“Buffalo Bill”

from Prairie to Palace

Compiled by John.M.Burke
with the Authority of
GEN’L W.F. CODY (BUFFALO BILL)

RIALTO SERIES. No. 13. June, ’93. Monthly. Subscription, $8.00. Entered as second-class at the Post Office, Chicago

“BUFFALO BILL”
FROM PRAIRIE TO PALACE.

W. F. Cody
“Buffalo Bill”

“Buffalo Bill”
From Prairie to Palace

An Authentic History of the Wild West

With Sketches, Stories of Adventure, and Anecdotes of
“Buffalo Bill,” the Hero of the Plains

COMPILED BY
JOHN M. BURKE (“ARIZONA JOHN”)

WITH THE AUTHORITY OF
General W. F. Cody (“Buffalo Bill”)

CHICAGO AND NEW YORK
Rand, McNally & Company, Publishers
1893

Copyright, 1893, by Rand, McNally & Co.

NOTE.

The compiler of this book desires to give credit to General Dodge’s “Thirty Years Among the Indians,” and to the Historical Publishing Company, for a few of the facts and incidents given in these pages.

John M. Burke.

John M. Burke

DEDICATION

TO
THOSE PIONEERS OF PROGRESS
WHO HAVE LED THE ADVANCE OF CIVILIZATION INTO SAVAGE
LANDS, DEFYING DANGER, SUFFERING EVERY HARDSHIP,
OVERCOMING ALL OBSTACLES, OFFERING LIFE
AS A SACRIFICE WHEN CALLED UPON,
THE ARMY OF THE UNITED STATES
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK.

John M. Burke

BUFFALO BILL.

CONTENTS.

COMPILER’S PREFACE.

An association of some thirty years with the subject of these pages, a familiarity with his history gained by opportune meetings and conversations with comrades now living, and those since dead—who were witnesses of the events that assisted to make the individual prominent—makes me feel it a public duty to accede to the publisher’s request to compile a short, sharp, and veracious account of the unique history of this picturesque character.

Born at a time, and reared in an atmosphere, the most romantic and adventurous known in the history of our American frontier, when the tidal wave of human progress, sweeping westward, was making history faster than the historians could record it—it was his fate to be in the field, and his fortune to grasp the opportunities to meet the situation’s requirements, and, in the beaten path of what seemed ordinary daily duty, to rise, by reason of his sterling qualities, his daring, and his courage, to the distinction of a leader.

So quickly was the history of the central West recorded, as to make the Great American Desert of our childhood seem almost a geographical mirage, a tale of the romancer. It would seem to be a fairy story were it not for the fact of its settlement, and the evidences of its now almost ancient civilization.

The busy, hustling citizen of to-day scarcely has time to think, and does not realize that the youths of the time of Benton, Beal, Fremont, Bridger, and Carson are the relicts of the perfected history and work that they inaugurated.

One of the most picturesque characters that evoluted from the peculiar circumstances of the times is “Buffalo Bill,” Gen. W. F. Cody, N. G. S. N. The romance, the fiction, woven around his personality is dispelled in the white light of stern and veritable facts, just as the golden rays of the morning sun drive the mist from the mountain-tops.

The compiler of the accompanying pages has attempted to present to the reader, in a terse, compact compendium of facts, the story of a career that, if given in a detailed biography, would absorb volumes, believing that owing to his prominence at home and abroad the public desire some authentic knowledge of the notable events in his career. In fact, here are presented a few plain truths, unadorned, for the benefit of those too occupied to have heretofore learned the story and triumphs of the frontier lad of nine years, from the wild Western scenes of Kansas and Nebraska, from the prairies of the Platte to the parlors of the East and the palaces of Europe.

“Buffalo Bill”
FROM PRAIRIE TO PALACE.

CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.

Half a century or less ago, the people then active in the world were unable to move from place to place more rapidly than in the days before the Christian era. The fickle winds drove ships out of their course and baffled their efforts to hold on their way to their destination. On land the rapidity of progress from place to place was measured by the fleetness of a horse. The steam-engine was in its infancy; the telegraph and other electrical devices were only known through the fable of the singing tree and the talking fountain in the tales of the Arabian Nights; glittering gold still lay unheeded and unseen in the beds of California streams.

The great peaks of the Rockies towered into the clouds, their grandeur and beauty unknown to a world which had not then heard the sound of the waters thundering down the cliffs of the Yosemite, a rival of Niagara. Amid the beauties of the Garden of the Gods reigned a stillness as profound as that which pervaded the Garden of Eden before the creation of man.

But already the fearless and restless white man was on discovery bent, and, with his face turned always toward the setting sun, one by one the glories of the continent were seen and heralded.

Brev.-Capt. John C. Fremont of the United States Topographical Engineers, with the famous Kit Carson as his guide, was exploring and opening up the great trail which was to connect the two oceans.

The fur traders were settling in the Northwest, and Astoria was coming into notice, while the echoes of Bonneville’s adventures were heard in the Eastern world.

Among the men who found the East growing crowded was Isaac Cody, who was then living in Iowa. He was a fine type of the Western frontiersman, well educated, enterprising, and fearless. Leaving his home, with his family he started across the plains. His journey continued until he reached a point in Kansas near Fort Leavenworth, and here he made camp and proceeded to build a new home.

“Little Billy” was then a boy, living the life and learning the lessons of the plains, while Humboldt was wondering what secrets were hidden in the center of the continent, and the geographical societies of the world were speculating upon the mysteries that lay far beyond the banks of the “Father of Waters.”

At that time this region was as little known and as dark a continent as Africa before the courage of Stanley laid bare its conformation and geography. The Indians had not then been confined to reservations, but were fiercely resisting the encroachments of the white men upon their territory. They disputed, step by step, the advancement to the westward of the borders of civilization with a fiercer, because more ignorant, determination to resist subjugation than is known in the history of the world.

In this atmosphere, and amid such surroundings, this boy grew up, and his rapid development was a natural result of such conditions. Physical exercise in the open air developed his frame, and provided the steady hand and quick eye.

Surrounded by enemies, he lived amid dangers so constant and ever-present that they became part of his daily life, and fear was unknown. Self-preservation taught him to oppose strategy with strategy, and to learn the wiles of the red man in order that he might exist in his country, and study the habits of the animals infesting the country, for the dual purpose of avoiding danger and providing himself with food and raiment. At the same time this wild life broadened his moral nature, expanded his mind, and prepared it to receive great truths. Broad men are the product of broad countries; narrowness and prejudice are insular.

Sir Charles Dilke has recorded the history of “Greater Britain,” but during the lifetime of this frontier boy he has seen with his own eyes the growth of “Greater America.” In the short span of a life still in its prime, he has seen the slow wagon-train crawling over the weary miles of wind-swept prairie harassed by Indians and other foes, and he has seen the long parallel iron rails push their way across the map of the continent until they span it from gulf to gulf and from ocean to ocean. The “prairie schooner” and the pony express have in his time given way to the Pullman coach and the electric wire.

In his boyhood the strife and struggles, the perils and privations, which had beset the Puritans in New England a century before, were being reënacted on the Western plains; and of this period in the development of our country this boy can truthfully say, “All of which I saw, and part of which I was.”

In later life, when great military commanders intrusted their lives, and those of their men, to his keeping, they did it with an unhesitating confidence, begotten of the knowledge that he was born and trained upon the spot; a veritable product of the soil. His father having died while he was still young, he matured early. His widowed mother taught the boy at her knee the elements of reading and writing, and thus laid the foundation of an education which has been completed in the school of the world.

Living for years in cabins or tents, and oftener under the canopy of heaven, pursuing a career of independent activity which carried him through the various stages of cattle-herder, teamster, bronco “buster,” wagon-master, stage-driver, pony-express rider, hunter, guide, scout, and soldier, he still found time to acquire an education which, added to his native refinement and gentleness of bearing, enables him to appear to advantage in any society or place. While perfection exists only in the other world, and is not claimed for him, the herder and scout has borne inspection, and passed muster, in the accepted centers of refinement and cultivation of the world.

From the Rocky Mountains to the Colosseum at Rome is a “far cry,” and yet that is the history of the settler’s son now known around the world as Col. William F. Cody, or “Buffalo Bill.”

The pages of this book are not devoted to the recording of a legend wherein the untutored, wild, and reckless roamer of the plains has by chance, or the magic of phenomenal powers, won the open sesame to the grandeur of patriarchal palaces, but rather to the telling of how native courage and brilliant daring combined with sincerity of purpose and purity of motive have made savage warriors of the prairies to welcome and appreciate the joys of peace, have opened in the heart of apparently desert places storehouses of wealth, and shown princely powers that manhood, prowess, and honor are found as truly on the prairies of the great West as in the centers of art and civilization. The sturdy hero of the plains has been met by gracious hands at the portals of the palace.

The discovery that a new world existed on the western shores of the Atlantic was scarcely more a surprise to the grandees of the Old World, than the realization that far beyond the great Father of Waters there existed a country whose inhabitants were hunting buffaloes and living in rude tents on prairies and amid rugged mountains, which needed but the plow and the miner’s pick for keys to unlock treasuries filled with richer products and rarer gems than the bright gleam of the mythical Aladdin’s lamp e’er shone upon.

Now the world recognizes and gives tardy but sincere applause to the venturesome spirits that first directed the attention of the world to the grandeur and latent power of the great West. Occasionally a noble of the East, in search of sport and adventure, visited this new country and, returning, told of its vastness and magnificence. Romancers, upon a few facts, accepted with hesitation, built stories which, though thoroughly entertaining, were regarded as novels, never as histories.

