In the cold weather the hardships were many. There were, remember, no bridges and the roads crossed numerous streams, all of which had to be forded; and there was but one way to cross, and that was to wade and guide a team.

Usually the heavy freighting was done before December, but often it was necessary to fight through blizzards and zero weather. It was this kind of work that tried the soul of even the hardy bullwhacker, and not infrequently his hands, feet, ears or face were frozen. It was hard on the cattle, too, although it was almost always possible to find plenty of good feeding ground of buffalo gra.s.s, which grew in heavy bunches and was very sweet in its dry state, for the wind usually kept places bare.

If not, the bulls would nose it out from under several inches of snow and manage to get something approaching a meal. Otherwise, they went hungry, for no feed of any kind was ever carried for them.

Indians, usually, were too lazy to hunt the white man in winter, so there was seldom any trouble from this source after the first snowfall.

But when the gra.s.s was green it was different, especially in the mountains or foothills. Redskins seldom fought a real battle in the open. To the bullwhacker he was nearly always an invisible foe, shooting his arrows or his gun from behind a rock, or from the top of a bluff, well out of range himself. When the Indians were known to be following an outfit it was common practice to keep a couple of hors.e.m.e.n outriders on each side of the train where possible. Frequently bull trains were obliged to corral and put up a fight, and usually the Indian lost.

CHAPTER III

HUNTON AND CLAY, BULL-TRAIN MAGNATES.

Among the bull-train magnates of the early 70's were Charley Clay, said to be a relative of the famous statesman, and Jack Hunton. They were pioneers of Wyoming who have no doubt been quite forgotten, though in their day none in the then spa.r.s.ely settled frontier territory was better known. They were not only pioneer freighters, but among the very first of the daring frontiersmen to go beyond the limits of civilization, and into the stamping grounds of the warlike tribes of Indians to establish homes. Both built ranches in the Chugwater country along the trail leading from Cheyenne to Fort Laramie. Clay's log house was directly under one of the famous landmarks of the territory--chimney rock--a chalky b.u.t.te formed, geologists say, by erosion. Hunton built his ranch on the northwest end of the Chugwater at a point near Goshen's Hole, a great basin, where the Laramie trail wheeled directly north to Eagle's Nest, another b.u.t.te. At Hunton's a trail less used branched off to the northwest, across what was then considered a desert and reaching Fort Fetterman, perhaps 125 miles away on the North Platte river at Lapariel creek. This part of Wyoming is now, I understand, a vast wheatfield. To a bullwhacker of the early 70's this is almost a miracle.

Both Hunton and Clay used their ranches to range their work cattle in off seasons, although both had beef herds and lots of horses. These ranch houses were protected from Indians by less than a dozen men at any time; but these men were fighters and were known to be such by the chiefs of the tribes that frequently roamed the territory south of the Platte, although in a treaty with the Federal government they had promised to stay north of the famous stream, the consideration being, on the part of Uncle Sam, a contribution of hundreds of tons of flour, bacon, tobacco and other things. Strictly speaking, this food was in payment for land south of the Platte.

Both Hunton and Clay had a knack of dealing with these roaming bands, however, that prevented any serious raids, although at one time, when Clay had closed a contract with the government and found himself in Cheyenne with his big bull outfit, consisting of a couple of hundred head of oxen and thirty or forty men, word was brought to him that on his return trip to his Chugwater quarters, a band of Sioux would attack him. So he left Cheyenne one night, and taking a course almost due east avoided the Laramie trail, and by a circuitous route reached the Chugwater without having traveled a mile on a trail.

Hunton's and Clay's ranch houses were loaded with firearms, looked like armories, and at the height of the shoulder in the log walls were fort holes through which guns could be fired. These were used several times, but none of the skirmishes approached in any degree the present-day pictures one sees in the movies, and I doubt if they ever did, in the West. In the first place, while the Sioux, Cheyenne and other redskins were considered especially bloodthirsty, none of them was fond of exposing his worthless carca.s.s to a shower of bullets, even though outnumbering the whites 100 to 1. The Indian of that day--of the day that history was making on the frontier--was a most miserable coward when dealing with frontiersmen of the Hunton or Clay calibre.

Of course, there were open battles with United States troops, but even then only when, as in the case of Custer and his Seventh Cavalry, the troops were outnumbered and trapped. Even Sitting Bull's band, which has wrongly been represented by some historians as brave, were ent.i.tled to no credit of that kind. Custer was trapped in a big bowl and his 300-odd fighters surrounded on all sides by several thousand well mounted and well-armed young bucks. The Custer and the earlier so-called Indian battles both at old Fort Phil Kearney and earlier in Minnesota, were not battles at all--simply ma.s.sacres. There is no record of an even fight between redskins and whites in the settlement of the country between the Missouri River and the Rocky Mountains. The Modocs fought for months in the lava beds, but seldom did a soldier see a Modoc. So it was with old Geronomo and his Apache followers. They fought from cover, never in the open unless overtaken and surrounded.

