our mules around this rock to take the road. We saw several broken wagons at this point where several freighters had been doomed to bad luck.

We ascended the mountains to the foot where were the headwaters of the Red river, four miles from the Red river station of the stage company, thence to Fort Union, where I delivered Colonel Leavenworth. That was the last time I ever saw him.

CHAPTER XIII.

A "Trifling Incident"--Billy Ryus Runs Risks With Government Property.

Six months after my visit to the camp of Satanta a trifling incident comes to my mind. Crossing Red river which was considerably swollen due to the heavy thaws--the river at this point was only about nine feet across and about two and a half feet deep--but it was a treacherous place because it was so mirey. It stuck many freight wagons--I was in a quandary just how I would cross it. After climbing down off of the coach, looking around for an escape (?), a happy idea possessed me. I was carrying four sacks of patent office books which would weigh about 240 pounds a sack, the sacks were eighteen inches square by four and a half feet long, so I concluded to use these books to make an impromptu bridge. I cut the ice open for twenty inches, wide enough to fit the tracks of the coach for the wheels to run on, then placed four of these sacks of books in the water and drove my mules across Red River. I was fully aware that the books were government property, but from past experience I knew they would never be put to use.

People all along the route were mad because the stage company charged $200 for a pa.s.sage from Kansas City to Santa Fe and knowing that we were compelled to haul the government mail, heavy or light, in the way or out of it, and desiring to "put us to it," kept ordering these books sent them. They never took one of them from the postoffice, hence the acc.u.mulation in the postoffice grew until there was room for little else. These books were surveys and agricultural reports. Unreadable to say the least, but heavy in the extreme. The postoffice at Santa Fe was a little bit of a concern, and the postmaster said there was no room for the books there. Earlier in the year I had carried one of these sacks to the postoffice and had attempted to get the postmaster to accept them as mail. I told him that it was mail and that I had no other place to deposit it. Nevertheless he said he would not have them left at the postoffice and told me do anything I wanted to with them, saying at the time that people all around there had a mania for ordering those books, but never intended to take them when they ordered them. I took the books around to the stage station and discovered four wagonloads of the "government stuff."

At the time I placed the books in Red river I knew that the postmaster would not let them be left there and I knew they might serve the government better in a "bridge" than otherwise. Knowing this I felt that I had a remedy at law and grounds for defense.

The four pa.s.sengers with me "jawed" me quite enough to "extract" the patience of an ancient Job for having treated government property to a watery burial in Red river. Two of the pa.s.sengers were Mexicans and two other men from New York. However, the two Mexicans soon disgusted the other two pa.s.sengers, who took sides with me. The Mexicans said they would report me to the government, and I had no doubt they would.

As soon as I got to Santa Fe I went to see General Harney, ex-governor of New Mexico. I told him what I had done and why I did it. General Harney told me he was glad I had notified him right away and said he would explain this transportation of the patent office books to the fourth a.s.sistant postmaster. I gave him a detailed account of my conversation regarding the disposition of the books to the postmaster the trip before, which conversation he put in the form of an affidavit and took it to the postmaster to verify. The postmaster refused to sign the doc.u.ment, saying that he was no such a fool as that. General Harney reported to the government who ordered the postmaster to rent a room in which to store the government books now in possession of the stage company. I knew that the postmaster was going to get these orders, so I told Mr. Parker, proprietor of the hotel (called in those days the "Fonda") that he could rent the room to the postmaster for $15 per month. He would draw $45 per quarter and net the stage company $30. We conductors made the drivers haul all the books over to the postoffice, and when we had put all inside that we could get in there, obstructing the light from the one solitary window, we put several thousand up on top of the postoffice. Everybody was looking at us and everybody else was laughing.

In a squealy little old voice the postmaster came out and told us to take them to "Parker's Fonda," that he had rented the room for the storage of such trash. Thus it came that the books were placed back in the same room in which they were formerly stored, but they were now paying the stage company rent for "their berths" and continued three years to net the stage company $10 per month.

This transaction caused the government to quit printing these books. The governor sent directions to the Santa Fe Stage Company at Kansas City that should more such books acc.u.mulate they might be delivered by freight. There were no more sent.

CHAPTER XIV.

Tom Barnum Muses Over the Position the Government Will Take in Regard to the Bed of Red River Being Suitable Resting Place for the U.S. Mail.

After having deposited the patent office reports in their watery grave in Red river I met and had an interview with Tom Barnum, one of the owners of the stage line. "Billie, you devil," were his first words to me, "been puttin' the mail in the river, be ye?" I answered, "Yes, sir."

"Well," Barnum said, "didn't you take some pretty risky chances when you did this--are you sure you won't get us into some serious trouble?" I told him that I believed that I had just saved his company not less than $5000 by "dumping" that bulky trash. I told him that the company had made complaints to the government about sending the reports into New Mexico and that the Postmaster General had not given us the consideration we deserved and the postmasters had also refused their acceptance after we had "carted" them to destination. It's my firm belief that in using the books in the manner I did they served the United States better than they could have done any other way. I told Mr.

Barnum how ex-Governor Harney had befriended me in the matter and that I felt safe to say that no bad effects could grow out of my conduct.