Taking up the thread of the beautiful story so graphically told by the facile pen of Washington Irving in his narration of the fur traders’ trials, adventures, and discoveries, and weaving all into a contemporaneous history, our Cody and his fellows have gathered together the living actual facts of the prairies, and held them up to the wondering, admiring gaze of the world in the court-yards of the palaces of Europe. The barefooted urchin, that, astride of his fleet-footed bronco, rode with a smile through every danger, carrying news and cheer from old homes in the East to the strugglers of the prairies, has since been accorded courtly welcome by crowned monarchs, to whom he has exhibited in triumph trophies of American valor and American enterprise. Kingly warriors have dragged captives chained to their chariot-wheels as proofs of their victories; subjects have shouted loud pæans of praise and glory of their lords and princes returning as victors; but when, save in the history of William F. Cody, have the conquered walked hand in hand with the conqueror, willing witnesses to his glorious achievements; or when, before, have kings and queens and emperors joined in according glad applause to a victor whose only royal heritage was his native manhood, and whose only spoils of victory were willing captives to peace and civilization.

From this man’s life, deeds, and successes others may glean lessons of endurance and courage in days of trial, of hope in moments of despair, and of gentleness and generosity in the hour of triumph.

With the earnest wish that such results may accrue from a perusal of these pages, let us first recall Buffalo Bill’s record as a gallant and trusty scout.

THE RESULT OF BAD GUIDING.

CHAPTER II.
THE SCOUT.

Gen. Richard Irving Dodge, General Sherman’s chief of staff, correctly states, in his “Thirty Years Among Our Wild Indians”:

“The success of every expedition against Indians depends, to a degree, on the skill, fidelity, and intelligence of the men employed as scouts and guides, for not only is the command habitually dependent on them for good routes and comfortable camps, but the officer in command must rely on their knowledge of the position and movements of the enemy.”

Our best Indian officers are quick to recognize these traits in those claiming frontier lore, and to no one in the military history of the West has such deference been shown by them as to W. F. Cody, as is witnessed by the continuous years of service he has passed, the different commands he has served, the expeditions and campaigns he has been identified with, his repeated holding, when he desired, the position of Chief of Scouts of the United States Army, and the intimate association, and contact resulting from it, with Gen. W. T. Sherman (with whom he was at the making of the Comanche and Kiowa Treaty) in 1866, Gen. Phil. Sheridan (who has often given him special recognition and chosen him to organize expeditions, notably that of the Duke Alexis), old General Harney, Generals Forsyth, Merritt, Brisbin, Emory, Gibbon, Terry, McKenzie, Carr, W. S. Hancock, Crook, Pope, Miles, Ord, Auger, Royall, Hazen, Duncan, Palmer, Penrose, and the late lamented General Custer. His history, in fact, would be almost a history of the middle West; and, though younger, equaling in term of service and in personal adventure, Kit Carson, old Jim Bridger, California Joe, Wild Bill, and the rest of his dead associates.

As another evidence of the confidence placed in his frontiersmanship, it may suffice to mention the celebrities whose money and position most naturally sought the best protection the Western market could afford, and who chose to place their lives in his keeping: Sir George Gore, the Earl of Dunraven, James Gordon Bennett, Duke Alexis, General Custer, Lawrence Jerome, Remington, Professor Ward of Rochester, Professor Marsh of Yale College, Maj. J. G. Hecksher, Doctor Kingsley (Canon Kingsley’s brother), and others of equal rank and distinction. In all books of the plains his exploits with Carr, Miles, and Crook, in the summer of 1876, when he killed Yellow Hand in front of the military command in an open hand-to-hand fight, are recorded.

The following letter of his old commander, the celebrated Indian fighter, Gen. E. A. Carr, written years ago relative to him, is a tribute as generous as any brave man has ever made to another:

“From his services in my command, steadily in the field, I am qualified to bear testimony as to his qualities and character.

“He was very modest and unassuming. He is a natural gentleman in his manners as well as in character, and has none of the roughness of the typical frontiersman. He can take his own part when required, but I have never heard of his using a knife or a pistol, or engaging in a quarrel where it could be avoided. His personal strength and activity are very great, and his temper and disposition are so good that no one has reason to quarrel with him.

“His eyesight is better than a good field-glass; he is the best trailer I ever heard of, and also the best judge of the ‘lay of country’—that is, he is able to tell what kind of country is ahead, so as to know how to act. He is a perfect judge of distance, and always ready to tell correctly how many miles it is to water, or to any place, or how many miles have been marched....

“Mr. Cody seemed never to tire, and was always ready to go in the darkest night or the worst weather, and usually volunteered, knowing what the emergency required. His trailing, when following Indians, or looking for stray animals, or for game, is simply wonderful. He is a most extraordinary hunter.

“In a fight, Mr. Cody is never noisy, obstreperous, or excited. In fact, I hardly ever noticed him in a fight unless I happened to want him, or he had something to report, when he was always in the right place, and his information was always valuable and reliable.

“During the winter of 1868 we encountered hardships and exposure in terrific snow-storms and sleet. On one occasion that winter Mr. Cody showed his quality by quietly offering to go with some dispatches to General Sheridan across a dangerous region of 300 miles where other principal scouts were reluctant to risk themselves.

“Mr. Cody has since served with me as post guide and scout at Fort McPherson, where he frequently distinguished himself.

“In the summer of 1876 Cody went with me to the Black Hills region, where he killed Yellow Hand. Afterward he was with the Big Horn and Yellowstone expedition. I consider that his services to the country and the army by trailing, finding, and fighting Indians, and thus protecting the frontier settlers, and by guiding commands over the best and most practicable routes, have been invaluable.”

DANGER AHEAD.

Thus it will be seen that notwithstanding it will sometimes be thought his fame rests upon the pen of the romancer, had they never been attracted to him—and they were solely by his sterling worth—W. F. Cody would none the less have been a remarkable character in American history.

The history of such a man, attractive as it has already been to the most distinguished officers and fighters in the United States Army, must prove doubly so to men, women, and children who have heretofore found only in novels the hero of rare exploits, on which imagination so loves to dwell.

As a proof that our great military leaders and the officers of the United States Army recognize the value of Buffalo Bill as a scout, guide, and Indian fighter, and that though I am writing of one of whom more stories of romance have been written than of any other individual living or dead, it will be well to turn to the letters of commendation from prominent personages in another part of this book, and the quotations which are given in this chapter from such authorities as General Sheridan’s “Autobiography,” Captain Price’s “Across the Continent with the Fifth Cavalry,” Colonel Dodge’s “Thirty Years Among the Indians,” etc.

These indorsements stamp Buffalo Bill as one whose deeds speak for themselves, and show conclusively that he is not a pen-made man, but worthy of all said and written of him.

ACROSS THE CONTINENT WITH THE FIFTH CAVALRY.

(Capt. George F. Price.)

“After Cody was appointed chief scout and guide for the Republican River expedition, he was conspicuous during the pursuit of the Dog Soldiers, under the celebrated Cheyenne chief, Tall Bull, whom he killed at Summit Springs, Colo. He also guided the Fifth Cavalry to a position whence the regiment was enabled to charge upon the enemy and win a brilliant victory. He afterward participated in the Niobrara pursuit, and later narrowly escaped death at the hands of hostile Sioux on Prairie Dog Creek, Kan., September 26, 1869. He was assigned to Fort McPherson when the expedition was disbanded, and served at that station (was a justice of the peace in 1871) until the Fifth Cavalry was transferred to Arizona. He served during this period with several expeditions, and was conspicuous for gallant conduct in the Indian combat at Red Willow and Birdwood creeks, and also for successful services as chief scout and guide of the buffalo-hunt which was arranged by General Sheridan for the Grand Duke Alexis of Russia.

“Cody was then assigned to duty with the Third Cavalry, and served with that regiment until the fall of 1872, when he was elected a member of the Nebraska Legislature, and thus acquired the title of ‘Honorable.’

“At the beginning of the Sioux War in 1876 he hastened to Cheyenne, Wyo., joined the Fifth Cavalry, which had recently returned from Arizona, and was engaged in the affair at War Bonnet (Indian Creek), Wyo. He then accompanied the Fifth Cavalry to Goose Creek, Mont., and served with the Big Horn and Yellowstone expedition until September. Cody abundantly proved during this campaign that he had lost none of his old-time skill and daring in Indian warfare. He enjoys a brilliant reputation as a scout and guide, which has been fairly earned by faithful and conspicuous service.

“William F. Cody is one of the best scouts and guides that ever rode at the head of a column of cavalry on the prairies of the Far West. His army friends, from general to private, hope that he may live long and prosper abundantly.

“Should the wild Sioux again go on the war-path, Cody, if living, will be found with the cavalry advance, riding another ‘Buckskin Joe,’ and carrying his Springfield rifle, ‘Lucretia,’ across the pommel of his saddle.”

This merited note of applause will find an echo in every patriotic American heart which recognizes and remembers that it was in the Fifth Cavalry that Gens. Robert E. Lee, Albert Sidney Johnston, Hardee, Emory, Van Dorn, Custer, and other noted generals served, and which was formerly known as the Second Dragoons.

GUIDING IN A BLIZZARD.

