"Horrible Massacre of Emigrants!!" The Mountain Meadows Massacre in Public Discourse

 
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CHAPTER I. 

My departure from England—On arriving at New York I come the "plains across."

One bright morning in the month of January, 1856, as the sun rose in all his splendor and kissed the snowy hills of Essex, Mrs. W—, with her husband and four children, three boys and one bright-eyed girl of seven years, were seated around a bright coal fire, at breakfast. Mrs. W— did not partake of the repast as heartily as the rest of the family. She was busily engaged in the thought of leaving her native land and emigrating to America. She had read much of the advantages of that country for the poorer class of people.

Suddenly there came a rap at the door, which broke the silent spell.

"Oh! that's the postman! Anthony, see what he has got for us this morning."

She hoped and yet she feared it might be the fatal  
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letter to appoint the day of our departure from our native land. Sure enough it was.

We were all overjoyed, especially the children. We thought it would be so nice to ride on the great ocean of which we had heard our parents talk so much.

Father said but little. Mother read the letter while the tears rolled down her cheeks; not that she regretted the step that she had taken. Oh, no; it was through her influence that my father had agreed to emigrate. But she would leave an aged mother and many kind relatives. For one short moment this overcame her firmness. Still, they were all Christians, and the promises held out to the faithful strengthened her again.

But we were not to leave without trouble. When our determination became known the people tried to prevent our leaving. The landlord came in great earnestness, demanding back rents, but my mother having been careful to preserve all the receipts that plan did not succeed; on the fourth day February we sailed for the promised land.

God bless my mother for her perseverance and courage in bringing us to a country that presents such a broad platform for an industrious man. I love my native land because it gave me birth, but I love America more for its freedom to all. Where a man with one dollar has the same privileges as one with his thousands.

God bless and preserve such a country. May she ever live and grow in strength till time shall be no more.

One word to young Americans, and I will return to my journal. Ever stand by that glorious flag which your fathers died for—stand firmly by it in all its perils,  
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live for it, and die for it, if necessary, to preserve the liberty you now enjoy.

I will return to my journal. The first two weeks we had glorious weather. The Captain said we had made two thousand miles, and if we continued at that rate we should be in New York in two weeks more. But we were not to cross the ocean without witnessing a storm at sea. Thousands of gulls hovered round us. This by the sailors was considered a sure omen of death and destruction. It was certainly verified in one instance.

About six o'clock in the evening the wind began to blow and large drops of rain to fall, accompanied by thunder and lightning of the most terrific character. The waves commenced foaming and to dash against the ship. The rain now came in torrents and every passenger was ordered below. The hatches were closed and locked; all the sails that could be were taken in. The two men who steered the ship had to be lashed to the wheel to keep from being washed overboard. It was impossible for the sailors to walk the deck or to have any control of themselves. All the passenger's lamps were ordered out. One of the vessel's lamps, which had been made secure, was allowed to burn.

This was the time that prayers were offered up to the Almighty by those who had never prayed before, but ceased again with the storm.

We will just take a peep down below. The dull light gave the whole deck the appearance of the shadow of death; the ghastly look of those poor creatures, who had been sick a great part of the voyage, clinging to their bunks for support, and from being precipitated  
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into the water (at this time six inches deep on the floor) which had washed over the sides of the ship.

Children were crying, men and women praying. The partition gave way that divided the luggage from the sleeping berths; trunks, coffee pots, and cooking utensils, were flying in every direction; the scene is beyond my power of description. I must leave my readers to imagine the rest, and return to the upper deck and see the situation there. Every sailor is up, not one off duty this night, all at their posts clinging to the ropes for support; nothing could be done; our life boats were carried off; the sails had become loose by the violence of the wind; the captain ordered the men to reef them; but one of the crew was found who had the courage to ascend the rigging in such a storm. Alas for that poor man! as he reached the top of the mast, and begun to reef the sail, the wind came with such violence that it broke the mast and hurled him to the deck, killing him instantly. By this time we had given up all hope. The sea rolled like a mighty mountain. The vessel dipped six feet of water, but soon righted again. The wind ceased, and there was a great calm. The sailors began to have hopes of once more seeing their native land.

We now return to our poor unfortunate sailor, who had gone to his everlasting home. It was a mournful sight to see his comrades as they gazed upon the mangled form of their beloved companion—he was dearly beloved by all who knew him. There was one who would feel it more deeply than the rest—one to whom he had pledged his sacred love; they were to be married on his return from this voyage. In vain would  
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she look for his return. None but those who have unfortunately felt the sting of separation can know the pangs of a broken heart.

We must return to the ship. As I said, the winds had ceased, the storm abated, the sailors began to pick up the the scattered ropes and to look to the sails, and the clouds to break in the east. We looked upon the foaming sea as it rose like a huge mountain, rolling towards us, ready to swallow us up. Our noble ship rode bravely on; the hatches were unclosed, and the passengers were glad to get a breath of fresh air. I can hardly describe their appearance; they seemed to fear if they came on deck the waves would swallow them up. We made preparations for the funeral. The captain, crew, and passengers, were all in tears; we felt the loss of that good man.

"We made his grave in the deep blue sea, And the waves sung dirges o'er him."

Our captain soon had all things in order, the physician discharging his duties diligently among the sick; the cook was preparing soup—all took an active part that were able. As evening approached the lamps were lit, and we began to feel more cheerful. We assembled together, and one of our number, a holy man, returned thanks to our heavenly father for his mercies, that endure forever. We retired to our berths, and had a sweet night's rest, both in body and mind.

The following morning found us speeding our way to the land of liberty. On the night of March 26th our hearts were made glad; we could see lights on ships, waiting for the pilot, and now and then a faint light  
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from some fisherman's cabin, which told us the long looked for city was near at hand. On the morning of the 27th, as the sun rose, we could discover a small object making towards us; as it drew near it proved to be a little pilot boat; how beautiful it looked, jumping and bouncing on the blue waves, with its snow-white sails; the glorious old banner waved its stars and stripes in the sunlight of heaven, as it seemed to say—welcome welcome to the home of the brave! The officers soon came on board, and examined our ship from the top to the bottom; there was no sickness on board, only what was common to sea voyages. The inspector found no smuggled goods on board, and he pronounced us all right. We were brought safe into New York harbor, but were not allowed to set our feet on American soil until the next morning. Then there was a great scattering among us, some going one way and some another. It was early in the season, and all things were very dull. When we bid our captain good bye I longed to go with him. My parents thought I was too young to go to sea—I was only twelve years old. They took me to Williamsburg, New York, where we remained some time.

 
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CHAPTER II.

My first experience in America.

I shall not dwell long upon our sojourn in Williamsburg as I wish to pass on to the plains, which I think is more interesting.

I would say I thought the American boys beat all creation for fighting, or I should have said, the Irish Yankees; I do not think there were many of the American boys in the crowds that I used to see, ("go up to battle," as they called it.) They would take sides, one ward against another; they were armed with sticks, stones, pocket knives, sling shots, etc., etc.

They would have a regular pitched battle; nothing pleased them better than to get after a foreigner; if they could catch one, they would select one of their band about his size, and then he had to fight; if he refused, he would get a blow from all—some would give him two. Sometimes he would have to take a cold bath; but if he showed fight and fought gallantly, there was no foul play, he was proposed a member of their there gang; if he refused, all right, he was allowed to go on his way rejoicing; I was always a coward, and never went any further from home than I could help.

I went to work in a brass foundry for a Mr. Gibbs. I had seven blocks to go to my work; this gang had a good opportunity me; they improved it. One evening as I was going home, they made their appearance; there was no show for my retreat; I had to wait the result. The first salute was hallo! Johnny Bull,  
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we have got you now, as the Captain (I supposed he was) who did all the talking, pulled out a single barreled pistol. I thought I was done for; I felt the hair raising the hat off my head; I was so terrified at the sight of the pistol, I could hardly stand; but they made me understand that I had to fight, or to take a blow from each one, not only this time, but every time they met me; I thought it was best to fight at once and done with it. So they picked my man, and we went at it; but I was too much for my opponent; I was like most English boys, heavier than I looked.

I took courage and gave the young gentleman more than he called for. I picked up my dinner pail and started for home, when another called out I could not go until I had fought him. I tried to reason the case, but it was no use. I set my pail down again and we commenced. He gave me one blow on the end of my nose; I think I saw stars.

This raised my "Johnny Bull," as they called it. I was frightened before and could not use myself to advantage; it roused me up, and I began to think I must work.

I put the blows in a little faster; finally we clinched, then I had him. I was the strongest. When he was down he cried "enough;" I can assure you I was not sorry.

They all gave me three cheers, and bid me good bye. saying I had done well. I thought so too. I will close this part. I never did like to have a hand in such affairs. If you are like me you do not care to read about it. As this was all that happened to me in that great city, I could do no less than mention it.

 
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My father not finding it profitable for business, concluded to go West. Nothing remarkable transpired or the journey; the country seemed gloomy.

On the sixteenth of December we found ourselves in Iowa City, surrounded with mud, snow, rain and frost, alternately. Thus we spent the winter. My mother, whose spirits never gave out, would cheer us by saying that the bright side of this great country was still further west.

Early in the spring we started for Omaha City, Nebraska Territory. There I met the first Indians I ever saw. I followed them round the city, and wondered if they were the noble red men of the forest I had heard so much about; if so I could not see it. They were a band of Pawnees, and I think the most degraded Indians in the United States, unless it is the Goshoots; they are a little the worst.

CHAPTER III.

A Terrible crime almost discourages me.

DURING my stay in Omaha two men were arrested on suspicion of being horse thieves, and put in jail. The following evening some ruffians took them out, carried them three miles away from town and hung them.

The next morning they were discovered by a young man, who obtained a wagon and brought them into the city. There were no inquests in those days. There  
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was great excitement among the people, and it was with great difficulty that they were prevented from lynching the jailer and his man. It seems that they must have been accessory to the act, as they both left home directly after the men had been lodged in jail, leaving the key of the jail with an old lady. The ruffians threatened her life, and she had to give up the key. The two bodies were put into the jail and left there all night. When the citizens went to remove them in the morning, they found that the rats had eaten the flesh off their faces. This so enraged the citizens that the jailer had to flee for his life.

