THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL by COLONEL HENRY INMAN (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

Its

Starting To Its Destination.  Sometimes Fourteen Individuals Were

Accommodated in case Of Emergency; But It Was Terribly Crowded and

Uncomfortable Riding, With No Chance To Stretch Your Limbs, Save For

A Few Moments At Stations Where You Ate And Changed animals.

 

 

 

In Starting From Independence, Powerful Horses Were Attached to

The Coach--Generally Four In number; But At The First Station They

Were Exchanged for Mules, And These Animals Hauled it The Remainder

Of The Way.  Drivers Were Changed about Eight Times In making The Trip

To Santa Fe; And Some Of Them Were Comical Fellows, But Full Of Nerve

And Endurance, For It Required a Man Of Nerve To Handle Eight Frisky

Mules Through The Rugged passes Of The Mountains, When The Snow Was

Drifted in immense Masses, Or When Descending The Curved, Icy

Declivities To The Base Of The Range.  A Cool Head Was Highly

Necessary; But Frequently Accidents Occurred and Sometimes Were

Serious In their Results.

 

 

 

A Snowstorm In the Mountains Was A Terrible Thing To Encounter By

The Coach; All That Could Be Done Was To Wait Until It Had Abated,

As There Was No Going On In the Face Of The Blinding Sheets Of

Intensely Cold Vapour Which The Wind Hurled against The Sides Of

The Mountains.  All Inside Of The Coach Had To Sit Still And Shake

With The Freezing Branches Of The Tall Trees Around Them.  A Summer

Hailstorm Was Much More To Be Dreaded, However; For Nowhere Else On

The Earth Do The Hailstones Shoot From The Clouds Of Greater Size Or

With Greater Velocity Than In the Rocky Mountains.  Such An Event

Invariably Frightened the Mules And Caused them To Stampede; And,

To Escape Death From The Coach Rolling Down Some Frightful Abyss,

One Had To Jump Out, Only To Be Beaten To A Jelly By The Masses Of

Ice Unless Shelter Could Be Found Under Some Friendly Ledge Of Rock

Or The Thick Limbs Of A Tree.

 

 

 

Nothing Is More Fatiguing Than Travelling For The First Day And Night

In A Stage-Coach; After That, However, One Gets Used to It And The

Remainder Of The Journey Is Relatively Comfortable.

 

 

 

The Only Way To Alleviate The Monotony Of Riding Hour After Hour

Was To Walk; Occasionally This Was Rendered absolutely Necessary

By Some Accident, Such As Breaking a Wheel Or Axle, Or When An Animal

Gave Out Before A Station Was Reached.  In such Cases, However,

No Deduction Was Made From The Fare, That Having Been Collected in

Advance, So It Cost You Just As Much Whether You Rode Or Walked.

You Could Exercise Your Will In the Matter, But You Must Not Lag

Behind The Coach; The Savages Were Always Watching For Such Derelicts,

And Your Hair Was The Forfeit!

 

 

 

In The Worst Years, When The Indians Were Most Decidedly On The

War-Trail, The Government Furnished an Escort Of Soldiers From The

Military Posts; They Generally Rode In a Six-Mule Army-Wagon, And

Were Commanded by A Sergeant Or Corporal; But In the Early Days,

Before The Army Had Concentrated at The Various Forts On The Great

Plains, The Stage Had To Rely On The Courage And Fighting Qualities

Of Its Occupants, And The Nerve And The Good Judgment Of The Driver.

If The Latter Understood His Duty Thoroughly And Was Familiar With

The Methods Of The Savages, He Always Chose The Cover Of Darkness

In Which To Travel In localities Where The Danger From Indians Was

Greater Than Elsewhere; For It Is A Rare Thing In savage Warfare

To Attack At Night.  The Early Morning Seemed to Be Their Favourite

Hour, When Sleep Oppresses Most Heavily; And Then It Was That The

Utmost Vigilance Was Demanded.

 

 

 

One Of The Most Confusing Things To The Novice Riding Over The Great

Plains Is The Idea Of Distance; Mile After Mile Is Travelled on

The Monotonous Trail, With A Range Of Hills Or A Low Divide In

Full Sight, Yet Hours Roll By And The Objects Seem No Nearer Than

When They Were First Observed.  The Reason For This Seems To Be That

Every Atom Of Vapour Is Eliminated from The Air, Leaving Such An

Absolute Clearness Of Atmosphere, Such An Indescribable Transparency

Of Space Through Which Distant Objects Are Seen, That They Are

Magnified and Look Nearer Than They Really Are.  Consequently,

The Usual Method Of Calculating Distance And Areas By The Eye Is Ever

At Fault Until Custom And Familiarity Force A New Standard Of Measure.