Nevertheless, the raiding bands of Ogalala Sioux that slipped over the Platte in the season of good gra.s.s were a problem for these pioneer ranchmen and transportation outfits, and it was not an uncommon thing for a bullet or an arrow to reach a vital spot in a bullwhacker from some hiding place just in range of the road. When this happened it was the common practice for members of the outfit to mount their saddle horses, with which every bull-train was well supplied, and give chase unless the lead of the Indians was too great, and usually it was.

Once in a while, however, the Indian made a miscalculation, and the bullwhacker would return to the temporarily corralled outfit with a scrubby Indian pony, a few rawhide thongs, and an Indian's ear freshly amputated for use as evidence at the first camp of bullwhackers or army post that one more "Good Indian" had been put on the list.

This cutting off of ears was reprisal, for the Indians scalped their white victims and mutilated their bodies when they had a chance. Hunton and Clay hauled with their big outfits, at one time, about everything that was sent to the northern line of forts by Uncle Sam. Clay's contracts were largely confined to Port Laramie, although Hunton hauled a good deal of the provisions to that post. Hunton and others supplied Fort Fetterman, the princ.i.p.al route being from Medicine Bow station on the Union Pacific across the mountain range of the same name.

It took several days to load the prairie schooners from the freight cars on a sidetrack that was laid upon the sod; and while this work was going on there was sometimes a good deal of drinking and many gun fights.

It was while a bull outfit was loading for one of the fall trips to Fetterman that the first billiard table came to Medicine Bow. I think it was the only one in the territory outside of Cheyenne and Laramie City, both division points on the Union Pacific. There were no women in Medicine Bow, good or bad, at the time and not more than 100 regular residents, yet the town had a saloon because the bull outfits, Hunton's and others, in their occasional trips, and a few adventurers who were prospecting south and west of the "Bow," furnished ample patronage to make the enterprise profitable. It was this saloonkeeper who conceived the idea of importing a billiard table, and also a back bar and mirror.

The bullwhackers watched the installation of the new furniture, and that night informed the saloonkeeper that as there were no women in the camp it had been decided to have a stag dance in the saloon. He protested, but it did no good. A few drinks in a dozen leaders was followed by a deliberately aimed shot which shattered the mirror, after which the operation of removing the billiard table began. It was a rough job, and would have given a Brunswick-Balke man a chill. The table went out onto the prairie in sections, and the sections were not always separated at the regulation point. The green cover was ruined.

Then the dance began. The German saloonkeeper smiled his protests, but when he became too much concerned about what was going on, someone would snuff a light or plug a barrel of whisky with a bullet. So the night's debauch continued, and it did not end until daybreak. The place was a wreck, and the saloonkeeper was in despair when the wagon boss came along with a roll of money as big around as a ship's cable, saying:

"What's the damage, Fritz?"

"Ach," he replied, "the table cost me $500; a barrel of whisky and cigars, beer, my fine mirror--everything is gone?"

"Yes, I see, the whole bizness," said the boss.

"Well," said Fritz, "the boys spent $600 mit me, so I make it $600 more; maybe I can repair the table."

So the bill was paid, the wagons were loaded, and the outfit sallied forth across the plains, the bridgeless rivers, and the mountain pa.s.ses to Fetterman where there was a pay-day. Deductions pro-rata were made from every man's wage to even up the score with Fritz, and every bullwhacker paid his share willingly, saying it was cheap sport for the price. There was no feeling against Fritz because Fritz had not shown fight. If he had--well, most of the men in the outfit were wild and woolly, and rough, but not killers. Still one or two could not be trusted.

Hunton put up a log house, a forge and a charcoal kiln just outside the south limit of the Fort Fetterman government reserve, a section five miles square south of the Platte. Just before this plant was erected a series of Indian depredations began; several men engaged in cord wood chopping for a government contractor were murdered by small bands of Sioux, and many saddle horses stolen. There were also several raids in the Lapariel bottoms; and one day a small band of Sioux, well mounted, forded the Platte almost in sight of the fort, stampeded a herd of mules and drove them far into the Indian country before a company of soldiers took up the chase.

A military telegraph line ran from Fort Fetterman to Fort D. A. Russell at Cheyenne, and the northwestern end of the line was down most of the time, the Indians taking the wire away to use in ear and nose rings and for other purposes, although the line was destroyed many times, no doubt, for pure cussedness. One time I traveled for fifty miles on horseback along this telegraph line, and in places the wires were connected with insulators which were mounted on buffalo horns. In many places the wire was on the ground.