I had a great curiosity to see the poor unfortunate men. Accordingly, just at evening, I had an opportunity to go. The distance was five miles. The sight so shocked me that (as I was naturally timid) I ran all the way home, feeling that the poor unfortunate creatures were close by my side. While resting I thought that I had already reached the end of civilization. In a few days the feeling wore off, and I was determined to find it still further West.

While at Omaha I witnessed an amusing scene. The Mormons were in the habit of sending teams to meet the emigration that was coming over the plains. The Mormons give a tenth of all their labor as tithing. The young men settled theirs in this way—by coming for the emigration. On arriving at the Missouri river they saw something on the water; they thought it was a car, but a gentleman standing by told them it was a steamboat. They were highly delighted at the thought of telling the boys, when they returned home, that they had seen a steamboat. They secured their teams as soon as possible, and started for the river. The captain  
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had forbidden strangers from coming on board, as the boys that live around landings are not to be trusted. On seeing this party approach, however, the captain inquired who they were, the peculiarity of their dress having attracted his attention. They were dressed in buckskin and valley tan hats with a fox tail tied round, which gave them an odd appearance. He was informed that they were mountaineers from Salt Lake City, who had never before seen a steamboat. He allowed them come on board, and on they rushed when they were all on they stood with their mouths wide open, and their eyes almost left their sockets, as they gazed in wonder.

They soon scattered over the boat looking at everything. The captain, crew, and passengers were as much interested in them as they were in the boat. The wagon master having told the captain that there was no danger of their taking anything, he let them go where they pleased. In three hours they left, talking and wondering, at what they had seen. The captain said he enjoyed it better than any play he ever witnessed.

After staying about two years in Omaha I expressed a wish to travel the "plains across." My father objected on the ground that I was too young to travel alone on my own responsibility. But I was determined to go sometime; I said nothing more. In the spring of 1859 the great Pike's Peak excitement broke out, and my father took the fever with the rest, and started. I thought that then was my time. I heard of a train, five miles distant, fitting up for Salt Lake City. I started to see what arrangements I could make; I partly agreed with the gentleman to drive his carriage  
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for my board over, he promising me a situation in his store when we arrived in Salt Lake City. Consequently he came to my mother about it; she at first objected, but after conversing with the gentleman she gave her consent.

CHAPTER IV.

My Trials on the Plains.

MY mother gave me such clothing as she thought sufficient for my trip. This was a new business to me, but I thought I could manage it; I was so anxious to see more of this new country. All went along finely until we came to a very steep hill. Mr. P. told me to lock the wheel when I descended. I went ahead of the train, in order to keep clear of the dust. When we came to the hill I took a rope, put it on the front axle-tree, and then to the front wheel—a terrible blunder. Mr. P. happened to be near, in time to save his family from being overturned; he spoke sharply to me, and said I had never driven much. I told him he was right, and begged him to overlook my mistake. He showed me the right way to lock a wheel, and we proceeded on our journey.

After traveling three hundred miles the stock began to get poor. We where out of civilization, and Mr. P. thought he could do as he pleased; he forbid the men riding, and gave me the same order, which I obeyed I would get very tired by night, still I proceeded very  
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well until he made me stand guard; then I thought my courage would give out; I would think of home and the quiet fireside I had left. I almost wished myself back again. The roads where very hot; my supply of shoes were exhausted. I had to walk through the burning sand all day long, until the blood would run on the ground from my toes. I asked Mr. P. to let me ride; he refused, saying he did not agree to haul me across the plains.

I must digress from my regular journal to give in detail some amusing scenes, and a very sorrowful one, that transpired on our journey. I had heard repeatedly of the glorious life on the plains; those who think so must take pleasure in every thing; I will let our Agnes tell the story, and am sure no one would wish to cross the plains.

A DESCRIPTION OF OUR AGNES.

She was an Irish girl, just from the land of Erin; weighed about two hundred pounds. She wished to go to California, and engaged with Mr. P.'s family to assist them on the road. She was a very good girl, but very timid. About two weeks after we left Florence the clouds began to gather around us, and we prepared for a storm. Persons who have never seen a storm on the plains have no idea what is in store for them. We hurried our teams in order to find a favorable camping place, that we might have something cooked before the storm commenced. We camped that night at Loup Fork, one of the forks of Platte River. We pitched our tent and secured the wagon covers, and Agnes was  
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preparing something to eat. We were all very hungry; we had eaten only a piece of bread early in the morning. We had cows, and generally had mush and milk for supper; the boys did not fancy mush and milk every night, after driving all day without dinner. No one complained this evening, as it was the quickest prepared, and it was doubtful if we should get that; the wind blew at such a rate it was difficult to keep the fire under the kettle. Agnes was talking Irish to herself, blessing camp life, only in a rough sort of way. The water boiled at last, and Agnes began to stir in the meal; the wind blew so hard she could not keep her clothes out of the fire. I took the meal and commenced stirring; the air was full of sand and the pot filled about as fast with sand as it did with meal; I paid no attention to that, I knew it was mush or nothing. Agnes sat in the tent grumbling and slapping the children—they were crying for something to eat. Mr. P. was stamping and hopping around the tent with the toothache; Mrs. P. was administering to his wants. All the men were gathered round the pot of mush to keep the fire from blowing away, and the dust out, if they could. The lightning began to flash, the most terrific peals of thunder followed, and the rain fell in torrents. The mush was cooked at last, and we all went into the tent to despatch it as quick as posssible. We were seated on the ground with our bowls full of mush. Mr. P. tried some, he was very hungry; he had eaten nothing all day on account of his tooth aching; he took one mouthful, and his hollow tooth came down on one of the large sandstones that had blown into the mush; he gave one yell and ran out of the tent; his wife followed him,  
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she thought he was going mad. They soon returned; it was raining too hard to stay out long. The boys could not chew their mush, it was too gritty—they washed it down with milk; we were about half through supper, when the wind filled our tent, blew it away over the plains, leaving us sitting in the rain. We started for the wagons, but the winds had torn the covers off, and we had to stand and take it. Agnes declared she would start the next morning on foot for sweet Ireland, she was sick of the plains.

The storm still continued. I think it rains harder on the Platte than any place I ever saw. When the wind fell we fixed our wagon covers, and went to bed without a stick of dry clothing on us. Some were merry over it, others cursing the day they started to cross the plains. Mr. P. was very cross, nothing pleased him; he wanted the boys to stand guard that night in the rain, but they refused.

We camped by a large tract of timber. The lightning struck some of the trees and split them to atoms. Next morning we made preparations for breakfast. Mr. P. wished to drive four or five miles and turn out for the day and dry our clothes. The boys told him he had better stay where he was, as there was plenty of wood and water. He would not listen to it. We started hungry as wolves. I eat some of the cold mush and raw bacon. We traveled till noon, and there was no wood or water. Agnes as she went along talked about dear old Ireland; how she had been brought away from her dear auld home to be starved to death on the plains, struck by lightning, or ate up by the wild bastes—she was afraid for her life of the coyotes, a species of small  
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wolf: there are thousands of them here. Poor Agnes had a sea of trouble.

At noon we stopped to rest our teams. We tried to make a fire with buffalo chips, but they were too wet. We eat the rest of the cold mush and started again. At five o'clock in the evening we struck a small creek and stopped for the night; the wood was wet and we did but little cooking. Here we met some emigrants going to California; there were but a few teams; they wished to join us, as they were afraid of the Indians. We were all quite agreeable; they were good company.

The next morning we started on our journey, and were very happy to have them with us. We struck the Platte River at noon and halted for dinner. Among those who joined us were four young ladies. They had a guitar and violin in the train. This company seemed to be traveling for pleasure. We had many good dances on the carpets formed by nature. The stormy weather was over and I began to think there was some pleasure in camp life. Agnes was a little more contented. This night we camped on the bank of the river. Mr. P. started a fire within five feet of the bank. We told him we were fearful some one would fall in the river; Mr. P. was obstinate and would have it there. We had all gathered round the fire, fighting the mosquitos. Agnes was very cheerful getting supper. The river here is very rapid and the banks very steep. Mr. P. was standing on the bank watching some object. Agnes was taking the kettle from the fire; the stick broke, and the water went into the fire; she jumped back and fell over one of the boys, who fell against Mr. P. and knocked him into the river, and Agnes fell in  
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after him. Neither of them could swim; there was a terrible splashing. Mr. P. was a small man. I jumped in. I dare not touch Agnes, she was too big; one of the men, who could swim, jumped in after her. When Mr. P. came up I caught him by the top of his head and started to swim down the river to a place where the bank was not so steep; he commenced to kick and splash in the water; I told him to be still and I would take him to the shore all right; in his excitement be grabbed me round the arms; he held me so tight I could not do a thing; we both sunk; we had a terrible time under the water; I put my knee against his breast and loosened his grasp. Took him by the top of his head again and started for the shore; he was too far gone this time to make any resistance. I reached the shore all right; they were all on the bank ready to assist me. We gave Mr. P. a good rolling on a barrel, and he was soon himself again. He was not a man to appreciate anything that was good; he thanked me for saving his life, but in two days he was as overbearing as ever.

CHAPTER V.

A Tragedy and a Farce.

WE resumed our journey. We were all cheerful that no lives had been lost. Agnes seemed more docile after her dipping; she would sing us a neat Irish love song, but at the end she would give a hearty sigh for her native land.

 
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Some years previous there had been great distress of the plains; when the men were giving out they broke up their guns and threw them away, so that the Indians should not get them. Many of our camp picked up the old barrels to set their kettles on, to prevent such a scene as we had just passed through. I now have to relate a more heartrending one I would gladly pass over.

One of the young ladies who joined us from the other train was the joy of the whole party; she could play the guitar and sing beautifully. The moment the train stopped she would use every effort to make her father and mother comfortable. This evening we camped near the Platte again. Here her father picked up one of the old gun barrels (no one thought there was anything in them) and prepared the fire, using the barrel to set the kettle on. Our sweet singer, Alice, was kneeling down, mixing bread, just in front of the muzzle. As soon as the barrel was hot it went off, the whole charge striking her in the breast. She fell dead on the spot. Oh! this was a terrible shock for her poor parents; they were indeed beside themselves. They knew not what to say or do. Many were the bitter tears that fell from every eye—every heart was sad. We cut up a wagon box and made a rude coffin. She was laid by the roadside; a small board marks the lonely spot. The large trees shade the sun from her resting place, and the many birds sing their sweet songs of praise, while the winds passing through the trees blend their music in union with them. We stayed there three days, and then slowly resumed our journey. It was enough to break the hearts of the strongest to see these  
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poor parents, bereft of all that was dear to them on earth, as they left the spot where their darling was laid. It was like Rachael weeping for her children, for they could not be comforted. Every heart was sad.

