THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL by COLONEL HENRY INMAN (any book recommendations txt) 📖

Heard;

Where The Death-Cry Of The Painted warrior Rang Mournfully Over

The Silent Prairie, The Waving Grain Is Singing In beautiful Rhythm

As It Bows To The Summer Breeze.

 

 

 

Pawnee Rock Received its Name In a Baptism Of Blood, But There Are

Many Versions As To The Time And Sponsors.  It Was There That Kit

Carson Killed his First Indian, And From That Fight, As He Told Me

Himself, The Broken Mass Of Red sandstone Was Given Its Distinctive

Title.

 

 

 

It Was Late In the Spring Of 1826; Kit Was Then A Mere Boy, Only

Seventeen Years Old, And As Green As Any Boy Of His Age Who Had Never

Been Forty Miles From The Place Where He Was Born.  Colonel Ceran

St. Vrain, Then A Prominent Agent Of One Of The Great Fur Companies,

Was Fitting Out An Expedition Destined for The Far-Off Rocky Mountains,

The Members Of Which, All Trappers, Were To Obtain The Skins Of The

Buffalo, Beaver, Otter, Mink, And Other Valuable Fur-Bearing animals

That Then Roamed in immense Numbers On The Vast Plains Or In the

Hills, And Were Also To Trade With The Various Tribes Of Indians On

The Borders Of Mexico.

 

 

 

Carson Joined this Expedition, Which Was Composed of Twenty-Six

Mule Wagons, Some Loose Stock, And Forty-Two Men.  The Boy Was Hired

To Help Drive The Extra Animals, Hunt Game, Stand Guard, And To Make

Himself Generally Useful, Which, Of Course, Included fighting Indians

If Any Were Met With On The Long Route.

 

 

 

The Expedition Left Fort Osage One Bright Morning In may In excellent

Spirits, And In a Few Hours Turned abruptly To The West On The Broad

Trail To The Mountains.  The Great Plains In those Early Days Were

Solitary And Desolate Beyond The Power Of Description; The Arkansas

River Sluggishly Followed the Tortuous Windings Of Its Treeless Banks

With A Placidness That Was Awful In its Very Silence; And Whoso

Traced the Wanderings Of That Stream With No Companion But His Own

Thoughts, Realized in all Its Intensity The Depth Of Solitude From

Which Robinson Crusoe Suffered on His Lonely Island.  Illimitable As

The Ocean, The Weary Waste Stretched away Until Lost In the Purple Of

The Horizon, And The Mirage Created weird Pictures In the Landscape,

Distorted distances And Objects Which Continually Annoyed and Deceived.

Despite Its Loneliness, However, There Was Then, And Ever Has Been

For Many Men, An Infatuation For Those Majestic Prairies That Once

Experienced is Never Lost, And It Came To The Boyish Heart Of Kit,

Who Left Them But With Life, And Full Of Years.

 

 

 

There Was Not Much Variation In the Eternal Sameness Of Things During

The First Two Weeks, As The Little Train Moved day After Day Through

The Wilderness Of Grass, Its Ever-Rattling Wheels Only Intensifying

The Surrounding Monotony.  Occasionally, However, A Herd Of Buffalo

Was Discovered in the Distance, Their Brown, Shaggy Sides Contrasting

With The Never-Ending Sea Of Verdure Around Them.  Then Young Kit,

And Two Or Three Others Of The Party Who Were Detailed to Supply

The Teamsters And Trappers With Meat, Would Ride Out After Them On

The Best Of The Extra Horses Which Were Always Kept Saddled and Tied

Together Behind The Last Wagon For Services Of This Kind.  Kit, Who

Was Already An Excellent Horseman And A Splendid Shot With The Rifle,

Would Soon Overtake Them, And Topple One After Another Of Their Huge

Fat Carcasses Over On The Prairie Until Half A Dozen Or More Were

Lying Dead.  The Tender Humps, Tongues, And Other Choice Portions

Were Then Cut Out And Put In a Wagon Which Had By That Time Reached

Them From The Train, And The Expedition Rolled on.

 

 

 

So They Marched for About Three Weeks, When They Arrived at The

Crossing Of The Walnut, Where They Saw The First Signs Of Indians.

They Had Halted for That Day; The Mules Were Unharnessed, The

Camp-Fires Lighted, And The Men Just About To Indulge In their

Refreshing Coffee, When Suddenly Half A Dozen Pawnees, Mounted on

Their Ponies, Hideously Painted and Uttering The Most Demoniacal

Yells, Rushed out Of The Tall Grass On The River-Bottom, Where They

Had Been Ambushed, And Swinging Their Buffalo-Robes, Attempted to

Stampede The Herd Picketed near The Camp.  The Whole Party Were On

Their Feet In an Instant With Rifles In hand, And All The Savages

Got For Their Trouble Were A Few Well-Deserved shots As They Hurriedly

Scampered back To The River And Over Into The Sand Hills On The Other

Side, Soon To Be Out Of Sight.