From Gen. Phil Sheridan’s “Autobiography.” After relating his conception of the first winter campaign against Indians on the then uninhabited and bleak plains, in the winter of 1868, he says:

“The difficulties and hardships to be encountered had led several experienced officers of the army and some frontiersmen, like old Jim Bridger, the famous scout and guide of earlier days, to discourage the project. I decided to go in person, bent on showing the Indians that they were not secure from punishment because of inclement weather—an ally on which they had hitherto relied with much assurance. We started, and the very first night a blizzard struck us and carried away our tents. The gale was so violent that they could not be put up again; the rain and snow drenched us to the skin. Shivering from wet and cold, I took refuge under a wagon, and there spent such a miserable night that when morning came the gloomy predictions of old man Bridger and others rose up before me with greatly increased force. The difficulties were now fully realized; the blinding snow, mixed with sleet; the piercing wind, thermometer below zero—with green bushes only for fuel—occasioning intense suffering. Our numbers and companionship alone prevented us from being lost or perishing, a fate that stared in the face the frontiersmen, guides, and scouts on their solitary missions.

“An important matter had been to secure competent guides for the different columns of troops, for, as I have said, the section of country to be operated in was comparatively unknown.

“In those days the railroad town of Hays City was filled with so-called ‘Indian scouts,’ whose common boast was of having slain scores of redskins; but the real scout—that is, a guide and trailer knowing the habits of the Indians—was very scarce, and it was hard to find anybody familiar with the country south of the Arkansas, where the campaign was to be made. Still, about the various military posts there was some good material to select from, and we managed to employ several men, who, from their experience on the plains in various capacities, or from natural instinct and aptitude, soon became excellent guides and courageous and valuable scouts, some of them, indeed, gaining much distinction. Mr. William F. Cody (‘Buffalo Bill’), whose renown has since become world-wide, was one of the men thus selected. He received his sobriquet from his marked success in killing buffaloes to supply fresh meat to the construction parties on the Kansas Pacific Railway. He had lived from boyhood on the plains and passed every experience—herder, hunter, pony-express rider, stage-driver, wagon-master in the quartermaster’s department, and scout of the army, and was first brought to my notice by distinguishing himself in bringing me an important dispatch from Fort Larned to Fort Hays, a distance of sixty-five miles, through a section infested with Indians. The dispatch informed me that the Indians near Larned were preparing to decamp, and this intelligence required that certain orders should be carried to Fort Dodge, ninety-five miles south of Hays. This too being a particularly dangerous route—several couriers having been killed on it—it was impossible to get one of the various Petes, Jacks, or Jims hanging around Hays City to take my communication. Cody, learning of the strait I was in, manfully came to the rescue, and proposed to make the trip to Dodge, though he had just finished his long and perilous ride from Larned. I gratefully accepted his offer, and after a short rest he mounted a fresh horse and hastened on his journey, halting but once to rest on the way, and then only for an hour, the stop being made at Coon Creek, where he got another mount from a troop of cavalry. At Dodge he took some sleep, and then continued on to his own post—Fort Larned—with more dispatches. After resting at Larned he was again in the saddle with tidings for me at Fort Hays, General Hazen sending him this time with word that the villages had fled to the south of the Arkansas. Thus, in all, Cody rode about three hundred and fifty miles in less than sixty hours, and such an exhibition of endurance and courage at that time of the year and in such weather was more than enough to convince me that his services would be extremely valuable in the campaign, so I retained him at Fort Hays till the battalion of the Fifth Cavalry arrived, and then made him chief of scouts.”

BUFFALO BILL AS BUFFALO HUNTER.

Read through the fascinating book, “Campaigning with Crook (Maj.-Gen. George Crook, U. S. A.) and Stories of Army Life,” due to the graphic and soldierly pen of Capt. Charles King of the United States Army, published in 1890.

Incidentally the author refers in various pages to Colonel Cody as scout, etc., and testifies to the general esteem and affection in which Buffalo Bill is held by the army.

The subjoined extracts from the book will give our readers an excellent idea of the military scout’s calling and its dangers:

“‘By Jove! General,’ says Buffalo Bill, sliding backward down the hill, ‘now’s our chance. Let our party mount here out of sight and we’ll cut those fellows off. Come down, every other man of you.’

“Glancing behind me, I see Cody, Tait, and ‘Chips,’ with five cavalrymen, eagerly bending forward in their saddles, grasping carbine and rifle, every eye bent upon me, watching for the signal. Not a man but myself knows how near they are. ‘That’s right, close in, you beggars! Ten seconds more and you are on them! A hundred and twenty-five yards—a hundred—ninety—now, lads, in with you.’...

“There’s a rush, a wild ringing cheer; then bang, bang, bang! and in a cloud of dust, Cody and his men tumble in among them, Buffalo Bill closing on a superbly accoutered warrior. It is the work of a minute; the Indian has fired and missed. Cody’s bullet tears through the rider’s leg into the pony’s heart, and they tumble in a confused heap on the prairie. The Cheyenne struggles to his feet for another shot, but Cody’s second bullet hits the mark. It is now close quarters, knife to knife. After a hand-to-hand struggle, Cody wins, and the young chief Yellow Hand drops lifeless in his tracks after a hot fight. Baffled and astounded, for once in a lifetime beaten at their own game, their project of joining Sitting Bull nipped in the bud, they take hurried flight. But our chief is satisfied; Buffalo Bill is radiant; his are the honors of the day.”—From p. 35.

BUFFALO BILL’S DUEL WITH CHIEF YELLOW HAND.

General Cody holds his commission in the National Guard of the United States (State of Nebraska), an honorable position, and as high as he can possibly attain. His connection with the Regular United States Army has covered a continuous period of fifteen years, and desultory connection of thirty years—in the most troublous era of that superb corps’ Western history—as guide, scout, and chief of scouts—a position unknown in any other service, and the confidential nature of which is told in the extract from General Dodge’s work, quoted below. This privileged position, and the nature of its services in the past, may be more fully appreciated when it is understood that it commanded, besides horses, subsistence, and quarters, $10 per day ($3,650 per year), all expenses, and for special service, or “life and death” volunteer missions, special rewards of from $100 to $500 for carrying a single dispatch, and brought its holder the confidence of commanding generals, the fraternal friendship of the commissioned officers, the idolization of the ranks, and the universal respect and consideration of the hardy pioneers and settlers of the West.

In addition to the distinguished officers previously named in this chapter, General Cody may also well be proud of his service under Generals Bankhead, Fry, Crittenden, Switzer, Rucker, Smith, King, Van Vliet, Anson, Mills, Reynolds, Greeley, Penrose, Sandy, Forsyth, Dudley, Canby, Blunt, Hayes, Guy, Henry, and others.

As a fitting close to this chapter of Cody’s record as a scout, and as epitomizing the character of his services, the writer quotes from page 628 of Colonel Dodge’s “Thirty Years Among the Indians”:

“Of ten men employed as scouts, nine will prove to be worthless; of fifty so employed, one may prove to be really valuable; but though hundreds, even thousands, of men have been so employed by the Government since the war, the number of really remarkable men among them can be counted on the fingers. The services which these men are called on to perform are so important and valuable that the officer who benefits by them is sure to give the fullest credit, and men honored in official reports come to be great men on the frontier. Fremont’s reports made Kit Carson a renowned man. Custer immortalized California Joe. Custer, Merritt, Carr, and Miles made William F. Cody (‘Buffalo Bill’) a plains celebrity ‘until time shall be no more’.”

CHAPTER III.
WHAT IS A COWBOY?

Around the name of cowboy hangs a romance that will never die.

It is a romance interwoven with deeds of daring, nerve, and big-heartedness that will survive long after civilization has stamped out every need for the brave men who have been known by the name of cowboy.

COWBOYS LASSOING WILD HORSES.

Our country is one that has sprung surprises upon the world from its very beginning, and it has produced men possible in no other land.

Without the services of the cowboy the vast grazing-lands of America would have been worthless.

As the buffalo, like the Indian, perished before the march of emigration westward, there came to take their place vast herds of beef-cattle, feeding on the plains where the once wild monarchs of the prairies had roamed.

With these immense herds it was necessary to have herders, and they became known by the somewhat picturesque cognomen of cowboy.

They are known from the flower-bespangled prairies of the Lone Star State to the land of the Frozen North, and their worth is recognized by those who know them as they are, for to their care is given the vast wealth of the cattlemen of the country, which is not alone in the beef furnished for the markets but to be found also in the tan-yards and factories of the East.

By many, who do not know him as he is, the cowboy is despised and generally feared.

He is looked upon as a wild, reckless fellow, armed to the teeth, keeping half-full of bad whisky, and always ready for a fight or some deed of deviltry.

How little is he known, and thus abused, for no braver hearts, no more generous motives, are to be found among men than are those that beat beneath the hunting-shirt of the cowboy, whether he comes from the country bordering on the Rio Grande, the great plains of the Southwest, the level prairies of the West, or the grazing-lands of Wyoming.

During night and day, storm and sunshine, danger and death, they are at their post of duty, always ready to be called upon, shrinking from no hardship, driven off by no peril, suffering untold privations, but ever ready to protect and care for the valuable herds that they control.

At times, when a temporary relief from duty comes to them, is it a wonder that they break forth into reckless hilarity?

They mean no harm to any one, and if, as in all communities, one goes beyond all bounds and the death of a comrade follows, the many must suffer for the deeds of the few.

The cowboy is composed of that stern stuff of which heroes are made, and the poet and the novelist have always found in this rover of the plains the richest material for song and story.

In olden times it was that the boys of every land turned toward the sea as the Mecca of their hopes and ambitions.

They saw upon its broad bosom a field of adventure, a life of romance; and they sought to emulate great captains, good and bad.

But with the coming of steam-vessels the romance of the seas faded into oblivion; foreign lands were brought near; the mystery of the blue waters was solved in a most matter-of-fact way, and the growing youths of the country turned to new fields of adventure.

Columbus had won the admiration of would-be young heroes, and the heroic deeds of the grand old sailor were read with avidity, the boy longing some day to emulate them.