We traveled two days, when we came in sight of buffalo. There was plenty of grass and water, so we turned out our teams and started on a buffalo hunt on foot, as the horses were too poor to ride. We came to a large stream on the opposite side of which the buffalo were feeding; here there was a tree which the beavers had fallen across the stream. We crossed within gunshot of the buffalo before they perceived us. Mr. P. and myself were together. I went below the bank and followed it down until I was on the lower side of them. Mr. P. fired and wounded one. It turned on him; he ran towands the creek, but dared not jump in. (He remembered the rolling on the barrel.) I saw that he could not reach the tree in time, so I fired and hit the buffalo; he turned to see where it came from and Mr. P. reached the tree in safety. I began to load my rifle, but before I could do so the buffalo was after me. There was no chance for me to cross the creek dry shod, so I threw my rifle across and jumped in; I dove down, as I did not know but what he would follow me. When I raised my head out of the water I saw the gentleman turning off. By this time Mr. P. had reloaded, and with one shot brought him down. We dressed him, took what we could carry and started for camp.

We met the others; they had killed none. We told them where ours was, and they brought it into the camp, and we all had a feast. The buffalo lasted for a few days, and we then returned to the old standby—bacon.

 
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I must give my readers one or two more amusing incidents which we had on the plains. While we were camping on the Platte river our cattle fed on a kind of bunch grass called by the Indians "crazy grass." The cattle appeared to like the taste of it. Everything that eats of it has the appearance of being drunk, jumping and running for some hours afterwards. I have seen much of this grass since, and never allow my stock to taste it. The scent of the grass is very fragrant—something like peppermint. We hitched up one morning after our stock had been feeding on this grass. They were unusually lively; those who could hardly walk the day before were now full of play. Mr. P. was quite pleased with the change and thought we would get on finely—the cattle wanted to run all the way.

About ten o'clock we came to a short, steep hill, where we had to double our teams. We had got all the wagons to the top, when some Indians came round and frightened the cattle; they commenced bellowing and started down the hill. Two teams were hitched up; they went rushing down the hill and upset the wagons, breaking them to pieces and scattering the dry goods in every direction. One of the oxen got fast in the wheel and broke his leg; this stopped their progress. Those that were not hitched up made a straight line for the river; they were going at such a rate that when they came to the bank they could not stop—they all went headlong into the stream. Six of them were drowned by getting fast in the chains. This was a bad streak of luck for Mr. P.; he stamped and cursed, although he was a member of the church, in good standing, when he left Florence. He could not stand the  
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fire—I mean water—he will hardly come out pure gold. Poor Agnes was almost as crazy as the cattle. In her excitement she grabbed two of the children and started into the hills, bellowing as loud as the cattle for her dear old home, and praying for all manner of evil to rest upon Mr. P. for inducing her to cross the plains. The cattle had knocked down a yellow jacket's (hornet's) nest; Agnes took a seat on the rock by the side of it without perceiving it. She felt all right, and was just commencing a tune to please the children, when she was surrounded by the spiteful insects—they were stinging her on all sides. She jumped up and laid hold of the children; she would not leave them. But in her wild excitement she took one by the leg and the other by the arm, and ran again. We saw her running, and I started in pursuit. She ran a few hundred yards and fainted away; I threw some water in her face and she soon recovered. When she had become a little quieted we started for the wagons. She told me of a dear old cow that she had left in Ireland, which was never after such tricks, and dear little pigs, how gentle they were; she would never see them more. We were now alarmed for fear the child might have brain fever from carrying it head downwards, but one night's sleep restored it. No more traveling for this day; we pitched our camp and had supper.

The guards were sent out with the cattle. The mosquitos were so bad that neither men or cattle had rest. About two o'clock in the morning the cattle stampeded and started back the same way we came. The camp was roused and we had to get up and start back on foot afer them. After traveling seven miles we  
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found them, grazing on the same grass that made them crazy the day before. We soon started them towards the camp; they were playing and hooking each other all the way, and traveled fully as fast as we cared for. When we came within half a mile of the camp they commenced bellowing and running, still keeping in the road. Our train was corraled in a half circle on each side of the road; the entrance was large enough to admit all the cattle at once, but the outlet was only wide enough to admit one wagon. Mr. P.'s carriage was standing in the outlet, and Agnes was sitting on the inside, thinking over her troubles. The cattle rushed into the corral, and, in their anxiety to get out, upset the carriage with poor Agnes in it. We ran and picked her up; she was not injured except in mind, but she started straight for the river, declaring she would drown herself as she knew she would be kilt entirely.

CHAPTER VI.

A Narrow Escape from a Bear.

WE yoked up our cattle and took another start. We had no more stampedes among the cattle, but one of the boys named Jack was stampeded. He was out on guard; during the night he heard a terrible growling—he could not imagine what it was. Very soon a large grizzly bear made his appearance. Jack stared at him a moment, and then ran for the camp. When the grizzly saw him he started to run; Jack thought he was  
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after him, but he was running to a narrow place in the creek to jump across. Jack reached camp nearly exhausted, crying "Elf Elf! Elf!" and gasping for breath—we all thought he had seen a ghost. When he could speak he said elephant—"Ah! I saw the elephant!" He heard people who had crossed the plains talk about seeing the elephant and he thought he had seen it. When it was sfliciently light we went for the cattle, taking our guns with us, thinking we might see the elephant too. We had proceeded about a mile when I saw the bear. I levelled at him; he gave one roar and jumped towards me. I ran behind a little cluster of bushes and laid down as though I was dead; I had heard the trappers say they would not touch anything they thought dead. As he came towards me I thought I was a gone case; he was the most hideous looking monster I had ever seen; how to lay still I knew not. He came up to me, stretched out his powerful paw, turned me over, and snuffed round me. Jack, who had seen him when on guard, heard the shooting, and came to see what I had shot. When the bear saw him he left me and went in pursuit of Jack; when he saw him coming he was so terrified he dropped his gun and made for a tree; the bear was gaining on him every jump; I ran and picked up his gun; it was already loaded. Jack reached the tree and had his feet from the ground when the bear struck at him, tearing off his coat-tail and the back part of his pants. I fired at the bear, hitting him behind the fore shoulder, and he fell dead. We dressed him and sold his hide for fifteen dollars; I gave the money to Jack to get a new coat and pants.

We started again; every thing went along well ex-  
[p. 26]
cept our poor cattle, who were giving out; we traveled slow, to give them a chance to recruit.

One night as we camped a party of Sioux came up, numbering about fifty; they had been to war with the Crow Indians; they lost many braves, and had taken many scalps. They had a war dance over the scalps, which lasted all night; they kept up such a noise there was no sleep for us. In the morning when we left they had just commenced mourning for their braves; they cut themselves with knives and made the most hideous howling—we could hear them for a long distance.

ONE OF THE EMIGRANTS CAME NEAR LOSING HIS WIFE.

As we where encamped one evening some Indians came up; one of the parties who joined us on the Platte river was joking with them. The Indian wanted to trade wives; he offered the man his squaw and sir horses to boot; the man told him it was a bargain. Our men cautioned the emigrant not to say any thing to the Indians he did not mean, he would get himself into trouble. In a few minutes the Indian came riding up with his squaw and six fine horses. The man told the Indian he did not mean it; the Indian paid no attention to him, said it was a trade, and he would have the white squaw. We sent for a trader who was about a mile off; he had great influence with the Indians. After a long conversation with the Indian they compromised, the, emigrant giving a sack of flour, some sugar, and coffee. The trader told him to look out for his wife or the Indians would steal her.

In the morning we made another move towards civili-  
[p. 27]
zation; we encamped that day near a trading post; they had there a great number of Spanish cattle. It is dangerous to go among them on foot; you can travel all through them on horseback.

The emigrant who came so near losing his wife charged her not to go far from camp as the Indians might steal her; she laughed at the idea. She was young and a great lover of the beauties of nature. This journey was her first excursion in the country. After supper she was in the habit of strolling among the trees, gathering flowers and watching the birds. This evening she went as usual. She did not realize the distance she was from camp; she started to return when some of the Spanish cattle saw her scarlet shawl; there is nothing that enrages them so much as anything red. They ran towards her bellowing. The only chance for her life was to climb a tree. Never tell me that women cannot climb; they can climb a tree as well as any one when they are driven to it. She was out of their reach before they reached the tree. They all gathered round and tore up the ground with their feet and horns. She was not alarmed—she was out of danger. It was now dark; she thought if the birds could stay there every night she surely could stay one; she drew her shawl round her and prepared for the night. As soon as her husband found she was missing, the whole camp was in confusion, her husband running like a madman, and crying "My dear wife! my dear wife!" Our boys ran in every direction among the Indians and traders, but could not find her. The Indians said they would go in search for her as soon as it was daylight. These Indians were friendly and could be trusted. They  
[p. 28]
agreed to go for one sack of flour, some bacon, sugar, coffee, and blankets. The poor distracted man said "Yes! yes! anything, if they would bring his wife." No one slept that night in the camp. As light began to appear the Indians were ready to start; they wanted their pay before they started; the man did not like to do this; they told him they would not go one step unless he paid in advance, so he had to shell out. They started.

We will now return to the tree. The lady had a few little naps through the night; she was rather cold before morning. As it began to get light her guards all deserted her and went a long distance off. She descended the tree and started for the camp; enjoying the morning air gathering flowers.

The Indians always try to find a trail of anything, and when they have found it they never lose it. They trailed her to the tree; they knew well what had happened; they took the trail she had made this morning, and followed her to the camp just as she was walking in. Her husband ran crying with outstretched arms to meet her; she was laughing. The boys enjoyed it more than any scene they had ever witnessed in civilization.

My readers may think my journal is seasoned with romance and fiction. I can assure them I have only given a true synopsis of a three month's journey on the plains.