 

 

 

Mirages, Too, Were Of Frequent Occurrence On The Great Plains;

Some Of Them Wonderful Examples Of The Refracting Properties Of Light.

They Assumed all Manner Of Fantastic, Curious Shapes, Sometimes

Ludicrously Distorting The Landscape; Objects, Like A Herd Of Buffalo

For Instance, Though Forty Miles Away, Would Seem To Be High In air,

Often Reversed, And Immensely Magnified in their Proportions.

 

 

 

Violent Storms Were Also Frequent Incidents Of The Long Ride.

I Well Remember One Night, About Thirty Years Ago, When The Coach

In Which I And One Of My Clerks Were Riding To Fort Dodge Was

Suddenly Brought To A Standstill By A Terrible Gale Of Wind And Hail.

The Mules Refused to Face It, And Quickly Turning around Nearly

Overturned the Stage, While We, With The Driver And Conductor,

Were Obliged to Hold On To The Wheels With All Our Combined strength

To Prevent It From Blowing Down Into A Stony Ravine, On The Brink

Of Which We Were Brought To A Halt.  Fortunately, These Fearful

Blizzards Did Not Last Very Long; The Wind Ceased blowing So Violently

In A Few Moments, But The Rain Usually Continued until Morning.

 

 

 

It Usually Happened that You Either At Once Took A Great Liking For

Your Driver And Conductor, Or The Reverse.  Once, On A Trip From

Kansas City, Nearly A Third Of A Century Ago, When I And Another Man

Were The Only Occupants Of The Coach, We Entertained quite A Friendly

Feeling For Our Driver; He Was A Good-Natured, Jolly Fellow, Full Of

Anecdote And Stories Of The Trail, Over Which He Had Made More Than

A Hundred sometimes Adventurous Journeys.

 

 

 

When We Arrived at The Station At Plum Creek, The Coach Was A Little

Ahead Of Time, And The Driver Who Was There To Relieve Ours Commenced

To Grumble At The Idea Of Having To Start Out Before The Regular Hour.

He Found Fault Because We Had Come Into The Station So Soon, And

Swore He Could Drive Where Our Man Could Not "Drag A Halter-Chain,"

As He Claimed in his Boasting.  We At Once Took A Dislike To Him,

And Secretly Wished that He Would Come To Grief, In order To Cure Him

Of His Boasting.  Sure Enough, Before We Had Gone Half A Mile From The

Station He Incontinently Tumbled the Coach Over Into A Sandy Arroya,

And We Were Delighted at The Accident.  Finding Ourselves Free From

Any Injury, We Went To Work And Assisted him To Right The Coach--

No Small Task; But We Took Great Delight In reminding Him Several

Times Of His Ability To Drive Where Our Old Friend Could Not "Drag

A Halter-Chain."  It Was Very Dark; Neither Moon Or Star Visible,

The Whole Heavens Covered with An Inky Blackness Of Ominous Clouds;

So He Was Not So Much To Be Blamed after All.

 

 

 

The Very Next Coach Was Attacked at The Crossing Of Cow Creek By

A Band Of Kiowas.  The Savages Had Followed the Stage All That

Afternoon, But Remained out Of Sight Until Just At Dark, When They

Rushed over The Low Divide, And Mounted on Their Ponies Commenced

To Circle Around The Coach, Making The Sand Dunes Resound With Echoes

Of Their Infernal Yelling, And Shaking Their Buffalo-Robes To Stampede

The Mules, At The Same Time Firing Their Guns At The Men Who Were

In The Coach, All Of Whom Made A Bold Stand, But Were Rapidly Getting

The Worst Of It, When Fortunately A Company Of United states Cavalry

Came Over The Trail From The West, And Drove The Savages Off.

Two Of The Men In the Coach Were Seriously Wounded, And One Of The

Soldiers Killed; But The Indian Loss Was Never Determined, As They

Succeeded in carrying Off Both Their Dead And Wounded.