Even Kyd, Lafitte, Morgan, and other pirate captains became heroes in the minds of the average boy, who longed to run away to sea and make his name known in the world.

But steam dispelled these ambitions, and the American boy was forced to turn his hopes upon the land of the setting sun.

Daniel Boone was a hero to admire; David Crockett, Kit Carson, and others became the beau ideal of border heroes, and the heart of the youth thrilled in reading of these men in buckskin.

And these men of the wild West, of whom Buffalo Bill is the most conspicuous figure, made it possible for other border heroes to appear.

They sprung from the ranks of the army, from the emigrant’s cabin, and from among those rangers of the plains, the cowboys.

These brave fellows have produced many a hero in their ranks, and they have been ever ready to battle for the weak against the strong.

The ranch and the cattle interests are being encroached upon by the advance of civilization, the mask of mystery is being torn from the wild borderland by the westward march of the iron horse, and in a few more years, like the scout, the guide, the trapper, and the hunter, the cowboy will be a thing of the past.

A BUCKING BRONCO.

To be acknowledged as a true cowboy, and to the prairie born, one must possess accomplishments for the perilous and arduous work they have to undergo.

He must be a perfect horseman, handle a rope, catch a calf, throw and tie a steer, stop a crazy cow on a stampede, lasso a mustang, and be a good shot, guide, scout, and Indian fighter as well.

Let me here refer to a few incidents of a trip over the plains of a herd of cattle to the markets of the North, through the wild and unsettled portions of the Territories, varying in distance from fifteen hundred to two thousand miles, time three to six months, extending through the Indian Territory and Kansas to Nebraska, Colorado, Dakota, Montana, Idaho, Nevada, and sometimes as far as California. Immense herds, as high as thirty thousand or more, are moved by single owners, but are driven in bands of from one to three thousand, which, when under way, are designated “herds.” Each of these have from ten to fifteen men, with a wagon-driver and cook, and the “king-pin of the outfit,” the boss, with a supply of two or three ponies to a man, an ox-team, and blankets; also jerked-beef and corn-meal—the staple food. They are also furnished with mavericks, or “doubtless-owned” yearlings, for the fresh-meat supply. After getting fully under way, and the cattle broke in, from ten to fifteen miles a day is the average, and everything is plain sailing in fair weather. As night comes on the cattle are rounded up in a small compass, and held until they lie down, when two men are left on watch, riding round and round them in opposite directions, singing or whistling all the time, for two hours, that being the length of each watch. The singing is absolutely necessary, as it seems to soothe the fears of the cattle, scares away the wolves or other varmints that may be prowling around, and prevents them from hearing any other accidental sound, or dreaming of their old homes; and if stopped would in all probability be the signal for a general stampede. “Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,” if a cowboy’s compulsory bawling out lines of his own composition:

Lie nicely now, cattle, don’t heed any rattle,
But quietly rest until morn;
For if you skedaddle, we’ll jump in the saddle,
And head you as sure as you’re born,

can be considered such.

Ordinarily so clumsy and stupid-looking, a thousand beef-steers can rise like a flock of quail on the roof of an exploding powder-mill, and will scud away like a tumble-weed before a high wind, with a noise like a receding earthquake. Then comes fun and frolic for the boys. Many a cowboy has lost his life in one of these wild stampedes of cattle, which would put an army of men to flight in a mad charge down upon them.

A CATTLE STAMPEDE.

The next great trouble is in crossing streams, which are invariably high in the driving season. When cattle strike swimming-water, they generally try to turn back, which eventuates in their “milling”—that is, swimming in a circle—and if allowed to continue would result in the drowning of many. Then the daring herder must leave his pony, doff his togs, scramble over their backs and horns, to scatter them, and with whoops and yells, splashing, dashing, and didos in the water, scare them to the opposite bank. This is not always done in a moment, for a steer is no fool of a swimmer. One has been seen to hold his own for six hours in the gulf, after having jumped overboard. As some of the streams are very rapid, and a quarter to a half mile wide, considerable drifting is done. Then the naked herder has plenty of amusement in the hot sun, fighting green-head flies and mosquitoes, and peeping around for Indians, until the rest of the lay-out is put over—not an easy job. A temporary boat has to be made of the wagon-box by tacking the canvas cover over the bottom, with which the ammunition and grub is ferried across, and the running-gear and ponies are swum over afterward. Indian fights and horse-thief troubles are part of the regular rations. Mixing with other herds and cutting them out, again avoiding too much water at times and hunting for a drop at others, belongs to the regular routine.

Such is the cowboy of the wild West, who, if not without faults, has virtues to compensate for the little eccentricities that cling to men of the frontier.

A GROUP OF HOSTILES.

CHAPTER IV.
THE RIDERS OF THE WORLD.

Many customs and habits, by reason of their peculiar surroundings and requirements, have become necessities, and, indeed, second nature to some people; while to others, whose observation has shown the graces and beauties of these same customs and habits, they are studied with great diligence and application, and acquired, as far as such things can be acquired, as accomplishments.

To the Bedouin of the Arabian Desert, the Cossack, the Vacquero, the Gaucho, and last, but the peers of any of these, our native Indian and our own cowboy, the horse is a necessity; and woe be unto that man who by fraud, stealth, or force attempts to despoil the owner of his animal, his pet. Pleasures, comforts, necessities, aye, living itself, would be impossible to either of these if his horse was not part of his worldly possessions. The desert, the pampas, the llanos, and the prairie without horses would, for the uses of man, be as an ocean without ships or boats. But to the fashionables of the world the art of horsemanship is a beautiful and admirable accomplishment, a means of healthful exercise. The rider’s grace of carriage, his easy seat, his courageous bearing, like the fit of his handsome tailor-made riding-suit, are objects of pride to himself, and causes of congratulation from his associates. Gentlemen riders occasionally replace their jockeys on the race-course for the display of their grace and ability. But, after all, how poor their best efforts seem, how awkward their most graceful carriage, and how uncertain and timid their most heroic riding appears when put in actual contrast to the native ease, grace, daring, and picturesque riding of those “to the manor born.” The one is, to quote from familiar slang, “born in the saddle,” “looks as if part of his horse,” while the other easily betrays his hours of study and of practice.

NIP AND TUCK.

As children we have all read of the Arab, but we remember him principally by recollecting his love for his horse. From our school-boy days the Arab and his horse have been as one to us. His somewhat fantastic costume and the complicated trappings of his steed were beautiful pictures to us, and we recall them yet. These Bedouins of the Arabian Desert are not only recognized as among the best horsemen of the world, but are the beau ideal of Eastern pathfinders. The Cossack of the Caucasian line is by inheritance and inclination among the most fearless and graceful horsemen of the world. His system of warfare, which bears a striking similarity to that which prevailed on the American frontier a few years ago, is the finest school for the development of military horsemanship since the days of Saladin and Cœur de Leon. The Cossacks of the Caucasian line are entitled to be called the flower of that great horde of irregular cavalry, the Cossack Military Colonies, that dwell along the southern frontier of the Russian Empire. They spring from the same branch of the great Cossack family, the Zaporogians, which Byron immortalized in his great poem “Mazeppa.” On their light steppe horses, which are as fierce and active as themselves, they have proven themselves worthy of their fierce and warlike sires. Experts as swordsmen, as well as horsemen, they met their old enemies, the Russians, on equal terms.

As picturesque, and more gaudy in appearance and trapping than either the Bedouin or the Cossack, is the wily Vacquero of our neighboring Mexico. Agile, hardy, and dashing, adepts in the work of lasso-throwing, as well as with arms, they are alike interesting in exhibition and dangerous as foes.

But of all these native-born and wonderful horsemen of lands other than our own, perhaps the most complete, the most daring and dangerous in war, the most phenomenal trailer, the greatest pathfinder, is the wonderful Gaucho from the llanos of the Argentine Republic. From his earliest infancy the half-wild horses have been his intimates and familiars. When the American or English boy is just learning to stand on his feet alone, the infant Gaucho is being taught by his fond mother to steady himself on the back of one of the ponies of the herd. At the age of four years he can ride the wildest colt that roams the pampas, and from that time he and his horse are practically one; and to unseat him would be almost to tear from the horse a portion of his own anatomy. He is by virtue of his home life and occupations completely dependent on his horse. He spends most of his life on horseback, and is associated with the wild equine to a greater degree than any member of the other equestrian races of the world. Armed with the deadly bolas he is a terrible foe to either bird, beast, or man. The bolas consists of a number of rawhide thongs fastened to a central thong and with an iron ball at each of the ends. He is possibly the most expert lassoer in the world; and when in pursuit of animal or bird he hurls the deadly bolas with unerring skill. From a distance of sixty feet he causes it to inextricably entangle about the legs, bringing the victim helpless to the ground. When tracking his foe across the pathless continent, his fearful skill and persistence make the work of the Cuban bloodhound and the Bedouin of the desert appear like child’s play. It is interesting to note that the Gaucho himself makes nearly everything connected with his outfit, from the saddle in which he rides to the boots which cover his feet.

WILD RIDERS OF THE PLAINS.

Though these horsemen of the Orient and of South America are picturesque types of the riders of the world, the list would indeed be incomplete if we omitted our own Indian and cowboy. To the former no price is too high, no danger too threatening to risk, no undertaking too hazardous to attempt, that will win for him a horse. His wealth is told in the number of his horses, and while he may keep his promise of peace to the settler, he can rarely resist “borrowing” one of his horses if occasion seems to him to demand the need of it. Whether in pursuit of game, indulging in his peculiarly interesting sports, or on the war-path, his pony is his friend and companion. It would at times appear as though the wish, the thought, of the rider was in some mysterious way communicated to the horse without word of mouth or touch of bridle-rein, so quick are their changes of movement or direction and so seldom is a correction made.