 

 

 

The Expedition Travelled sixteen Miles Next Day, And Camped at

Pawnee Rock, Where, After The Experience Of The Evening Before,

Every Precaution Was Taken To Prevent A Surprise By The Savages.

The Wagons Were Formed into A Corral, So That The Animals Could Be

Secured in the Event Of A Prolonged fight; The Guards Were Drilled

By The Colonel, And Every Man Slept With His Rifle For A Bed-Fellow,

For The Old Trappers Knew That The Indians Would Never Remain

Satisfied with Their Defeat On The Walnut, But Would Seize The First

Favourable Opportunity To Renew Their Attack.

 

 

 

At Dark The Sentinels Were Placed in position, And To Young Kit Fell

The Important Post Immediately In front Of The South Face Of The

Rock, Nearly Two Hundred yards From The Corral; The Others Being at

Prominent Points On Top, And On The Open Prairie On Either Side.

All Who Were Not On Duty Had Long Since Been Snoring Heavily,

Rolled up In their Blankets And Buffalo-Robes, When At About Half-Past

Eleven, One Of The Guard Gave The Alarm, "Indians!" And Ran The Mules

That Were Nearest Him Into The Corral.  In a Moment The Whole Company

Turned out At The Report Of A Rifle Ringing On The Clear Night Air,

Coming From The Direction Of The Rock.  The Men Had Gathered at

The Opening To The Corral, Waiting For Developments, When Kit Came

Running In, And As Soon As He Was Near Enough, The Colonel Asked him

Whether He Had Seen Any Indians.  "Yes," Kit Replied, "I Killed one

Of The Red devils; I Saw Him Fall!"

 

 

 

The Alarm Proved to Be False; There Was No Further Disturbance That

Night, So The Party Returned to Their Beds, And The Sentinels To

Their Several Posts, Kit Of Course To His Place In front Of The Rock.

 

 

 

Early The Next Morning, Before Breakfast Even, All Were So Anxious

To See Kit'S Dead Indian, That They Went Out En Masse To Where He Was

Still Stationed, And Instead Of Finding a Painted pawnee, As Was

Expected, They Found The Boy'S Riding Mule Dead, Shot Right Through

The Head.

 

 

 

Kit Felt Terribly Mortified over His Ridiculous Blunder, And It Was

A Long Time Before He Heard The Last Of His Midnight Adventure And

His Raid On His Own Mule.  But He Always Liked to Tell The "Balance

Of The Story," As He Termed it, And This Is His Version: "I Had Not

Slept Any The Night Before, For I Stayed awake Watching To Get A

Shot At The Pawnees That Tried to Stampede Our Animals, Expecting

They Would Return; And I Hadn'T Caught A Wink All Day, As I Was Out

Buffalo Hunting, So I Was Awfully Tired and Sleepy When We Arrived

At Pawnee Rock That Evening, And When I Was Posted at My Place At

Night, I Must Have Gone To Sleep Leaning against The Rocks; At Any

Rate, I Was Wide Enough Awake When The Cry Of Indians Was Given By

One Of The Guard.  I Had Picketed my Mule About Twenty Steps From

Where I Stood, And I Presume He Had Been Lying Down; All I Remember

Is That The First Thing I Saw After The Alarm Was Something Rising Up

Out Of The Grass, Which I Thought Was An Indian.  I Pulled the Trigger;

It Was A Centre Shot, And I Don'T Believe The Mule Ever Kicked after

He Was Hit!"

 

 

 

The Next Morning about Daylight, A Band Of Pawnees Attacked the Train

In Earnest, And Kept The Little Command Busy All That Day, The Next

Night, And Until The Following Midnight, Nearly Three Whole Days,

The Mules All The Time Being Shut In the Corral Without Food Or Water.