The oxen were dying every day till the five yoke teams were reduced to two; it was almost impossible to get along. The men gave me a pair of shoes, but my feet were so sore and swollen from the burning sand, that I could not wear them. I never suffered so much  
[p. 29]
in all my life; I could not sleep at night for pain; still I would not give up; I knew I was in a land of liberty; this cheered my spirits: and if I could only live to reach civilization again I should have justice done me. Here we met with some more Indians, and I managed to trade for a pair of moccasins.

CHAPTER VII.

Arrival at Salt Lake.

Here the men told Mr. P. that they did not wish to have any trouble with him, and that they intended to leave him—they would not put up with such fare. (Brown bread and a little warm water was all we had for breakfast.) Mr. P. began to haul down his colors; he knew he could not proceed without them. He plead with them to remain until he could send to Salt Lake for a supply of cattle and provisions. After much persuasion by Mr. P. they consented, and we started on our journey. But we made slow progress, and the cattle were dying daily. In a few weeks, however, our hearts were cheered by the sight of a train from Salt Lake, driven by a band of boys who were dressed in such a strange costume of buckskin and valley tan manufacture that we hardly knew whether they were boys or monkeys. A good set of fellows they were; they had lived in the mountains all their lives, knew nothing beyond them, and drove oxen like old stagers.

 
[p. 30]

We made good progress with our fresh teams. In the evening our men would entertain the Lake boys by giving them a description of cars, steamboats, and many other things which they had never seen, which are used in civilization. They were a smart set of fellows and needed only the advantages of civilization to make them great men.

The reader is to understand that this was after the United States troops had withdrawn from Salt Lake. The boys entertained us each evening in telling their exploits with the Gentile army. They showed us their breastworks in Echo cañon, which is a most formidable place. The road, for miles, was so narrow that two only could walk abreast. The wall on one side loomed up an hundred feet in hight; on top of this they had rocks of immense size ready to roll down upon them. On the other side of the cañon was a very rapid stream. At one end of the cañon they dug a trench thirty feet deep and covered it with brush and gravel; they then constructed a very cunning wing dam by which they could fill it with water in five minutes. By these means they could destroy every one who attempted to pass. These things made our blood run cold, but we said nothing.

They also sang us some of their mountain songs, composed by the Mormons. I give you two specimens:

There is great commotion in the East about the Mormon question, The problem is, to say the least, too hard for their digestion.

And the other,

 
[p. 31]
Old Uncle Sam is in a sweat, He swears the Mormon girls to get; But let us be on hand, by Brother Brigham stand, If our enemies appear, We will chuck them in the sand.

Such were the kind of tunes and songs played and sung on my arrival. At this time we had arrived at the foot of Big mountain, nine miles from the city. We were all in good spirits, in consequence of having so nearly completed our journey.

These boys had been raised to hate the very name of "Gentiles," as they termed us; we imputed their rudeness to ignorance, and let it pass. The following morning, we started for the "City of the Plains," and soon arrived at the bench lands, where we had a beautiful view of the city and for miles beyond.

The houses at this time were all adobes—not a brick or frame was to be seen. All the women were dressed alike, in a kind of linsey. We saw hundreds of children who all had flaxen hair—just the color of the houses. We met one little fellow and asked whose son be was; he said he did not know—mother said he belonged to Brother Brigham. With us it was a matter of speculation as to why they all had hair alike; whether it was owing to the reflection of the sun upon them, or the relationship existing between them, we could not decide. We were now within the inclosure of the Saints, but we had not yet seen the elephant. Next morning (it being the Sabbath) we went to their meeting. "Brother Brigham," as he is called by everybody, addressed the meeting upon the Gentile question.

He said if the Gentiles thought they were coming  
[p. 32]
here to set up their laws over us, they were greatly mistaken. We do not want their cursed influence among our young women; we have come into the wilderness to liberate ourselves from their abominations, whilst God pours out his wrath upon them. One brother bore testimony, and thus closed the sermon.

I thought I had reached the culminating point, but you will see from what follows that the end was not yet.

In a few weeks after my arrival two gentlemen from Camp Floyd (forty miles from Salt Lake City) had come on business to this place. It was supposed that they had a large sum of money with them. They were Gentiles, and were in a saloon with some of the Mormons, and about ten o'clock in the evening left for their hotel, half a mile distant. They never reached there alive; they went about two blocks when the reports of guns were heard, but no one paid any attention, as there was so much shooting in those days. In the morning as some of the men were going to their work they saw the bodies of the two men lying an the sidewalk, about ten feet from each other. Mr. Brewer was shot in the head, the top of the skull being blown entirely off. Mr. Johnson was shot in the shoulder; the hole was large enough to put your two hands in. No one could tell from the appearance of the wounds what the guns were loaded with. The police and detectives were all Mormons, so that nobody knew any about it, and nobody cared. They were decently interred by their friends, who used every possible means to find out the assassins, but without avail.

 
[p. 33]

Chapter VIII.

I Learn some of the Secrets of Polygamy.

THOSE who wish to take another wife consult their first wife: if she objects he sends for Brother Brigham. Brother B. inquires the reasons for her objections; if it is merely because she does not like polygamy he tells the man to take another wife as soon as he pleases. If his wife does not like to stay with him he tells her to leave. Now, what is the poor woman to do? Brigham gives orders that no one shall receive her into his house; on penalty of being cut off from the Church. She has to submit. I have seen many a mother with her family of children, with girls set over her for mistresses. Our hearts ached, for they would make confidants of us, and tell us of their troubles; but we dare not receive them, for in those days a man was watched and assassinated without ceremony.

HOW I CAME NEAR LOSING MY HEAD BY THE DANITE BAND.

I will relate a circumstance which occurred to me the fall of sixty-one. I had some cattle which I wished to keep over winter. I took them to San Pete county, where there was good shelter and plenty of grass. Here I made the acquaintance of an English family of Mormons; they treated me very kindly, and, although I was a Gentile, I felt very much at home.

They had two daughters, aged, respectively, fourteen and sixteen years. In the course of conversation I  
[p. 34]
learned that the eldest had been married to a Mormon having another wife, when she was only fourteen. After becoming better acquainted with her, she told me the particulars of her marriage, which were heartrending. When the time for her marriage arrived she fell on her knees, and begged her father and her intended husband to take her life instead; but all to no avail—the ceremony went on—she was married to the brute. She did not go one step with her husband, but fled from her father's house the same day, and found friends in a Gentile family, where she had remained for two years. As her mother was now sinking into the grave, her father had relented and sent for her to come home. This was about the time of my arrival; my sympathies were so excited that I resolved to assist her in leaving the country. She told me of many such cases, which would fill a volume. I frequently visited her father's house, and all appeared to be in harmony; but I was mistaken. One evening as I was going to my home I was ordered to halt, which I did; one of the men then told me if I valued my life to leave the country immediately, or I should not have a chance. I asked him what I had done; he replied, "We do not want any Gentiles here to poison the minds of our females against our peculiar doctrines."

If I had been a man they would have hung me at once, but as I was only a boy of sixteen they let me off if I would promise to leave the country, which I did as soon as I could gather up my cattle. One of the parties was Jackson, head of the Danite band; he did not want to let me off, but the others plead hard for me on account of my youth. Consequently I returned to Salt Lake City.

 
[p. 35]

These "Destroying Angels," as they are called, had a quarrel amongst themselves, and, when they could find no Gentiles, began to destroy one another, and now they are scattered in every direction. Porter Rockwell seems to be the head of one party, as he takes the lead in all the massacres. At this time the Gentiles were emigrating to the country very fast, and Rockwell became alarmed. He urged his comrades to stay in the city in case of an emergency; but no, some would go prospecting on their own hooks, and consequently they received the same fate as the Gentiles.

I will now relate some massacres in detail. There was one young man—I will call him Smith—belonging to a noble family. They are still living, and I do not wish to distress them by calling the right name. Smith was a brave man, and the leader of one of their bands. One Christmas morning I was standing at the door, when I heard the report of firearms. I saw Smith walking backwards, with his hat off and a five shooter in each hand. There were three men firing at him, he shooting first at one, then at the, other. The understanding was, that with two pistols he was to fight three men. One of his opponents lost a finger, one a leg, and the other received a slight wound, while up to that time he had escaped without a scratch. He came in to reload his pistols, and seemed as calm as though nothing had occurred. As he turned to go out one of the cowards shot him in the leg.

They all recovered from their wounds. Smith's opponents made apologies, and all again seemed harmonious among them. Some time after, while taking refreshments, one of the three, Hickman, gave Smith  
[p. 36]
some very fine looking fruit. He received it, but did not eat it; had it analyzed, and found it contained a most deadly poison. Smith knew from this that they were determined to take his life. He resolved to leave the country, and started with two young men for California.

They had proceeded about seventy-five miles, and put up at a station for the night, not dreaming that they were in any danger"; but Rockwell, hearing of their departure from the city, started, with two other "Angels," after them. He was fearful that they might make some disclosures that, at this time, would tell against him. They arrived at the station about ten o'clock at night, and took them by surprise. Smith very calmly said to Rockwell, "I shall never be taken alive by any one." He mounted his horse and started; at this Rockwell shot him, and he died instantly. The two others, in hopes of saving their lives, surrendered, and returned with Rockwell to Salt Lake City.

It was evening when they arrived, and as Rockwell's motto was never to deliver a prisoner alive, he shot them both, and then went and rendered the account to his employers. They buried the poor boys without any ceremony. The day following the city was wild with excitement, as these two young men belonged to the aristocracy of Salt Lake.

A gentleman living in the country heard of the death of his brother, and came for the body. On opening the coffin they found the corpse entirely naked. This led to another horrible death and the most painful disclosures.

 
[p. 37]

CHAPTER IX.

The Confessions of the Sexton and his Wife—Their manner of Dealing with the Dead.