Indian warfare was made far more dangerous to the pioneer of comparatively later days by reason of the red man’s introduction to the horse. In the earliest conflicts between the hereditary owners of this continent and the white aggressor, the horse and his uses were unknown to the former. His fighting, like his hunting, had to be done on foot. An Indian attack in those days could not be made with the suddenness or the rush, nor could his retreat be so quickly accomplished, as in after years. And it was not until Cortez brought over his horses that the “long-felt want” was satisfied. Now, like a veritable Centaur, he strides his animal, his command so complete that it appears his arms and hands are not needed for use in his horsemanship, but left free to handle his bow and arrow or his rifle.

Just here it may be well to say a few words relative to the noble animal whose duties and services have commanded the admiration of mankind.

It seems to be a settled fact that the horse is of Moorish origin, as also is his accompaniment, the saddle.

To follow the theory of other able writers, the horse is thought to be a native of the plains of Central Asia, but the wild species from which it is derived is not certainly known. The Asiatic horse with its one digit was in turn evolved from ancestors with polydactyl feet. Some instances have been known in modern times, and ancient records give stories, of horses presenting more than one toe. Julius Cæsar’s horse is said to have had this peculiarity. Suetonius, the writer, describes this horse as being almost human, with the hoofs cleft like toes. This author says: “It was born in Cæsar’s own stables, and as the soothsayers declared that it showed that its owner would be lord of the world, he reared it with great care, and was the first to mount it. It would allow no other rider.” Most of the polydactyl horses found in the present day have been raised in the southwest of America, or from that ancestry bred. In this way their connection with the mustang, or semi-wild stock of that region, becomes at least probable.

This same raw-boned, small, or medium-sized horse, called the mustang, possesses a well-authenticated claim to noble origin. Horses of good Berber blood were brought over by the Spanish conquerors under Cortez and De Soto, and it is a most reasonable supposition that these invaders selected the very best and strongest specimens of the breed for use in their daring ventures. It is not surprising that the natives of Mexico, when for the first time they saw approaching them men on horses, both clad in glittering armor, were filled with terror. To them it seemed that man and horse were one, a veritable four-legged warrior, and they fled precipitately to the fastnesses of their own mountains to escape contact with this monstrosity.

In good time the climate and surroundings wrought many changes in the horse that first landed on the shores of Mexico, and the breed eventually became what is now known as the “American mustang,” perhaps the hardiest specimen of the genus horse now known. From this origin evoluted the finest breeds of horses now claimed to be American bred.

During the visit of the Wild West to Paris, General Cody, by invitation, called on Rosa Bonheur, the famous painter of horses. Three years prior to this time Miss Bonheur had received from America three fine mustang ponies, two of which had, despite all effort, remained uncontrollable and therefore, of course, useless to her. These latter she generously tendered to General Cody as a present. Her surprise when Cody calmly accepted the offer, and assured her that “his boys” would have but little trouble in catching and controlling these animals, can hardly be described. True to his assurance, Cody soon had two of his “boys” on hand, and in a short time the apparently uncontrollable “Appach” and “Clair de Lune” were lassoed by the “boys,” saddled and mounted. This scene was witnessed not only by the great artist herself but by numbers of marveling neighbors, who, by peeping through their window-shutters, saw for the first time a lasso hunt. The quick, accurate, and successful work of the American cowboy astonished and interested all these witnesses to a wonderful degree.

To the cowboy’s dexterous horsemanship, added to his courage and endurance, has been largely due the protection of the lives and property of the early emigrants to the great West. For years the dissemination of news was entirely dependent upon these heroic riders. Now the success and preservation of the vast cattle interests are made possible only by the watchful care of the cowboy and his pony—the one practically helpless without the other.

The “view halloo” of the English hunting gentleman may be inspiriting to those accustomed to it, but how it lacks in vigor, in earnestness, in actual music, the famous cowboy yell as he and his pony dash upon game or hostile Indians. This latter carries with its sound the conviction of heartiness, determination, and enthusiasm with which he begins a sport, faces a danger, or encounters a foe. To those who have seen Gen. W. F. Cody (“Buffalo Bill”) give exhibitions of this method of riding, it will readily be understood how difficult it is in words to illustrate the strange peculiarity of its singular attractiveness.

To this man of ideas is due the thought of gathering together in one congress the representatives of all these types of horses and riders. And, as with Cody to resolve is to act, this interesting assemblage is ready for public contemplation at the World’s Fair.

It may not be inappropriate in this chapter to quote the words of the famous king of poets in eulogy of that noble animal, the horse.

SHAKESPEARE ON THE HORSE.

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven’s thunder;
The iron bit he crushes ’tween his teeth,
Controlling what he was controlled with.

His ears up-pricked, his braided hanging mane
Upon his compassed crest now stands on end;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapors doth he send;
His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,
Shows his hot courage and his high desire.

Sometimes he trots, as if he told the steps
With gentle majesty and modest pride;
Anon he rears upright, curvets, and leaps,
As who should say, “Lo! thus my strength is tried;
And this I do to captivate the eye
Of the fair breeder that is standing by.”

What recketh he his rider’s angry stir,
His flattering “Holla,” or his “Stand, I say”?
What cares he now for curb or pricking spur,
For rich caparisons or trapping gay?
He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
Nor nothing else with his proud sight agrees.

Look! When a painter would surpass the life
In limning out a well-proportioned steed,
His art with nature’s workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed,
So did this horse excel a common one,
In shape, in color, courage, pace, and bone.

Round-hoof’d, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostrils wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs, and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide.
Look! What a horse should have he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.

BUFFALO BILL’S EQUINE HEROES.

Mr. Cody is a great lover of man’s best friend among the animal kingdom—the horse. The peculiar career he has followed has made his equine friend such a sterling necessity as a companion, an assistant, a confidant, that he admits, as every frontiersman and scout does, a great deal depends, even life itself in innumerable emergencies, on the general sagacity of this noble brute. For the purposes of the trail, the hunt, the battle, the pursuit, or the stampede it was essentially necessary to select, for chargers with which to gain success, animals excelling in the qualities of strength, speed, docility, courage, stamina, keen scent, delicacy of ear, quick of sight, sure-footed, shrewd in perception, nobleness of character, and general intelligence. History records, and a grateful memory still holds dear, numberless famous quadruped allies that Buffalo Bill has during his long career possessed, and many are the stories told on the frontier and in the army of Old Buckskin Joe, Brigham, Tall Bull, Powder-Face, Stranger, and Old Charlie.

COMRADES.

Old Buckskin Joe was one of his early favorites, who by long service in army-scouting became quite an adept, and seemed to have a perfect knowledge of the duties required of him. For this reason, when ordered to find and report the location of the savages in their strongholds, at times hundreds of miles away over a lonely country, infested by scouting parties of hostiles liable at any instant to pounce upon one, Old Buckskin was always selected by Cody to accompany him on the trail when the work was dangerous. Mounted on another horse, he would let Buckskin follow untrammeled, even by a halter, so as to reserve him fresh in case of discovery and the terrible necessity of “a ride for life.” Quick to scent danger, he instinctively gave evidence of his fears, and would almost assist his saddling or quickly insert his head in the bridle, and once on his back Joe was always able to bid defiance to the swiftest horses the Indians possessed, and the longer the chase the farther they were left in his rear. On one occasion his master descried a band of 100 warriors, who gave them chase from the headwaters of the Republican River to Fort McPherson, a distance of 195 miles. It was at a season when the ponies were in good condition, and the savage band, though thirsting for the scalp of their well-known foe, Pa-he-has-ka (the long-haired scout), dropped behind until on the last fifty miles but fifteen of the fleetest were in pursuit, Buckskin leaving them out of sight twenty miles from the fort.

This ride, famed in army annals, caused Old Buckskin to go blind, but the gratitude of his master was such that Joe was kept and carefully attended to until his death, which occurred a few years ago at Cody’s home, North Platte. Buckskin was accorded a decent funeral, and a tombstone erected over his remains inscribed “Old Buckskin Joe, the horse that on several occasions saved the life of Buffalo Bill by carrying him safely out of the range of Indian bullets. Died of old age, 1882.”

Brigham was another celebrity of his race, and it was on his back Mr. Cody clinched his undisputed title of “King Buffalo-killer,” and added permanency to the name of Buffalo Bill by killing sixty-nine buffalo in one run; and such was this steed’s knowledge of hunting that game that he discarded saddle and bridle while following the herd, killing the last half while riding this renowned pet of the chase bareback.

Many other tried and true ones have enhanced his love for their race, the last of the famous old-timers being owned and ridden by him in his daily exhibitions with the Wild West, traversing the continent five times, traveling thousands of miles, and never missing a performance. Old Charlie possessed all the virtues that go to form a “noble horse.” Charlie was broken in by Mr. Cody, and has never been ridden by any one else (except Miss Arta Cody, an accomplished horse-woman), and for many years has been the participant of all his master’s skirmishes, expeditions, long rides, and hunts; has been ridden over all kinds of rough country, prairie-dog towns, mountain and plain; has never stumbled or fallen, being beyond a doubt one of the surest-footed animals man ever rode; and for endurance is a second Buckskin Joe, if not better, on one occasion, in an emergency, having carried his master over a prairie road one hundred miles in nine hours and forty-five minutes, rider and trappings weighing 243 pounds. Old Charlie’s great point was his wonderful intelligence, which caused him to act in a manner as to almost lay claim in his conduct to judiciousness. In the most lonely or unattractive place, or in one of the most seductive to equine rambles, when his master removed saddle and bridle, he could trust Charlie to stay where he was left, wrap himself in a blanket, take the saddle for a pillow, go to sleep contented, knowing his faithful steed would be close at hand, or, after browsing fully, would come and lie close beside him, sink into slumber, with ear at tension, one eye open, and at the slightest disturbance arouse him to meet the threatened danger. All the Indians in the country, keen as he was to scent them, intuitively as he dreaded them, could not make him leave, or stampede him, until his owner was mounted, challenging in this respect the instincts of the highest class of watch-dog.