This pacified Tom Barnum and I told him that I wanted his company to give me credit for half the money I had saved them on this book hauling business on the day of settlement. I also told him that I had promised to "deadhead" ex-Governor Harney and family (consisting at that time of wife and one child, a daughter fifteen years old) to the states and when they arrived in Kansas City, Missouri, he was to see that they got a pa.s.s over the road to New York City. Barnum wheezed out a little laugh and an exclamation that sounded like "h--l," but finished good naturedly by telling me that he would do it. As our conversation lengthened he said, "Billy, been thinking over this dead-headin' business of yourn,--Billy," again said Mr. Barnum, "you're an accommodatin' devil. I believe if the whole Santa Fe population would jump you for a 'free ride' to Kansas City you would give it to 'em and our company would put on extra stages for their benefit. It don't seem to make any difference to you what the company's orders are, you do things to suit your own little self, 'y bob!" Barnum went on musing, but I kept feeling of my ground and found I was still on "terra firma." "Well," says I, "don't forget all those little points on the day of settlement, especially what I have saved on the book business in the way of 'cartage' and 'storage.'" I told him that I might want to feather a nest some time for a nice little mate and cunning little birdies. This conversation took place at Bent's Old Fort. My next conversation with him took place in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

CHAPTER XV.

Tom Barnum Takes Smallpox. I Visit My Home. Dr. Hopkins Gets Broken Window, a Quarter, and the Ill Will of the Stage Company.

During the year of 1863 I took a notion to "lay off" and go home on a visit. Tom Barnum, one of the owners of the road, was at Santa Fe at that time and was to be one of the pa.s.sengers into Kansas City. I met Mr. Barnum in the "fonda" and he told me he was sick, remarking that he wished he would take the smallpox. I told him he would not want to have it more than once. "Well," said he, "if I took the smallpox it would either cure me of this blamed consumption or kill me." I told him that he wasn't ready to "kick the bucket" yet, for the boys needed him in Kansas City.

Mr. Barnum had been exposed to the smallpox but was not aware of it, so we started to Kansas City. When we arrived in Kansas City we went to the old Gillis hotel, the headquarters for all the stage company's employees. When the doctor came he told him that he had the smallpox, but that he need call no one's attention to it until he had given him leave. The doctor fixed up a bed in the attic, tore a gla.s.s out of the window and took every precaution to keep the pestilence from spreading through the house. The doctor took Tom Barnum up in the attic, placed plenty of water within his reach and put a negro to mind him. Then the doctor went to the office and told Dr. Hopkins that Barnum had the smallpox and was up in the attic. He said to the hotelkeeper that there was no need of announcing it to the boarders, but Dr. Hopkins said he would do it anyway, and for him to get Barnum out of the house and to a hospital, that he would ruin him. That night Dr. Hopkins announced to his guests that Barnum was there with the smallpox. Sixteen of his boarders left "post haste," but the house filled up again before night in spite of the smallpox sign. At that time, in the year of 1863, the Gillis house run by Dr. Hopkins was the only large house in Kansas City in use. There was a new building, the "Bravadere," up on the hill from the levee, but it had not been furnished.

When Barnum got over the smallpox he took the bed out the window and burned it, together with everything else in the room, and thoroughly fumigated the premises.

With a face all scarred with smallpox he then went down to the office and told the proprietor of the hotel what he had done with the furniture, bedding, etc., that he had used while he was sick. He told Dr. Hopkins that he wanted to pay him for the damage and asked him what price he should pay for the furniture he had burned. Hopkins told him he supposed $50 would cover it. Then he asked him how much he had damaged his house. Hopkins again replied that he injured him about $50. "All right," said Tom Barnum, "I'll pay it, but let me ask you how many boarders left you when they heard I was sick in the attic with the smallpox." Mr. Hopkins told him they all left. "So I understand, Mr.

Hopkins, but will you tell me how many came in before night--how many empty beds did you have while I lay ill with smallpox?" Hopkins was hedging, but he had to answer that all his beds were full; that he had no room for more than came, but he said he felt sure that his house had been injured at least $50. Finally Tom Barnum happened to think of the window pane he had left out of his inventory of materials destroyed and mentioned it. Greatly to Barnum's disgust Hopkins scratched his head and replied that he guessed that a quarter would cover the damage to the window.

When this conversation was over and Barnum had paid for all the "smallpox damage" he said, "Now, Hopkins, figure up what our company owes you; I want to pay it, too." "No," said Hopkins, "I haven't time now, I always make out my bills the first of the month." "Well," said Barnum, "you figure our bill up right now and do not include dinner for any of us, for we are leaving you right now, and will never bring a customer to this house again and never come here to get a pa.s.senger nor any one's baggage. In fact, our teams will never come down the hill again to this house, we're quittin'."

The smallpox had left old Barnum pretty weak physically, but had evidently not weakened his will. He left Hopkins in the office figuring up his account and he jumped a-straddle of a bare-backed mule and went up on the hill and rented the new 40-room house, "The Bravadere," and sub-rented enough rooms to pay the expenses of his company. He also got a porter, bus and team and sent to the landing to meet every steam boat to carry pa.s.sengers and their baggage free of charge to his "new hotel"

on the hill. This new hotel got to be all the rage, and the old levee hotel in the bottoms was doomed to be a "thing of the past." The old Gillis hotel on the levee was bought in by the Peet Soap Factory. The old "Bravadere" still stands in Kansas City, but boasts a new brick front.