THEY had the sexton arrested; in his house were found the grave clothes of all who had been buried for years, except what they had sold. I would say here that the Mormons bury in very fine linen as part of a religious rite. The sexton was an elder in good standing in the church; I believe, an Italian; be would stand the coffin on end, open it, and strip the body without any trouble; he had no assistant. In one instance he opened the coffin of a large man who fell upon him; it was some time before he could extricate himself from under him—the only time he was foiled or frightened in his attempts. A young lady recently died and was buried in very costly robes and jewelry (she was supposed to be one of Brigham's wives); opening the coffin, when be attempted to touch her, she would open her eye; after several attempts he was obliged to give it up, without obtaining anything. His wife's confession was that she had been engaged for years, making shirts, window curtains, and childrens' clothes; some of the linen she colored and made bed quilts of, and sold all as opportunity would offer; with some she paid tihing. This is no fiction, as thousands can testify. The excitement spread all over Utah, and every one who had friends buried wished to take them up, but the authorities of the city forbid it. It was reported they cut off the sexton's ears, branded him on the forehead, "grave  
[p. 38]
stealer," and put him on an island in the Great Salt Lake; that was the last hear of him.

THE MASSACRE OF THE MORRISITES.

About this time, 1862, the Mormons had a cold-blooded massacre of their own brethren; some two hundred foreigners had revolted from the church, and set up a church for themselves, on the Webber river, about forty miles from the city. Their principal leader was a very inoffensive man, named Joseph Morris; among the rest was one very prominent man, named John Banks, an Englishman—he was beloved by all who knew him; the whole of them were sober, industrious people; many belonging to the old church joined them. Rockwell said to his angels, "we must put a stop to this." Accordingly he sent five or six to quarrel with them; in the affray one of his angels was killed; this was enough; he ordered two hundred of his men, with a cannon, to go and destroy all the men, and to take the women alive. They arrived there as they were sitting down to dinner; they all lived in one family. They ordered the men to stand before them, who stepped forward, and they shot them down like dogs. One woman, with her child in her arms, ran to beg the life of her husband; they both fell together, without hurting the child. That little girl is now in Sacramento, adopted by a kind family. What few men were left they took with them, and returned to the city, held a Mormon court, and sentenced them ten years in the penitentiary. All this was done in a short time; the Gentile authority there supposing it to be a church quarrel, did  
[p. 39]
not interfere. When these men were thrown into prison they sent for the Governor, who, when he learned the facts, ordered their release, and sent United States troops to bring in all the poor sufferers, about two hundred, women and children, and kept them at Camp Douglass, until he sent the troops with them to California, where they now are, making themselves comfortable homes.

CHAPTER X.

A Heartrending Scene—Mrs. McCrary weeping over her Murdered Sons, shot by Porter Rockwell.

AFTER the arrival of the soldiers at Camp Douglass things wore a different aspect, and the Gentiles began to breathe more freely. In the fall two other massacres occurred. Two young men from the mines had come to the city, to stay with their father for the winter; he was a good Mormon, and bishop of the eleventh ward; these young men were not members of the church but were well acquainted with all the former massacres. Rockwell said it would never do to let these boys return to the mines—they would bring trouble upon us. This was sufficient to end their career. In a few days one of the police railed at Mrs. McCrary's and asked for the young men, saying be wanted them for witnesses; but the mother fearing something would befall them said they were at their brother's. She gave them horses and  
[p. 40]
told them to start for Fort Bridger The police officer saw them start, and fired on them, but without effect; they arrived at their brother's, and in a few hours Rockwell arrived also. Their brother persuaded them to give themselves up, as their father was an influential member of the church, and nothing would harm them. They stepped into the carriage, Rockwell riding on horseback; they came to a hill and the driver proposed walking up; they accordingly got out, walked a few steps, when they both fell dead, pierced with balls from Rockwell's revolver. They threw the bodies into the carriage and drove on, Rockwell riding ahead.

I will not attempt to describe the feelings of the mother; she had some hopes that they might escape; but when she saw Rockwell coming to her house alone, her heart almost died within her. She knew by that hideous grin, that she had often seen before, that be had just bathed his hands in the blood of some human being—it seemed that his only pleasure was to take life. He approached Mrs. McCrary in a most abrupt manner, saying your sons will be here in half an hour; she replied, Rockwell, if I had a pistol I would shoot you; with a horrible grin he threw down his, saying there is one, and rode off. In a few moments the carriage arrived with her sons, the blood still running from their wounds; such a scene I hope never to witness again, as that poor mother trying to see if there was some life left yet, that she might build her hopes upon; but, alas from the appearance of the wounds they must have died instantly. I began to think I should have to go to the Pacific shore to find civilization.

 
[p. 41]

A DESCRIPTION OF PORTER ROCKWELL.

He is a man about five feet six inches high, dark complexion, small dark eyes, long black hair, parted and done up like a woman's. Joseph Smith told him while he wore his hair long he never should be killed—it is to be hoped that he may be "shorn like Sampson" some day; his nose long and thin, mouth large, with thin lips, face bloated from excessive drinking.

The soldiers were now established in Salt Lake City, and murders could not be so openly committed.

I will mention a few more facts and then I must leave them. I wish to speak of what has come directly under my own observation.

In February, sixty —, a freighter by the name of Brassfield was murdered in the streets as he was returning borne one evening; he was staying there for the winter; he had been married but three days to a Mormon lady, who had formerly been the wife of one of the leaders of the church. No tidings were ever received of the assassin.

Some time in the same year Dr. Robinson, a well known physician, and very eminent man, who had taken up his abode there, made the acquaintance of a young lady; her parents were both Mormons; they made no objections to the Doctor; they were married and living very happily together. He had established a Sunday School, for Gentile children; the Mormon children were so pleased they would go too; he encouraged them to come, thinking it would be the means of harmony. One evening about ten o'clock two men  
[p. 42]
came to the door and told him that a man had broken his leg, and required assistance; his young wife begged him not to go; she knew too well the consequence of calling them up in the night, but he told her it was his duty and he must go, and accordingly he went with the men; they proceeded about two blocks when another joined them, and without one word stabbed him to the heart. His cries brought people to his assistance; there was no one to be seen near him, and he died in a few moments; he was taken home, and his poor wife, giving one shriek, fell senseless by his side. I leave my readers to imagine the scene; her face was covered with blood, from the wounds of her husband; his assassins were never known.

About this time a prominent man belonging to the Mormon church, by the name of Luce (he was supposed to be one of the Danites and the first of the Land that had been tried), stabbed a man, killing him; he had a trial, and was sentenced to be shot. A few days before his death he wrote to his wife, sending her a document, requesting her to have it published after his death. He was of a highly respectable family; he wished his relatives to know how he had been brought to this untimely end. His wife being a good Mormon, would not have it published, as it would implicate many that were then living with the Mountain Meadow massacre.

I suppose all the world has heard of that unparalleled cruelty. Over two hundred were massacred. I will mention one circumstance which was told me by one of the parties. A little boy about six years old hid himself in the grass until they were all leaving; one of  
[p. 43]
the Mormons saw him, had compassion on him, adopted him, and brought him to a little town called Lehi, about thirty miles from Salt Lake City. A few days after their arrival they were going to divide the stock they had brought. The little boy was with them; as one of the cows came up he called her by some familiar name and she ran to him; he hung on her neck and cried; the men were astonished, and said " What is the matter:" He cried, "This was my father's cow, and that was Mr. Brown's, and that was Mr. Johnson's." The inference was if he could remember the cows he could remember something else; he was never seen after that day. These are facts.

CHAPTER XI.

My Trip to the Humboldt.

I will now leave the Mormons, and give my experience among the Indians. I agreed to go to Humboldt with a train loaded with flour, and cook for the men at twenty dollars a month; I was to have seventy-five when we arrived at the mines. As I longed to see California, I thought this was a good chance. The wagon master was an overbearing man; some of his men left him directly after we started. He wanted me to drive a team; I told him it was too much to drive a team and cook; he promised to get more help in few days, and I agreed to do it. The cattle  
[p. 44]
were all young, and we had lively times until they were a little broken in.

None but those who have traveled the plains can form any idea of the difficulties to be encountered. On arriving at Rush Valley, sixty miles from Salt Lake, five men left us. We were detained several days—until we could send to Salt Lake for men. In a few weeks we arrived at Ruby Valley. Here the wagon master tied one of the men to a telegraph pole to whip him. The boys told him that that would not do—as sure as he attempted it they would hang him. He knew his men; they were not to be trifled with, and he begged their pardon. The boys were so indignant that six of them left him, and started for Carson City on foot.

We were now about three hundred miles from Salt Lake City, the only place where men could be obtained. The wagon master thought he would try some Indians as there were a great many at the station. They could speak English, but we never could learn them the difference between "whoa" and "get up;" they would in-variably say "whoa" when we came to a mud hole, or in ascending a hill. The cattle had learned that it was much easier to descend than to ascend; when they would get to the top of a hill there was another to go down. With all the Indians could say, they started at full speed, upsetting the wagon and scattering the flour in every direction. This frightened the other teams and we had a regular stampede. The Indians would stand and laugh, it was such good fun for them.

We took an old route to the mines; one that had not been traveled for years, on account of the horrible  
[p. 45]
massacres that had been committed by the Indians. On arriving at Moonshine Valley, three days travel from Fort Ruby, we met a great many Indians, but did not apprehend any danger, as their squaws and pappooses were with them. After supper the guards were sent out with the cattle, and the rest retired to bed. In the night the wagon master heard some one talking; he looked out and saw about thirty Indians, and among them the Indians who were driving for us. He understood their language, and knew what they were talking about. They said they would unload one wagon, and leave; they did not wish to fight, as we were well armed. (This they said among themselves.) The wagon master called to them to know what they wanted. They said that they were hungry and wanted flour; he told them to wait until morning and he would give them flour and shirts. In the morning he gave them their presents, and they all left us to get along as best we could. Our wagons were to heavy to couple together; so one man had to drive two teams until we could get some more Indians, although they were not very profitable on this trip.

CHAPTER XII.

I invent a new process for Drawing Teeth.

THERE was no danger of any one infringing, so I never applied for a patent.

There was no dentist in the camp until I skilled one in the profession.

 
[p. 46]

I drove team all the way, and cooked for twelve hungry men at night, after arriving at camp. Throngh pain I lost my sleep, until I had become so thin and poor that I was not large enough to make a shadow.