He cared not how much load you put on his back, having carried 500 pounds of buffalo-meat; would pull as much by tying a lariat to the pommel as an ordinary horse with a collar; would hold the strongest buffalo or steer, but when a harness was placed on his back and a collar round his neck he would not pull an ounce, and if not soon relieved would viciously resent the (to him) seeming degradation.

Alas! poor Charlie died while crossing the ocean on the homeward-bound voyage, and was buried at sea with all the honors that would have been shown to a human being.

In his death Buffalo Bill lost a friend he will never forget.

KICKING BEAR, OGALALLA SIOUX WAR CHIEF.

CHAPTER V.
INDIAN HOME LIFE.

To Indians at peace, and with food in plenty, the winter camp is their home. After the varying excitements, the successes and vicissitudes, the constant labors of many months, the prospect of the winter’s peace and rest, with its home life and home pleasures, comes like a soothing balm to all.

To those of the warriors who have passed the age of passionate excitements, this season brings the full enjoyment of those pleasures and excitements yet left to them in life. Their days are spent in gambling, their long winter evenings in endless repetitions of stories of their wonderful performances in days gone by, and their nights in the sound, sweet sleep vouchsafed only to easy consciences.

A REDSKIN SCOUT.

The women also have a good time. No more taking down and putting up the tepee; no more packing and unpacking the ponies. To bring the wood and water, do the little cooking, to attend to the ponies, and possibly to dress a few skins is all the labor devolved upon them.

To the young of both sexes, whether married or single, this season brings unending excitement and pleasure. Now is the time for dances and feasts, for visits and frolics and merry-making of all kinds, and for this time the “story-teller” has prepared and rehearsed his most marvelous recitals. Above all, it is the season for love-making; “love rules the camp,” and now is woman’s opportunity.

Without literature, without music or painting as arts, without further study of nature than is necessary for the safety of the needs of their daily life, with no knowledge or care for politics or finance or the thousand questions of social or other science that disturb and perplex the minds of civilized people, and with reasoning faculties little superior to instinct, there is among Indians no such thing as conversation as we understand it. There is plenty of talk, but no interchange of ideas; no expression and comparison of views and beliefs, except on the most commonplace topics. Half a dozen old sages will be sitting around, quietly and gravely passing the pipe, and apparently engaged in important discussion. Nine times out of ten their talk is the merest camp tattle, or about a stray horse or sick colt, or where one killed a deer or another saw a buffalo-track. All serious questions of war and chase are reserved for discussion in the council lodge.

During the pleasant months he has constantly the healthy stimulus of active life; during the winter he is either in a state of lethargy or of undue excitement. During the day, in the winter season, the men gamble or sleep, the women work or idle, as suits each; but the moment it gets dark everybody is on the qui vive, ready for any fun that presents itself. A few beats on a tom-tom bring all the inmates of the neighboring lodges; a dance or gambling bout is soon inaugurated, and oftentimes kept up until nearly morning.

The insufficiency and uncertainty of human happiness has been the theme of eloquent writers of all ages. Every man’s happiness is lodged in his own nature, and is, to a certain extent at least, independent of his external circumstances and surroundings. These primitive people demonstrate the general correctness of this theory, for they are habitually and universally happy people. They thoroughly enjoy the present, make no worry over the possibilities of the future, and “never cry over spilled milk.” It may be argued that their apparent happiness is only insensibility, the happiness of the mere animal, whose animal desires are satisfied. It may be so. I simply state facts, others may draw conclusions. The Indian is proud, sensitive, quick-tempered, easily wounded, easily excited; but though utterly unforgiving, he never broods. This is the whole secret of his happiness.

In spite of the fact that the wives are mere property, the domestic life of the Indian will bear comparison with that of average civilized communities. The husband, as a rule, is kind; ruling, but with no harshness. The wives are generally faithful, obedient, and industrious. The children are spoiled, and a nuisance to all red visitors. Fortunately the white man, the “bugaboo” of their baby days, is yet such an object of terror as to keep them at a respectful distance. Among themselves the members of the family are perfectly easy and unrestrained. It is extremely rare that there is any quarreling among the women.

There is no such thing as nervousness in either sex. Living in but the one room, they are from babyhood accustomed to what would be unbearable annoyance to whites. The head of the lodge comes back tired from a hunt, throws himself down on a bed, and goes fast to sleep, though his two or three wives chatter around and his children tumble all over him. Everybody seems to do just as he or she pleases, and this seems no annoyance to anybody else.

Unlike her civilized sister, the Indian woman, “in her hour of greatest need,” does not need any one. She would be shocked at the idea of having a man doctor. In pleasant weather the expectant mother betakes herself to the seclusion of some thicket; in winter she goes to a tepee provided in each band for the women. In a few hours she returns with a baby in its cradle on her back, and goes about her usual duties as if nothing had happened.

Preparations for war or the chase occupy such hours of the winter encampment as the noble red man can spare from gambling, love-making, and personal adornment.

Each Indian must make for himself everything which he can not procure by barter, and the opportunities for barter of the more common necessities are very few, the Indians not having even yet conceived the idea of making any articles for sale among themselves.

The saddle requires much time and care in its construction; some Indians can never learn to make one; consequently this is more an article of barter than anything commonly made by Indians.

No single article varies so much in make and value as the bridle. The bit is always purchased, and is of every pattern, from the plain snaffle to the complicated contrivance of the Mexicans. The bridle of one Indian may be a mere head-stall of rawhide attached to the bit, but without frontlet or throat-latch, and with reins of the same material, the whole not worth a dollar; that of another may be so elaborated by patient labor, and so garnished with silver, as to be worth a hundred dollars.

The Southern Indians have learned from the Mexicans the art of plaiting horse-hair, and much of their work is very artistic and beautiful, besides being wonderfully serviceable. A small smooth stick, one-fourth of an inch in diameter, is the mold over which the hair is plaited. When finished, the stick is withdrawn. The hair used is previously dyed of different colors, and it is so woven as to present pretty patterns. The hair, not being very strong, is used for the head-stall; the reins, which require strength, are plaited solid, but in the same pattern, showing skill, taste, and fitness.

The name “lariat” (Spanish, riata) is applied by all frontiersmen and Indians to the rope or cord used for picketing or fastening their horses while grazing, and also to the thong used for catching wild animals—the lasso. They are the same, with a very great difference. The lasso may be used for picketing a horse, but the rope with which a horse is ordinarily picketed would never be of use as a lasso.

A good riata (lasso) requires a great deal of labor and patient care. It is sometimes made of plaited hair from the manes and tails of horses, but these are not common except where wild horses are plentiful, one such riata requiring the hair of not less than twenty animals. It is generally made of rawhide of buffalo or domestic cattle, freed from hair, cut into narrow strips, and plaited with infinite patience and care, so as to be perfectly round and smooth. Such a riata, though costing less money than that of hair, is infinitely superior. It is smooth, round, heavy, runs easily and quickly to noose, and is as strong as a cable. Those tribes, as the Ute, who are unable to procure beef or buffalo skins, make beautiful lariats of thin strips of buckskin plaited together; but as these are used only for securing their horses they are usually plaited flat.

To make these articles is all that the male Indian finds to do in his ordinary winter life. Without occupation, without literature, without thought, how man can persuade himself to continue to exist can be explained only on the hypothesis that he is a natural “club man,” or a mere animal.

“From rosy morn to dewy eve” there is always work for the Indian woman. Fortunately for her the aboriginal inhabitants have as yet discovered no means of making a light sufficient to work by at night. It is true they beg or buy a few candles from military posts or traders, but these are sacredly preserved for dances and grand occasions.

But, slave as she is, I doubt if she could be forced to work after dark even if she had light. Custom, which holds her in so many inexorable bonds, comes to her aid in this case. In every tribe night is the woman’s right, and no matter how urgent the work which occupies her during the daylight, the moment the dark comes she bedecks herself in her best finery and stands at the door of the lodge, her ear strained for the first beat of the tom-tom which summons her to where she is then, for once, queen and ruler.

There was formerly one exception to this immunity from night work, but it has gone with the buffalo. At the time of the “great fall hunt” there was no rest nor excuse for her. She must work at any and all hours. If the herds were moving, the success of the hunt might depend on the rapidity with which the women performed their work on a batch of dead buffalo. These animals spoil very quickly if not disemboweled, and though the hunters tried to regulate the daily kill by the ability of the squaws to “clean up” after them, they could, not in the nature of things, always do so.

When the buffalo was dead the man’s work was done; it was woman’s work to skin and cut up the dead animal; and oftentimes, when the men were exceptionally fortunate, the women were obliged to work hard and fast all night long before the task was finished.

The meat, cut as closely as possible from the bones, is tied up in the skin, and packed to camp on the ponies.

The skin is spread, flesh side upward, on a level piece of ground, small slits are cut in the edges, and it is tightly stretched and fastened down by wooden pegs driven through the slits into the ground. The meat is cut into thin flakes and placed upon poles or scaffolds to dry in the sun.

All this work must be done, as it were, instantly, for if the skin is allowed to dry unstretched it can never be made use of as a robe, and the meat spoils if not “jerked” within a few hours.