 

 

 

Mr. W. H. Ryus, A Friend Of Mine Now Residing In kansas City, Who Was

A Driver And Messenger Thirty-Five Years, And Had Many Adventures,

Told Me The Following Incidents:

 

 

 

          I Have Crossed the Plains Sixty-Five Times By Wagon And

          Coach.  In july, 1861, I Was Employed by Barnum, Vickery,

          And Neal To Drive Over What Was Known As The Long Route,

          That Is, From Fort Larned to Fort Lyon, Two Hundred and

          Forty Miles, With No Station Between.  We Drove One Set Of

          Mules The Whole Distance, Camped out, And Made The Journey,

          In good Weather, In four Or Five Days.  In winter We

          Generally Encountered a Great Deal Of Snow, And Very Cold

          Air On The Bleak And Wind-Swept Desert Of The Upper Arkansas,

          But We Employees Got Used to That; Only The Passengers Did

          Any Kicking.  We Had A Way Of Managing Them, However,

          When They Got Very Obstreperous; All We Had To Do Was To

          Yell Indians! And That Quieted them Quicker Than Forty-Rod

          Whiskey Does A Man.

 

 

 

          We Gathered buffalo-Chips, To Boil Our Coffee And Cook Our

          Buffalo And Antelope Steak, Smoked for A While Around The

          Smouldering Fire Until The Animals Were Through Grazing,

          And Then Started on Our Lonely Way Again.

 

 

 

          Sometimes The Coach Would Travel For A Hundred miles Through

          The Buffalo Herds, Never For A Moment Getting Out Of Sight

          Of Them; Often We Saw Fifty Thousand To A Hundred thousand

          On A Single Journey Out Or In.  The Indians Used to Call

          Them Their Cattle, And Claimed to Own Them.  They Did Not,

          Like The White Man, Take Out Only The Tongue, Or Hump, And

          Leave All The Rest To Dry Upon The Prairie, But Ate Every

          Last Morsel, Even To The Intestines.  They Said The Whites

          Were Welcome To All They Could Eat Or Haul Away, But They

          Did Not Like To See So Much Meat Wasted as Was Our Custom.

 

 

 

          The Indians On The Plains Were Not At All Hostile In 1861-62;

          We Could Drive Into Their Villages, Where There Were Tens

          Of Thousands Of Them, And They Would Always Treat Us To

          Music Or A War-Dance, And Set Before Us The Choicest Of

          Their Venison And Buffalo.  In july Of The Last-Mentioned

          Year, Colonel Leavenworth, Jr., Was Crossing The Trail In

          My Coach.  He Desired to See Satanta, The Great Kiowa Chief.

          The Colonel'S Father[28] Was Among The Indians A Great Deal

          While On Duty As An Army Officer, While The Young Colonel

          Was A Small Boy.  The Colonel Said He Didn'T Believe That

          Old Satanta Would Know Him.

 

 

 

          Just Before The Arrival Of The Coach In the Region Of The

          Indian Village, The Comanches And The Pawnees Had Been

          Having a Battle.  The Comanches Had Taken Some Scalps,

          And They Were Camping On The Bank Of The Arkansas River,

          Where Dodge City Is Now Located.  The Pawnees Had Killed

          Five Of Their Warriors, And The Comanches Were Engaged in

          An Exciting War-Dance; I Think There Were From Twenty To

          Thirty Thousand Indians Gathered there, Men, Women, And

          Children Of The Several Tribes--Comanches, Kiowas, Cheyennes,

          Arapahoes, And Others.

 

 

 

          When We Came In sight Of Their Camp, The Colonel Knew, By

          The Terrible Noise They Were Making, That A War-Dance Was

          Going On; But We Did Not Know Then Whether It Was On Account

          Of Troubles Among Themselves, Or Because Of A Fight With

          The Whites, But We Were Determined to Find Out.  If He Could

          Get To The Old Chief, All Would Be Right.  So He And I

          Started for The Place Whence The Noise Came.  We Met A Savage

          And The Colonel Asked him Whether Satanta Was There, And

          What Was Going On.  When He Told Us That They Had Had

          A Fight And It Was A Scalp-Dance, Our Hair Lowered; For We

          Knew That If It Was In consequence Of Trouble With The

          Whites, We Stood In some Danger Of Losing Our Own Scalps.

 

 

 

          The Indian Took Us In, And The Situation, Too; And Conducted

          Us Into The Presence Of Satanta, Who Stood In the Middle

          Of The Great Circle, Facing The Dancers.  It Was Out On An

          Island In the Stream; The Chief Stood Very Erect, And Eyed

          Us Closely For A Few Seconds, Then The Colonel Told His

          Own Name That The Indians Had Known Him By When He Was A Boy.

          Satanta Gave One Bound--He Was At Least Ten Feet From Where

          We Were Waiting--Grasped the Colonel'S Hand And Excitedly