One morning, as they were going to breakfast, my tooth nearly distracted me. I took a large hatchet and cold chisel, and told one of the boys I wanted him to draw my tooth. He said: "What with?" I showed him the tools, and told him to go to work; he looked astonished but I insisted. The boys stopped eating to see a tooth drawn with a cold chisel and hatchet. He took the hatchet very reluctantly, and gave it a little tap. I thought the top of my head was going off. I told him to hit it, if he intended to; he gave one blow and down I went, with my feet in the air. I rolled and cried; the boys, with laughter, rolled as much as I did. The food they had in their mouths nearly choked them to death. At the time, I almost wished it had. I think the patent would not take very well, as it nearly caused the death of myself and three others.

All went on smoothly, until one morning, as I was baking biscuits, the water being some distance from the house, and the boys all out, I went for it myself; when I came back my biscuits were burnt.

The wagon master commenced cursing me in the most abusive manner. I told him I allowed no man to speak to me in such a manner.

He said: "You don't, eh?" and jumped up to strike me with the butt of his whip, which was loaded with lead. I could not stand that, so I drew my revolver and fired.

One of the boys struck my arm, and the bullet  
[p. 47]
passed over his head. He never troubled me after that. Nearly all the boys in the train were Mormons, never having been twenty miles from home before. They were afraid to say anything, for fear he would leave them on the road, as he had often threatened them. There was no danger of this, as there was not a man or boy to be hired on the road.

On arriving at Unionville, Humboldt County, we found there was a train from California loaded with flour. The California flour was much better than the Salt Lake flour, which made the sales dull. I expected to get seventy-five dollars per month; was disappointed; they offered me twenty-five; I told them no. I knew there was not a cook to be had, and felt rather independent. Finally they offered me fifty dollars. I did not like the country, and would not stay at any price.

CHAPTER XIII.

My trip from Humboldt to the overland line—Traveling with a party of cut-throats, I come near near being hung—My first fight with Indians.

I HEARD of a man who was going back to Salt Lake. I went to see him. He told me there was a party of them, but it was a secret. They were secessionists, and it would not do to let any one know when they left. I told them I would not say anything about it.  
[p. 48]
In a few days we were all ready, and one evening started and went to Limekiln Cañon; staid there the next day, calculating to travel at night. I thought this very strange, but I knew that at that time, in such a place, secessionists would have no chance. In that cañon there were three men, burning lime, who were friends to this party. The following evening we started out after our horses. I cast my eyes down the road, and saw six men coming, at full speed, up the cañon. I told our men, and they ran for their lives. I knew they would see the horses where they were, and run them all down into another ravine, ought of sight; then crawled back within hearing distance, and concealed myself in a very thick cedar tree. They talked very loud, and I was able to hear all they said. There were two negros and four whites. They accosted the men burning lime thus: "Has there been any one up this cañon since last night?" "No, sir," was the answer " Have you not seen or heard any one?" " No, sir," was the reply. "Well, there was a little Mormon who left town last night, stealing a mule and saddle."

I was on the point of telling him he lied, for I knew he meant me. I had the name of Mormon because the train came from Salt Lake. I was getting down to tell him so, when one of the party I was with—I called him "pap," because he was old enough to be my father—came crawling up behind me, and told me to be still; that, it would be all right. They went on, saying: "When we catch him, we will hang him on the spot; if there is no tree near, we will hang him to the horn of the saddle, tie a mule to his feet, and see how he likes mules and saddles." I could hardly keep  
[p. 49]
still, but I knew I should betray the others, and I thought they were innocent. One of the darkeys rolled up his white orbs as though he would penetrate the very rocks. I learned afterwards that the saddle belonged to him. The old man; "pap," trembled so violently he fairly made the tree shake. The men left, saying they would go as far as Gravelly Ford, on Humboldt River. We did not intend going that route, as the Indians were getting very troublesome. We soon gathered up our horses and packed them. The men at the cañon built a large fire, so that we could see which course to take, and we started for the mountains. After traveling half the night, we laid down, tieing our horses to a bunch of brush, and laying our heads on it. When the horses moved, we could feel them. We rose early in the morning, and started across the mountains, where no white man had ever trod before.

We did not know what distance it was to the overland line, but we supposed it to be a hundred miles. The next day it was easy to see who was the guilty one. Every sage brush the old man saw he thought was a negro after him. The saddle did not set well, and the mule rode very hard. We encamped the next day about ten o'clock, took something to eat, and let our horses feed. We could see water about twelve miles distant. It was very warm, iin the month of August. We had neglected to provide ourselves with canteens, and were nearly choked for the want of water. On arriving at the water, to our great dismay we found only boiling springs. We could not touch a drop. We then started over to another range of mountains, with the hope of finding some. We trav-  
[p. 50]
eled until nine o'clock in the evening, and found none. We halted, tieing our horses to a little brush, and taking the brush for a pillow to rest a few hours until the moon rose. One of the men had a rather wild horse, and would not trust him to a brush, but tied the rope around his body. I begged him not to do it, as I had seen one man nearly killed that way. He would not take my advice. About an hour after we laid down the horses became frightened at something. His started, taking him over brush and rocks at full speed. I jumped on my horse, and went after him. I threw my lasso, and caught the horse, but it was too late; the poor fellow was dashed almost to pieces.

This was a heavy blow for us; we buried him the best we could; having nothing to dig a grave with, we covered him with brush and laid large rocks over him. The boys were chewing lead to keep from choaking; one of them had swallowed a large dragoon bullet in his sleep. We traveled until nearly daylight on an Indian trail; I was riding ahead when I heard some frogs croaking, and was rejoiced to hear them, as I knew there must be water near by; if it had not been for the frogs we should have missed it; I followed the sound until I came to a very steep bank; I could see no water, but there was rushes and grass. I descended the bank and felt it was damp and commenced scratching a hole; in a few minutes it filled up; the other boys came up and followed suit; the water was rather gritty, but I enjoyed it more than anything I ever drank. We all thought our troubles were ended, and made the hole a little larger, and let our poor horses wet their mouths. I find thousands of frogs in the towns of California,  
[p. 51]
and the people complain of their noise; I say, sing away little frogs, your noise will ever be music to me; I am down on any man that will eat a poor little frog. To proceed on my journey; we came to a very steep mountain; there was no way to get round it; we dismounted and descended, and to our horror found it ten times steeper on the other side, with very loose rocks. There was no alternative, so we started our horses down; they slid down—it was impossible for them to walk; one of them lost his balance and rolled from top to bottom. We found plenty of grass and water after we were down. We stayed there the remainder of the day and that night. In the morning, as it was getting light, I found out what had frightened our horses the night previous: there was five of us when we left the Humboldt—that accident left us four in number; three of the boys slept close together; I was laying a little way off, beside a bunch of brush, where my horse was tied; I felt the brush move and my horse snorted; I raised up carefully, and there were five red skins, just taking aim at the other boys; they did not observe me behind the brush; I drew my revolver quick as a flash and fired, striking one in the head; this took them by surprise; their guns went off, but over the boys; they were up in a moment, before the Indians could reload, and we soon had them all stretched out before us. We did not scalp them, as we did not wish to carry the scalp with us—it would make war if we were seen by other Indians; we hoped soon to be out of their reach. We left the bloody scene as soon as possible, and in two days after we arrived at the overland line. For the benefit of those who wish to take a trip of that descrip-  
[p. 52]
tion I will give the list of cooking utensils necessary—a frying pan and a tin cup. First, mix your bread in the pan; heat a rock and lay your dough on it—it will bake very nice; make your coffee in the frying pan, and broil your bacon on the coals; if you have no good coals heat another rock and broil it on that; it will cook as well as in a pan; with these you can get along well, and not load down your pack horses.

After we reached the overland line we made good headway,and arrived at Simpson's Park on the thirty-first of August. It was my seventeenth birthday; two of the boys wished to celebrate it; as I did not drink it was decided that we would have an oyster stew. The man who stole the saddle did not like me very well, because I told him what I thought of a man who would do such things. I was the only one of the party that had money, and gave one of the men two half dollars to get the oysters, and he fetched a bottle of brandy at the same time; he bought them of a man who was peddling all such things on the road. They all drank rather freely of it; I was very busy cooking the oysters and did not notice the boys; they were going back to the peddler to take all he had, and hang him. I ran to them, and told them I would buy all they wanted and we would have no trouble; I began to find out what kind of men I was with, and wished I had never I seen them. The man who stole the mule—I will not call his name as he is now in the United States service—said it was all my fault; if I had not given them money they would not have been drunk; I told him I was sorry it had happened, but did not think it was my fault; he called me a liar, and said he would shoot the  
[p. 53]
top of my head off, at the same time attempting to draw his revolver. I drew mine in a moment; seeing I had the advantage of him he said he would take it all back; I thought I would frighten him a little, and made him get down on his knees, and say his prayers before he died; I then told him I would give him a chance for his life—I would let him take ten steps before I shot; then if he could escape before I hit him, he was free; he started and I fired three times over his head, not wishing to hit him; we had a grand race.

About this time the California Volunteers coming up, two of our men enlisted; that left the old man and myself alone. On arriving at Ruby Valley we met one old man and who knew "pap" at the Humboldt; he wishing to travel with us we consented and started. They sounded me about horse stealing, and found I would not agree to any such work. The first day from Ruby we camped at Butte Station; the next morning they went out after the horses while I made breakfast; when they returned they said they could not find my horse, but would go out again after breakfast; I told them I would go while they rested. When I returned they had packed up and left, and took everything but my saddle; that they had no use for. There I was, nothing to eat and no money; I had shared my last cent with them, and now they had robbed me; but I was glad they were gone. I found my horse, and as they had left my saddle I was all right.

I met some emigrants and bantered them for a trade; we soon made a bargain; I traded my horse and saddle for one they had and twenty-five dollars to boot. Now was all right again; I bought some provisions and  
[p. 54]
went on my way rejoicing. I did not take in any partners, "you bet." (This word of assurance claims birth in California.) I met the overland agent; he offered me high wages to cook at Fish Springs; I accepted. While I was on the road I saw men from Humboldt, who told me the party I came with were regular cutthroats; they wondered at my getting off so well.

CHAPTER XIV.

Massacres on the overland line. The Death of the Brave Harper. The Daring Courage of the Judge in obtaining the reins while the Horses were at full speed.

IN the spring of 1863 I was keeping station at Fish Springs, one hundred and fifty-five miles west of Salt Lake City. West of the springs is a large barren mountain, with scarcely a bush to be seen. The valley is full of warm springs; there are a few cold springs, and these are full of a fish equal to trout.