This lively work lasts but a few weeks, and is looked upon by the workers themselves pretty much in the same way as notable housewives look upon the early house-cleaning—very disagreeable, but very enjoyable. The real work begins when, the hunt being over, the band has gone into winter quarters, for then must the women begin to utilize “the crop.”

Some of the thickest bulls’ hides are placed to soak in water in which is mixed wood ashes, or some natural alkali. This takes the hair off. The skin is then cut into the required shape and stretched on a form, on which it is allowed to dry, when it not only retains its shape but becomes almost as hard as iron. These boxes are of various shapes and sizes—some made like huge pocket-books, others like trunks. All are called “parfleche.”

As soon as these parfleches, or trunks, are ready for use, the now thoroughly dried meat is pounded to powder between two stones. About two inches of this powdered meat is placed in the bottom of a parfleche and melted fat is lightly poured over it. Then another layer of meat is served in the same way, and so on until the trunk is full. It is kept hot until the entire mass is thoroughly saturated. When cold, the parfleches are closed and tightly tied up. The contents so prepared will keep in good condition for several years. Probably the best feature of the process is that nothing is lost, the flesh of old and tough animals being, after this treatment, so nearly as good as that of the young that few persons can tell the difference. This is the true Indian bread, and is used as bread when they have fresh meat. Boiled, it makes a soup very nutritious. So long as the Indian has this dried meat and pemmican he is entirely independent of all other food. Of late years all the beef issued to the Indians on the reservations, and not needed for immediate consumption, is treated in this way.

The dressing of skins is the next work. The thickest hides are put in soak of alkali for materials for making shields, saddles, riatas, etc. Hides for making or repairing lodges are treated in the same way, but after the hair has been removed they are reduced in thickness, made pliable, and most frequently soaked.

Deer, antelope, and other skins are beautifully prepared for clothing, the hair being always removed. Some of these skins are so worked down that they are almost as thin and white as cotton cloth.

But all this is the mere commencement of the long and patient labor which the loving wife bestows on the robe which the husband is to use on dress occasions. The whole inner surface is frequently covered with designs beautifully worked with porcupine-quills, or grasses dyed in various colors. Sometimes the embellishments are paintings. Many elegant robes have taken a year to finish.

Every animal brought into the camp brings work for the squaw. The buck comes in with a deer and drops it at the door. The squaw skins it, cuts up and preserves the meat, dresses the skin and fashions it into garments for some member of the family. Until within a very few years the needle was a piece of sharpened bone; the thread a fiber of sinew. These are yet used in the ornamentation of robes, but almost all the ordinary sewing is done with civilized appliances.

All Indians are excessively fond of bead-work, and not only the clothing, moccasins, gun-covers, quivers, knife-sheaths, and tobacco-pouches, but every little bag or ornament, is covered with this work. Many of the designs are pretty and artistic. In stringing the beads for this work an ordinary needle is used; but in every case, except for articles made for sale, the thread is sinew.

The life in the winter encampment has scarcely been changed in any particular, but with the earliest spring come evidences of activity, a desire to get away; not attributable, as in the “good old time,” to plans of forays for scalps and plunder, but to the desire of each head of a lodge or band to reach, before any one else does, the particular spot on which he has fixed for his location for the summer. No sooner has he reached it than all hands, men, women, and children, fall to work as if the whole thing were a delightful frolic.

The last five years, more than any twenty preceding them, have convinced the wild Indians of the utter futility of their warfare against the United States Government. One and all, they are thoroughly whipped; and their contests, in the future, will be the acts of predatory parties (for which the Indians at large are no more responsible than is the Government of the United States for the acts of highwaymen in the Black Hills, or train-robbers in Missouri), or a deliberate determination of the bands and tribes to die fighting rather than by the slow torture of starvation to which the Government condemns them.

But the buffalo is gone; so also nearly all the other large game on which the Indians depended for food. They are confined to comparatively restricted reservations, and completely surrounded by whites. They are more perfectly aware of the stringency of their situation than any white man can possibly be, for they daily feel its pressure.

With no chance of success in war, with no possibility of providing food for themselves, they thoroughly comprehend that their only hope for the future is in Government aid, grazing cattle, and tilling the soil.

They do not like it, of course; it would be unnatural if they did. They accept it as the dire alternative against starvation.

Basing arguments on the Indian contempt for work, many men in and out of Congress talk eloquent nonsense of the impossibility of ever bringing them to agricultural pursuits. The average Indian has no more hatred of labor, as such, than the average white man. Neither will labor unless an object is to be attained. Both will labor rather than starve. Heretofore the Indian could comfortably support himself in his usual and preferred life without labor; and there being no other incentive he would have only proved himself an idiot had he worked without an object.

But now, with the abundant acres of land that his white conquerors, with simple justice, have allotted to him in the shape of reservations, with no opportunity to think of the excitement, honor, and glory of battle, his life is changed. He now finds that fences are to be made, ground broken up, seed planted; and the peerless warrior, with “an eye like an eagle,” whose name a few short years ago was a terror and whose swoop was destruction, must learn to handle the plow, and follow, in fact, what he has often claimed in desire and spirit to follow, “the white man’s road.”

OGALALLA CHIEFS.

CHAPTER VI.
EXPERT SHOOTING.

Every custom, vocation, or study that has for its object the protection of home, self, or one’s just rights, the defense of the weak or the protection of the innocent, is justly denominated “manly,” and commands universal respect and admiration. If such attributes or qualifications as a steady nerve, a clear, penetrating gaze, and intensity and earnestness of purpose, are combined with quickness of action and courageous bearing, the admiration grows stronger and the respect deeper.

BREAKING GLASS BALLS AT FULL SPEED.

Years ago scarcely anybody save the professional duelist would ever have thought of making an accomplishment of rifle or pistol shooting, unless, like the enlisted soldier or the dweller on the prairies, a practical knowledge of fire-arms and their uses became an absolute necessity for self-protection or the performance of duty. Yet now so-called “fancy shooting” is considered rather a “fad,” and its aptest exponents are objects of laudation and applause. The huntsman is no longer a slayer of game and wild beasts as a means of subsistence for himself and family, or for sale to neighbors or in the public market. The elephant is now rarely killed for his tusks, the tiger for his skin, or the buffalo (what few there are left of this species) for his flesh. Now the “chase” is a mere sport, like “hunting the covers” in Merrie England, and men boast of their prowess as hunters much as they do of their skill at billiards. Yet an expert with the rifle or the pistol is an object of applause and admiration, and even the more courageous of the fair sex love to try their skill at a target. For a time the old pastime of archery was revived, but, whether its difficulties or its present-day impracticability was the cause, it has been abandoned by the fashionable world, and shooting-galleries are now the “thing” rather than archery clubs.

In the march of progress the club, the lance, the javelin, and the long-bow have been thrown aside, and modern invention has given us the cannon, the shotgun, the musket, the rifle, and the pistol. Some writers have even argued, and ably too, that the invention of gunpowder had a most powerful and active effect upon the civilization of the world.

However, the acts of aiming and discharging the projectile, and successfully striking the target, be it animate or inanimate, possess a rare fascination for the world at large. What boy has not enjoyed raptures of delight at the story of William Tell, and the fact of his having shot the apple from his son’s head has made a more lingering and lasting impression upon the readers of the story than his struggle to liberate his countrymen from the tyranny personified in Gessler; and you iconoclasts give mortal offense to the youth of the world when you dare assert that their hero of Switzerland is a myth. There is no story more interesting, told to the good little boy who regularly attends his Sunday-school, than that of David’s wonderful marksmanship when, by throwing a pebble from a sling, he struck the mighty Goliath and slew him. David’s after-history, his glories and his sacerdotal power, though ofttimes told the youthful Biblical scholar and repeated to him in sermons when he grows older, may have an effect, but still it is the incident of David’s meeting with the giant and his victory over him that most surely impresses him.

To learn the science of accurate shooting by constant practice in a gallery especially prepared for that purpose, the target being inanimate and incapable of retaliation, may, and often does, result in aptitude with the revolver and the rifle. To preserve this cleverness, however, the conditions must always be the same. The proper light must fall correctly upon the target; nothing to disturb the serenity of the surroundings or to distract the attention of the shooter must be permitted.

A grade higher comes the hunter. His targets are living, breathing objects. Sometimes he may stealthily approach, unobserved, and secure an aim while the object is at rest; again, the bird flies, the beast runs, and then his scientific calculation must be quick and accurate. But in both of these the disturbing element of probable, almost certain, retaliation is lacking. The excitement of rivalry or the enthusiasm, added to the uncertainty, of the chase may somewhat agitate the nerves of the shooter. His own safety is assured, however. How often do we read of a meeting on the miscalled “field of honor” of two men, both famous as pistol-gallery shots; men with whom to hit the “bull’s-eye” nine times out of ten shots is a common occurrence, yet who exchange leaden compliments that are as barren of results as would be the feeding of a hungry man on “angel food.” What is the cause of this? It is the actual, assured knowledge that in this instance the targets are equally animate, equally prepared thoroughly for retaliatory action, both equally anxious, and as capable of hitting the target the one as the other, and a sure consequence is that the nerves of both shooters are “like sweet bells, jangled, out of tune.”

The soldier whose lessons in the handling of fire-arms have been learned on many a hard-fought field has acquired a steadiness of nerve, a sort of reckless fearlessness, and, at times, even a contempt for danger which its constant presence has taught him. All honor to the soldiers who in steady column, shoulder to shoulder, or in dashing charge to the shrill cry of the bugle, have fearlessly breasted the scathing fire of the enemy’s guns. But in this case the inspiriting association of comrades, the encouraging sense of companionship, cheers them on, and they at least momentarily fail to really appreciate the thorough seriousness of their situation.