At Midnight Of The Second Day The Colonel Ordered the Men To Hitch Up

And Attempt To Drive On To The Crossing Of Pawnee Fork, Thirteen Miles

Distant.[62]  They Succeeded in getting There, Fighting Their Way

Without The Loss Of Any Of Their Men Or Animals.  The Trail Crossed

The Creek In the Shape Of A Horseshoe, Or Rather, In consequence Of

The Double Bend Of The Stream As It Empties Into The Arkansas, The

Road Crossed it Twice.  In making This Passage, Dangerous On Account

Of Its Crookedness, Kit Said Many Of The Wagons Were Badly Mashed up;

For The Mules Were So Thirsty That Their Drivers Could Not Control

Them.  The Train Was Hardly Strung Out On The Opposite Bank When

The Indians Poured in a Volley Of Bullets And A Shower Of Arrows

From Both Sides Of The Trail; But Before They Could Load And Fire

Again, A Terrific Charge Was On Them, Led by Colonel St. Vrain And

Carson.  It Required only A Few Moments More To Clean Out The

Persistent Savages, And The Train Went On.  During The Whole Fight

The Little Party Lost Four Men Killed and Seven Wounded, And Eleven

Mules Killed (Not Counting Kit'S), And Twenty Badly Wounded.

 

 

 

A Great Many Years Ago, Very Early In the Days Of The Trade With

New Mexico, Seven Americans Were Surprised by A Large Band Of Pawnees

In The Vicinity Of The Rock And Were Compelled to Retreat To It For

Safety.  There, Without Water, And With But A Small Quantity Of

Provisions, They Were Besieged by Their Blood-Thirsty Foes For Two

Days, When A Party Of Traders Coming On The Trail Relieved them From

Their Perilous Situation And The Presence Of Their Enemy.  There Were

Several Graves On Its Summit When I First Saw Pawnee Rock; But

Whether They Contained the Bones Of Savages Or Those Of White Men,

I Do Not Know.

 

 

 

Carson Related to Me Another Terrible Fight That Took Place At The

Rock, When He First Became A Trapper.  He Was Not A Participant,

But Knew The Parties Well.  About Twenty-Nine Years Ago, Kit, Jack

Henderson, Who Was Agent For The Ute Indians, Lucien B. Maxwell,

General Carleton And Myself Were Camped halfway Up The Rugged sides

Of Old Baldy, In the Raton Range.  The Night Was Intensely Cold,

Although In midsummer, And We Were Huddled around A Little Fire Of

Pine Knots, More Than Seven Thousand Feet Above The Level Of The Sea,

Close To The Snow Limit.

 

 

 

Kit, Or "The General," As Every One Called him, Was In a Good Humour

For Talking, And We Naturally Took Advantage Of This To Draw Him Out;

For Usually He Was The Most Reticent Of Men In relating His Own

Exploits.  A Casual Remark Made By Maxwell Opened carson'S Mouth,

And He Said He Remembered one Of The "Worst Difficults" A Man Ever

Got Into.[63]  So He Made A Fresh Corn-Shuck Cigarette, And Related

The Following; But The Names Of The Old Trappers Who Were The

Principals In the Fight I Have Unfortunately Forgotten.

 

 

 

Two Men Had Been Trapping In the Powder River Country During One

Winter With Unusually Good Luck, And They Got An Early Start With

Their Furs, Which They Were Going To Take To Weston, On The Missouri,

One Of The Principal Trading Points In those Days.  They Walked the

Whole Distance, Driving Their Pack-Mules Before Them, And Experienced

No Trouble Until They Struck The Arkansas Valley At Pawnee Rock.

There They Were Intercepted by A War-Party Of About Sixty Pawnees.

Both Of The Trappers Were Notoriously Brave And Both Dead Shots.

Before They Arrived at The Rock, To Which They Were Finally Driven,

They Killed two Of The Indians, And Had Not Themselves Received a

Scratch.  They Had Plenty Of Powder, A Pouch Full Of Balls Each,

And Two Good Rifles.  They Also Had A Couple Of Jack-Rabbits For

Food In case Of A Siege, And The Perpendicular Walls Of The Front

Of The Rock Made Them A Natural Fortification, An Almost Impregnable

One Against Indians.

 

 

 

They Succeeded in securely Picketing Their Animals At The Side Of

The Rock, Where They Could Protect Them By Their Unerring Rifles

From Being Stampeded.  After The Pawnees Had "Treed" The Two Trappers

On The Rock, They Picked up Their Dead, And Packed them Off To Their

Camp At The Mouth Of A Little Ravine A Short Distance Away.  In a Few

Moments Back They All Came, Mounted on Fast Ponies, With Their

War-Paint And Other Fixings On, Ready To Renew The Fight.  They

Commenced to Circle Around The Place, Coming Closer, Indian Fashion,

Every Time, Until They Got Within Easy Rifle-Range, When They Slung

Themselves On The Opposite Sides Of Their Horses, And In that Position

Opened fire.  Their Arrows Fell Like A Hailstorm, But As Good Luck

Would Have It,