It was said at the time of the running off of the mules that the Fort Fetterman commandant was unable to follow the Indians without orders from Washington via Fort Russell. However, this was not confirmed.

Anyway, on this and many other occasions the army moved slowly and was past understanding on the part of the few citizens in the country.

Nevertheless, the soldiers of those days, whenever in conflict with the redskins, usually gave a good account of themselves.

Things got so warm one spring in the vicinity of Fort Fetterman that the thirty or forty citizens camping outside the military reservation organized a secret society known as the Buckskin Militia, and determined to avenge the deaths of several men, Jesse Hammond, a woodchopper, and others, if opportunity should present itself. The only qualification for membership in the Buckskins was a willingness to take the oath, which was as follows:

I, John Smith, do solemnly swear that I will shoot on sight any male Indian, no matter whether he is attacking me or other white men, stealing or attempting to steal my property or the property of others, or whether he is approaching or moving from me.

Furthermore, I will answer any call from another member of this band or any other good white citizen, for a.s.sistance in the destruction of any male Indian found on the south side of the North Platte river; and will join in any raid upon an Indian camp when called upon by the Chief Buckskin. So help me G.o.d.

This oath was taken while standing on the stump of a cottonwood tree in the Lapariel bottoms, the candidate being loaded down with as many log chains as he could hold, and the ceremony, usually taken on a moonlight night, was as weird a sight as one can imagine.

The raids from the north continued nearly all summer. Several more white men were killed, one a lone prospector who thought there was mineral in the hills southwest of Fort Fetterman and near old Fort Caspar.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Whistled to Give His Quarry the Chance He Would Give a Mad Dog, and No More."]

One of the Buckskins hunting antelope one day in the vicinity of La Bonte Creek crossed the trail of a single tepee or family, and three ponies. This he knew from the lodge pole tracks made by a horse dragging the poles over the ground. The Buckskin took the trail, keeping well out of sight, but finally cut off a lone Indian who had dismounted to drink from a spring, allowing his young buck sons to go on. Buckskin whistled to give his quarry the chance he would give a mad dog--and no more. Then he put a bullet in his head. He remained on the spot from which he fired, waiting to hear from the rest of the tepee, which he did in a few minutes, although the young bucks kept out of sight. They fired a few shots before Buckskin decided to make a dash, and when he did it was a race of ten miles to a ford in the Platte. The young bucks escaped.

Buckskin returned to his "Good Indian," removed a lock of his hair, took his gun and ammunition and a greasy card from the folds of his blanket upon which some white man had written:

This is Cut Nose, a "Good"

Sioux Indian; but he is a Murderer and Thief.

There was a big session of the Buckskin Militia a few nights later, and great rejoicing. Cut Nose was a whole tribe of Indians in himself, and many dark crimes had been laid at his door by the white men who were engaged in freighting food to the Indian agencies and army posts.

It must be understood that there were no settlers or settlements or families in this section of Wyoming at this time, therefore there were never any of those horrible affairs common farther East a hundred years or more ago. There were no women and children for these red devils to kill, and year in and year out the fight was between bullwhackers, a few ranchmen, not more than half a dozen, government woodchoppers, and a few prospectors.

The professional hunters usually "stood in" with the red man, being possessed of some kind of magic that was never fully explained. In those days beaver, bear, buffalo, deer, antelope and other game abounded. The hunter usually had a hut or "dug-out" near a beaver dam, and it usually was well supplied with food and sometimes a squaw was the hunter's companion. Her relatives were sure of good treatment, and I presume for that reason the relatives were able to give the "squaw man" hunter protection. Still hunters were murdered, but not often.

Finally, along in July, after the gra.s.s had lost its sap and turned brown, one of the Buckskins saddled up his pinto horse one day, strapped a blanket, a pone of bread and a piece of bacon to his saddle, and giving free play to his Rowell spur, waved his hat and yelled as he dashed away:

"Good-bye, boys; see you again in a few days. I'm goin' to put an end to these raids."

His brother Buckskins thought he was crazy--some of them did. But one or two winked and looked wise; and about sixty hours later, when some of the "militia" had almost forgotten him, Buckskin rode up, unsaddled his pinto, pitched him in the ribs and said: "There now, old boy, go up the creek and enjoy yourself. Eat yourself to death, and I'll know where to find you when I want you. No Indian will get you."

When the boys crowded around him he vouchsafed this much information:

"From a point twenty miles east of this spot to a spot twenty miles west of Fort Laramie--on the north side of the Platte--as far as the eye can reach in a northerly direction, and you know that's considerable distance, there is just one charred ma.s.s--every blade of gra.s.s has been burned."

There was no more trouble that season. No feed for the Indian ponies within a hundred miles of the fort to the north of the river.

CHAPTER IV

GUARDING AN OVERLAND FREIGHT OUTFIT.