How different from all these pictures is that of the daring scout, the intrepid cowboy, the faithful guide, of the unsettled West. To either of these danger is so constant, so frequent in its visitations, that it has become an expected presence. An ear quick to detect a rustle of the leaves, a footfall on the turf, the click of the hammer of a rifle; an eye to instantaneously penetrate into the thickness of the brush; to detect, locate, and photograph a shifting speck on the horizon; to measure distance at a glance, and to fix the threatening target’s vulnerable point in an instant are absolute necessities. Added to these, as an absolute essential, must be nerves as tense as steel. A tremor of the arm, nay, the slightest quiver of a muscle, that sends the bullet a hair’s-breadth from the point aimed at, may cost not only the death of the shooter, but the lives of those depending on him for safety. No fancy shooting this; for more than life—honor and reputation, the preservation of sacred trusts and cherished lives committed to his care, depend upon his coolness, his courage, and his accuracy. In a moment all will be over for good or ill, and upon his single personality all depends. The stake is fearful.

These indubitable facts considered, is it surprising that these danger-baptized heroes of the West stand to-day as the most marvelous marksmen of the world?

The amateur sportsman, the society expert rifle-shot, the ambitious youth, and even woman, to whom all real manly exploits and true heroism are admirable, all take sincere pleasure in witnessing the feats of marksmanship of the cowboy, scout, or guide expert, and wonder at his marvelous accuracy. It is because actual necessity was the foundation upon which their expertness was built that these surpass all others in the science. What appears wonderful to others is in them but the perfection of art.

Looking at expert shooting as a pastime, a science, or a means of protection or self-preservation, the awakening of the manhood of the country and the up-growing youth to its possibilities is surely to be commended and encouraged. No man is more to be credited with the accomplishment of this than Gen. W. F. Cody. His romantic and picturesque history and his wonderful accomplishments have attracted to him the attention of America and Europe, and no one man is more capable of exemplifying the science of shooting than he. A graduate, with high honors, of the school where expert shooting is taught by the best practice and actual experience, he is master of his art. The object-lessons he gives are of incalculable benefit to the ambitious student of marksmanship, and sources of delight to all. His trusty rifle is now a social friend, whose intimacy is founded on dangers averted, heroic deeds accomplished, and honors nobly won.

A NOONDAY HALT ON THE PRAIRIE.

CHAPTER VII.
A MOST FAMOUS RIDE.

In the spring of 1868, at the outbreak of the violent Indian war, General Sheridan, from his headquarters at Hays City, dispatched Cody as guide and scout to Captain Parker at Fort Larned. Several bands of Comanches and Kiowas were in the vicinity, and Buffalo Bill, after guiding General Hazen and an escort of twenty men to Fort Sarah, thirty miles distant, started to return to Larned alone. At Pawnee Rock, about half-way, he found himself suddenly surrounded by about forty warriors. By professions of friendship and warm greeting of “How, how!” Bill saw he could alone depend on cunning and strategy to escape. Being taken before Santanta, who Bill knew was expecting, a short time before, a large herd of cattle which had been promised by General Hazen, he boldly complained to the wily chief of his treatment, and informed him that he had been ordered to find him and deliver “a big heap lot who-haws.” The cupidity of old Santanta enabled Bill to regain his arms. Although declining an escort, he was followed, much to his alarm, by a dozen well-mounted redskins. Keeping up “a heap of thinking,” Cody at last reached a depression that hid him from view, and succeeded, by putting the mule at his highest speed, in getting fully a mile in advance before the trailers discovered his object.

Upon seeing the fleeing scout, there were no further grounds for suspecting his motives; so the Indians, who were mounted on excellent ponies, dashed after him as though they were impelled by a promise of all the whisky and bacon in the big father’s commissary for his scalp. Bill was trying to save his hair, and the Indians were equally anxious to save it, so that the ride, prompted by these diametrically opposed motives, was as furious as Tam O’Shanter’s. After running over about three miles of ground, Bill turned his head, only to be horrified by the sight of his pursuers gaining rapidly on him. He now sank the spurs a little deeper into his mule, let out another inch of the reins, and succeeded in increasing the speed of his animal, which appeared to be sailing under a second wind.

It was thus the chase continued to Ash Grove, four miles from Fort Larned, at which point Bill was less than half a mile ahead of the Indians, who were trying to make line shots with him and his mule as a target. Reaching Pawnee Fork, he dashed into that stream, and as he gained the opposite shore, and was rounding a thick clump of trees, he was rejoiced to meet Denver Jim, a prominent scout, in company with a private soldier, driving a wagon toward the post.

A moment spent in explanation determined the three men upon an ambush. Accordingly the wagon was hastily driven into the woods, and posting themselves at an advantageous point they awaited the appearance of the red-skinned pursuers. “Look out!” said Bill; “here they come, right over my trail.” True enough, the twelve painted warriors rode swiftly around the clump of brush, and the next instant there was a discharge of shots from the ambush which sent two Indians sprawling on the ground, where they kicked out their miserable existence. The others saw the danger of their position, and making a big circle rode rapidly back toward their war-party.

When the three men reached Larned, Buffalo Bill and Denver Jim each displayed an Indian scalp as trophies of a successful ambush, and at the same time apprised Captain Parker of the hostile character of Santanta and his tribe.

On the following day about eight hundred warriors appeared before the fort, and threatened to storm it; but being met with a determined front they circled around the post several times, keeping the soldiers inside until their village could move off. Considerable fear was entertained at the fort, owing to the great number of hostile Indians who practically invested it, and it was determined by Captain Parker as of the utmost importance to send dispatches to General Sheridan, informing him of the situation. Fort Hays was sixty-five miles distant from Fort Larned, and, as the country was fairly swarming with the worst kind of “bad” Indians, Captain Parker tried in vain to find some one who would carry the dispatches, until the request was made to Buffalo Bill. This expedition was not within Bill’s line of duty, and presented dangers that would have caused the boldest man to hesitate; but finding all the couriers absolutely refusing to perform the necessary service, he agreed to deliver the message, provided that he could select the horse that he wanted to ride. Of course this requirement was readily assented to, and at 10 o’clock at night, during a terrible storm, the brave scout set out, knowing that he had to run a very gauntlet of hostiles, who would make many sacrifices if by so doing they could lift his coveted scalp.

The profound darkness of the night afforded him some security from surprise, but his fears of riding into an Indian camp were realized when he reached Walnut Creek. A barking dog was the first intimation of his position, but this was speedily followed by several Indians pursuing him, being directed by the sounds of his horse’s feet. By hard riding and good dodging, however, he eluded these, and meeting with no further mishap than being thrown over his horse’s head by reason of the animal suddenly stepping into a gopher-hole, he reached Fort Hays shortly after daylight, and delivered the dispatches he carried before General Sheridan had arisen from bed.

After delivering the message Bill went over to Hays City, where he was well acquainted, and after taking some refreshments lay down and slept for two hours. Thinking then that General Sheridan might want to ask him some questions regarding the condition of affairs at Larned, he returned to the fort and reported to him. He was somewhat astonished to find that General Sheridan was as anxious to send a messenger to Fort Dodge, ninety-five miles distant, as Captain Parker had been to communicate with his superior officer at Fort Hays; and more surprised was he to find that of the numerous couriers and scouts at the fort not one could be induced to carry the general’s dispatch, though the sum of $500 was offered for the service. Seeing the quandary in which General Sheridan was placed, Bill addressed that official, and said:

“Well, General, I’ll go over to the hotel and take a little more rest, and if by 4 o’clock you have not secured some one to carry your dispatches, I will undertake to do it.”

The general replied: “I don’t like to ask so much of you, for I know you are tired; but the matter is of great importance and some one must perform the trip. I’ll give you a fresh horse, and the best at the fort, if you’ll undertake it.”

“All right, General; I’ll be ready at 4 o’clock,” replied Bill, and then he went over to the hotel; but meeting with many friends, and the “irrigating” being good, he obtained only the rest that gay companionship affords. At the appointed time Bill was ready, and receiving the dispatches at the hands of General Sheridan he mounted his horse and rode away to Fort Dodge. After his departure there was much debate among the scouts who bade him good-by respecting the probability of his getting through, for the Indians were thick along the whole route, and only a few days before had killed three couriers and several settlers. Bill continued his ride all night, meeting with no interruption, and by daylight next morning he had reached Saw-Log Crossing, on Pawnee Fork, which was seventy-five miles from Fort Hays. A company of colored cavalry, under Major Cox, was stationed here, and it being on the direct route to Fort Dodge, Bill carried a letter with him from General Sheridan requesting Major Cox to furnish him with a fresh horse upon his arrival there; this the major did; so after partaking of a good breakfast Bill took his remount and continued on to Dodge, which point he gained at 10 o’clock in the morning, making the ninety-five miles in just eighteen hours from the time of starting.

The commanding officer at Fort Dodge after receiving the dispatches remarked:

“I am very glad to see you, Cody, and I’ll tell you that the trip just made is one of the most fortunate I know of. It is almost a miracle how you got through without having your body filled as full of holes as a pepper-box. The Indians are swarming all around within fifty miles of here, and to leave camp voluntarily is almost equal to committing suicide. I have been wanting to send a message to Fort Larned for several days, but the trip is so dangerous that I can’t find any one who will risk it, and I wouldn’t blame the bravest man for refusing.”

“Well, Major, I think I might get through to Larned; in fact I want to go back there, and if you will furnish me with a good horse I’ll try to carry your message.”

“I don’t think it would be policy for you to make the trip now, especially since you have done so much hard riding already. Besides, the best mount I could give you would be a government mule.”