Deep Creek is another pleasant valley, two hundred miles from the Salt Lake. Mr. Eagan had a large farm, and the Indians generally wintered there. The last winter had been very hard, and the overland mail company had supplied them with provisions and blankets. Early in March Mr. Eagan made a feast for them. Some tribes came from the Humboldt, others from different parts to join in the festivities; they kept  
[p. 55]
up the dancing all night, and early next morning began to move camp.

Mr. Eagan knew from this that there was trouble ahead; he accordingly sent his son to talk with them, as he could speak the Indian language. His son talked with them some time without any satisfaction, and was about to return, when one of the Indians told him to reel in his saddle when he started, as some of the Indians were mad, and might shoot.

At seven o'clock in the morning there was not an Indian to be seen; the Indian boys who had been raised with the whites left also. They left all along the line with the exception of one old Indian whose name was Sam. He was friendly; he went on to the stations, calling up the boys and telling them to be ready. The agent of the road was there, and he dispatched men to Antelope Station. Hank Harper was the driver of the stage; he could speak their language, and thought they would not molest him, as he used to give them presents.

The morning the Indians left Deep Creek they went to Eight Mile Station, where there were only two boys, whom they killed and dragged into the sage brush, stripping them of all their clothes; then they prepared themselves for the arrival of the stage.

Some of the Indians stationed themselves in the ravine running along the side of the station, and others on the manure pile, ready to fire on the stage when it halted; they did not disturb anything around the station, that the driver might have no suspicion that anything was wrong. When he drew near he could not see the boys watching for the stage as usual, and he  
[p. 56]
drove past, intending to return, if all was right. He whipped his horses, and forced them into a run; the Indians rose up, shooting from both sides. There was one passenger on the seat with Hank and two inside; Judge Moor was one. The gentleman outside was shot in the head, an fell into the boot of the stage; Hank was shot through the body, but he kept the whip to the horses. He had a fine team, and drove three miles after he was shot. The Indians mounted horses and pursued, but could not overtake him. Finding himself getting very weak, and the Indians in close pursuit, he called to the Judge to take the reins, as he could not hold them any longer. The Judge stepped from the thoroughbrace to the seat, and Hank stepped into the boot, took the end of the lines, and whipped the wheel horses until his last breath. He died about a mile from Deep Creek. On arriving at Deep Creek they found the man who was shot in the head still living. They telegraphed to Salt Lake for a physician. In a few weeks the man was able to be moved; every one thought he could not recover, as a piece of his skull was gone, but I saw him sometime afterwards, quite well.

A very courageous man, named Bill Thomas, who hauled grain for the road, was at the station that morning. The friendly Indians begged him not to start; but Bill had been among them so much on the southern overland line, where he had to drive six mules with a line rein in one hand and a revolver in the other, to defend himself, that he had no fears, and started. The brave Harper passed him; they said nothing to each other of what the friendly Indians had told them, as  
[p. 57]
they were used to such things. Bill Thomas was within two miles of Eight Mile Station, when he saw it on fire. He unhitched his team and mounted the fleetest animal he had, in hopes of being in time to be of some service to the boys. But he was too late; he saw the stage under full headway for Deep Creek, and the Indians making their way over the mountains. As he passed through the sage brush he saw the two boys lying there dead and naked. He took the blanket he rode on and covered them over. He said he could have whipped a dozen Indians if they had been there then. I believe he could if he had any show, for a braver man never traveled the plains than Bill Thomas. He drove all along the road while the Indians were killing men daily. He used to drive from Salt Lake to Carson City, a distance of six hundred miles, without even a dog to keep him company.

CHAPTER XV.

The Death of another Brave Driver—Riley Simpson.

THE Indians kept quiet for a few weeks, nothing of any consequence taking place. Finally they thought it time to try the stage again between Antelope and Spring Valley. They stationed an Indian a mile below the place; he was to cripple the horses, and they would then charge on the stage. It did not arrive as they ex-  
[p. 58]
pected, but seeing two packers with horses, they charged on them. The packers fired back, killing one; this checked them a little, but they succeeded in getting one horse, and scratched the back of one of the packers with a bullet.

During this little set-to the stage arrived; the Indian who was to shoot the horses was on hand, and walked from behind a tree, and took deliberate aim with his bow and arrow, shooting the horse just behind the fore shoulder. He fell instantly. The driver told the soldier that was with him to take that Indian's head off, which he did. They have had no trouble on that route since.

A few days after they attacked the stage at Cañon Station. Major Eagan was on the outside with the driver, Riley Simpson. They were taking some stock along from Deep Creek to Fish Springs, and had just left Cañon Station. As they were going round a point of rocks crack went a gun. They looked around, and there were six or seven Indians standing on the rock. Poor Riley was shot through the heart, and fell from his seat; the Major caught him in his arms, put him in the boot, and stopped the team as quickly as possible. They would all have been massacred but for four soldiers inside. The curtains being down, the Indians supposed there was no one inside. The soldiers fired as quickly as possible, but did not succeed in taking any scalps. If there had been only passengers they would all have been massacred.

The Indians are afraid of soliders; they would say "Toquah," (soldiers no good). After peace was declared, if they did not behave themselves, all we had to  
[p. 59]
say was, "Connor, to buck Ceimer," (Connor is mad, the soldiers are coming). Then they would be very good.

The Indians said, after the war was over, that if they had not seen Major Eagan aboard they would have taken the stage—they did not wish to kill him, as he was their particular friend. I will here remark that some envious persons held out the idea that the Major had induced the Indians to make war on the whites. This I know to be false. I am well acquainted with him; he has many times kept them from making war, and hundreds of emigrants owe their lives to Major Eagan.

A COURAGEOUS SOLDIER WITH THE WATER WAGON.

A few days after the death of poor Riley Simpson they made an attack on the water wagon. In many places the water has to be hauled from fifteen to twenty miles. This attack was between Deep Creek and Cañon Station. One soldier accompanied the wagon. The horses were walking very slowly, and the men were talking of their friends at home, and what little inducement there was in that country for a man to risk his scalp, when suddenly bang! bang! went some guns. The soldier fell from the wagon, but clung to his rifle; the horses being frightened at the report, sprang forward, leaving the poor soldier in the hands of the savages. The soldier was shot through the neck, but, strange as it may appear, it did not kill him; one of the Indians started for his scalp, but he was very much surprised when the soldier raised up, and with his trusty  
[p. 60]
rifle brought him to the ground. By this time the water man had stopped his team, and was sending a little lead after the savages, at which they retreated. The soldier was taken to Ruby Valley, and the last I heard of him he was about well.

CHAPTER XVI.

The Shell Creek Indian, Tom, a good friend to the Whites.

TOM heard that some Indians were coming from Humboldt River to attack the stations, and Antelope Springs Station was to be the first. He came directly to Shell Creek Station, where they were all in bed.

Mr. Wines, the road agent of the middle division, was staying at Shell Creek with his wife. Tom told him to send her to Austin, a mining town about a hundred and fifty miles west of the station, which he did, early next morning. Antelope Station is about thirty miles from Shell Creek. As it was necessary the boys should be warned of the approaching danger, one boy volunteered to go. He jumped on a horse and started. The next day the Indians were lurking around about a mile from the station. Supposing there was an Indian staying there they did not attack it that time. The Indian left after warning the boys that they threatened his life if he did not leave. They frequently threatened old Tom, but he did not care for them. He had  
[p. 61]
plenty to eat and wear while he staid at the station, and was very happy.

THE ATTACK AND BURNING OF ANTELOPE STATION—REMARKABLE COURAGE AND ESCAPE OF THREE BOYS.

The Indians soon made an attack on Antelope Station. The boys had but little ammunition; they fought while it lasted. The Indians surrounded the station, tore down the corral, and piling it around the station thought it impossible for the boys to escape; then went to the hills and made signal fires for all the Indians to come and join in their horrid sacrifice. When the boys had fired their last shot they tried to resign themselves to their fate. They felt, when they heard the large logs piling around the station, that all was lost. When the rolling of logs ceased they heard the Indians talking, and fancied they could hear the crackling of the fire. Oh, what an awful suspense! They thought of home, and all the dear ones, and all that was dear to them in life. They watched for the flames, and almost wished they could see them, rather than reflect upon their terrible death.

The voices of the Indians grew fainter and fainter, until they died entirely away. It was now dark. Charley jumped up and cried: "Boys, we will make our escape yet."

"How can we?" cried the boys.

Charley had just made the discovery that the Indians had forgotten to block the chimney. A ray of hope dawned on them. Who can describe their feelings!  
[p. 62]
No one. Charley crawled cautiously up the chimney. He saw their signal fires, but no Indians close by.

The other boys soon followed, and breathed free air once more. They went about half a mile and sat down, feeling quite safe, as the Indians supposed they were in the station. About nine o'clock the Indians returned and set fire to the station in five places. In a few minutes the whole station was in flames. They formed a circle round the station, and commenced dancing and singing over their glorious victory. Charley understood their language. The Indians thought it very strange they could hear no cries from their victims, as they found everything about the station as they left it.

While the Indians were dancing, the boys were laughing over their escape.

Charley crawled close up to hear what they said. One of them cried out: "The boys are gone; we forgot to secure the chimney."

They all stopped dancing, and looked at each other astonished that they should be so absent minded.

They hung their heads down, and left for the hill, very much disappointed. The boys started for Deep Creek. They were warmly received by all the boys, who were very thankful for their deliverance.

Poor old faithful Tom! He well deserves a passing notice. When the soldiers came on the road he had to leave the station. The soldiers were very bitter against all Indians, and thought none could be trusted. We told them they could trust Tom, telling them how he had warned us of approaching danger; but they would kill him if he staid. The majority were in favor of  
[p. 63]
his staying, but some who thirsted to take life were not willing.

The boys loaded Tom and his squaw with provisions, and they started for the mountains, about four miles from the station. He would not fight against the whites. He showed me, after the war was over, where he staid. He said the soldiers came out there hunting within two hundred yards of his wigwam; he could have killed them easily if he had wished, but he said he would not kill any white man, "not even toguash"—meaning a soldier. The Indians despise them, and think they are raised and drilled on purpose to kill Indians.

The next attack the Indians made was on Spring Valley Station. This station is protected by an adobe wall. The Indians have tried hard to burn it. They do not like stations surrounded with walls. They generally get defeated.

One morning, about five o'clock, the dogs were very uneasy. These dogs never bark. They would growl and scratch the door. The boys could always tell if any one was around. They jumped np and looked out of the porthole, and after watching a few minutes waw an Indian lying flat on the ground, two hundred yards off, crawling toward the haystack. That is generally the first thing they set fire to. When he was within a hundred yards of the stack, one of the boys fired at him. He jumped up and ran; they fired again; he ran a few steps and fell. Several more raised up, some distance off. The boys fired at them, without any effect. They hung around the station all day, and left at night, carrying off their dead companion.

 
[p. 64]

A LADY NOBLY DEFENDS HERSELF AND THE DRIVER.

The same evening the stage left Shell Creek. The driver had no soldiers with him and but one passenger, a lady. They were within three miles of Spring Valley Station, when the Indians fired on them, killing one horse. The driver returned the fire. The lady jumped from the stage, took the revolver and kept them off while he unhitched the horses. Neither the driver nor the lady was wounded. They arrived at Spring Valley all safe, with the loss of only one horse, the other following the stage in. Never tell me that women would not make good soldiers, if they had strength. See how nobly this one defended herself and the driver; read the history of the rebellion, and see what women have accomplished. We would be poor, miserable creatures without them, and every man who has lived in the wilderness will say amen. At some of the stations the men have their families. Whenever this was the case, there was always peace and comfort in the house. This is more than I can say for many families that I have known in civilization.

CHAPTER XVII.

Troops sent out.

GENERAL Connor soon had every station supplied with soldiers, guns, and ammunition, and from two to  
[p. 65]
four soldiers traveled with every stage. This year the Indians did not attempt to molest the emigrants, as they depended on them for food. The soldiers would often go with the emigrants, and sometimes they would get a scalp that way.

The next time they visited the road they made a terrible sweep; they were determined to avenge the death of their comrade killed by the soldier who was with the water wagon. One morning the stage arrived at Cañon Station about four o'clock; there were no Indians to be seen, and all seemed quiet, although the dogs had kept up a continual barking all night. As that part of the country abounded with wolves, they did not take much notice. When the stage with the guard had left, the other soldiers laid down to take a little sleep, as they had traveled all night.

A DESCRIPTION OF CANON STATION.

The cook room was down stairs. Their house was a hole dug in the ground, and covered with dirt. They considered this best, as the Indians could not set it on fire.

THE INDIANS ATTACK THE STATION—THEY WOUND AND BURN POOR DEAF CARRY RILEY, AND KILL SIX OTHERS.

I think they could have saved themselves, only for the fact that the hostler was deaf. He was the only one outside, and was cleaning the horses at the corner of the barn. The Indians knew he was deaf, as they knew every boy on the road. They fastened fire on  
[p. 66]
their arrows and shot them into the hay stack, being careful to keep behind the boy, so that he could no see them. They succeeded in setting the hay stack on fire, and it spread rapidly to the barn; it was made of pine lumber, with a canvas roof. They then fired at the hostler, who fell but was not killed. On hearing the report, the soldiers foolishly rushed to the door; the Indians fired a volley amongst them; the cook ran out to see what was the matter; they killed him instantly. There were now but two persons left, who thought they would make their escape on horses; one of them was shot as he was mounting his horse; he called to the other for God's sake not to leave him. He returned to assist his companion on his horse, but he expired in his arms. As he turned to leave the Indians fired, hitting both him and his horse; the horse did not then fall, but carried him four miles, and then fell dead.

Our wounded soldier then started on foot for Willow Springs. After he had walked about half a mile he met some emigrants; he told them what had happened and that they had better return to Willow Springs. They put him in the wagon and started back. When they arrived at Willow Springs he was exhausted; was shot through the body and was now unconscious of what had transpired, and died in two days. We all mourned over the loss of the soldiers as though they had been our own brothers. We gave them as decent a burial as the country would allow. We now returned to Cañon Station.

Poor deaf Riley, the hostler, was yet alive. They made a fire with the woodpile, and threw him on it.  
[p. 67]
There was not a handful of his remains to be found. They did this because he was brave. "Poor Riley was brave." He used to carry the mail by the pony express, before the stage ran. He would go with the mail when no other boy would travel on the road. The Indians fired on him several times, but never hit him. Whenever be saw an Indian, with his fleet pony and trusty revolver, he would be sure to bring him down.

The Indians began to have a dread of him; so they would flee back to the mountains when they saw him approaching.

This accounts for his being so fearless at the time he was dressing his horses at the barn. He would frequently come into the station, laughing, saying: "Boys, have you seen any Indians about? They were snapping caps at me as I came up the cañon." Poor Riley! The boys all loved him, and would frequently mount horses and go with him, for fear the Indians would waylay him on the road. He would say: "Boys you go back; something may happen to you."

SOME OP THE EXPLOITS OF THE BRAVE HARRY RILEY.

One day Harry was waiting at the station for the express to come in, as his was the next trip. He saw some Indians at a distance, and knew by their appearance they would waylay Dick, and was determined to prevent them if possible. He went to the barn, took a horse and rode up a ravine back of the station, crossed the hills above the Indians, and struck the road. In a few minutes he saw Dick coming at full  
[p. 68]
speed. Riley made signs to him to slacken his pace, and when he came up Riley told him why he had come out to meet him.

While they were talking, Dick cried out: "There they are now!"

There were twenty Indians within three hundred yards, crawling toward them.

The boys whirled their horses, and started back, when the Indians rose upon the other side of them. The only chance of escape was to jump a wide ditch. They made the attempt. Riley's horse was fresh, and he succeeded, but Dick's jumped in. It was wide enough on the bottom for the horse to travel, and so deep that the Indians could not see him.

They rushed to the spot where Dick went in, and were so intent on catching him that they did not think of Riley until their men began to fall. With his trusty revolver he brought one down every time.

When he had killed six, he looked up, and there was Dick, four hundred yards on the road.

Riley spurred up his horse, and to our great joy they soon reached the station all safe, and left the Indians to look after their dead. Riley now made preparations to start.

We begged him to wait until evening. We thought it would be more safe. He preferred daylight, as he could see to shoot the rascals. He loaded both revolvers, not expecting to see any more Indians that day, and jumped on his darling pony and started. He thought there was no horseflesh as good as his little pet; it had saved his life many times.

After he had traveled some distance he looked  
[p. 69]
around, and there was a dozen Indians just ahead of him. In an instant he turned his pony back, and then there was a race; with all the whipping they could not get their poor scrubs of horses along.

The Shoshones have very poor horses, and Riley knew they could not catch him, and he knew they could not whip and shoot, too. As he came to the mouth of the cañon, on open ground, he let them come up very near, then turned the head of his horse and passed them in a flash. When he returned and told his adventures to the boys the cheers were long and loud. He had so many skirmishes that he began to think he was Indian proof. Poor Riley! When be fell by the Indians we all mourned for him.

If he had lived one week longer, he would have been out of the country; he had been from home ten years; had written his parents he would start for home the next week, and they were anxiously waiting for his arrival. The reader must imagine what their feelings were when they read his name among the list of "massacred by the Indians."

CHAPTER XVIII.

An Indian Fight near Canon Station—Indian Tom.

AFTER the horrible massacre at Cañon Station, not an Indian was to he seen on the road for many weeks; but General Connor, hearing of the terrible outrages,  
[p. 70]
dispatched Captain Smith, with a company of cavalry, in search of the murderous villains. They traveled to Shell Creek, without any success. Here an Indian from Ruby Valley, who was friendly to the whites, met them. He offered his services to the captain as guide, as he knew where the Indians had located for the winter.

Early in the morning they started for Cedar Swamps. This place is sixty miles south of Shell Creek. They traveled until evening, without refreshments of any kind for men or horses. They now came to a halt, and sent out their guide to ascertain if the Indians were still in the same place. It being quite dark he could approach very near without being seen. The Indians had had a grand dance over their success at Cañon Station, but their medicine man had now called them together, telling them they must leave there early next morning, as they were in danger.

You will soon perceive he ought to have administered the dose a few days before.

The faithful guide hastened back to inform the captain what he had heard. He ordered his men to march, which they did in short order, as they were in high spirits at the prospect of avenging the death of their poor comrade. They came within a mile of the Indians and dismounted, hitching their horses to the trees, and went on foot to the camp. It was just daylight. The captain divided his men to surround them. The Indians were just preparing to leave. The captain gave the word to fire, and the balls poured in among them from all sides. This sudden attack took them by surprise; they could do nothing in defense.  
[p. 71]
They tried to make their escape, and as fast as they would come out of the lodge the boys would drop them. About half a dozen made their escape. This so enraged the boys that the captain could not restrain them, and charging with their bayonets, mowed them down like reeds. They left sixty dead on the ground. I do not know how many scalps they took. The boys at my station had six nailed on the side of the barn, and others made reins for their bridles out of the hair. They said while they had "that in their hands, they could fancy to themselves they had an Indian by the head." This would keep their spirits up. The Indians that were killed at this battle were called Go-shoots. This tribe has been peaceable since.

I would here remark that the Indians around the settlements understand and speak good English; they swear and drink whisky equal to any white man.

After peace was declared I saw one of those Indians who escaped at that time. He went by the name of Mann. The Indians are very superstitious, and believed that this Indian could not be hurt with a white man's bullet; that the bullet would strike him and glance off. He had been in many Indian battles, and arrows would hit him without taking effect. He was very shrewd; he would tell these things to the Indians, in order to gain their confidence, as he wished to be their chief. Shell Creek was where a great many Indians wintered. There was a large swamp there, filled with rushes. They would dig them up, roast the roots, and eat them. This was their principal food during the winter. The consequence was they were frequently sick. They would come and ask me to cure  
[p. 72]
them. They all had the same disease—pains in the stomach. I would take about a pint of flour, a spoonful of black pepper, mixed with cold water, and give them to drink; then give them two or three good meals, and they would be as well as ever. They called me a great medicine man; they would do anything for me I wished. On one occasion they brought a squaw fifty miles for me to doctor. All that ailed her was starvation, and the want of sufficient clothing to keep her warm. I doctored her in the same way, only we fed her for about two weeks. She could not stand alone when they brought her to the station. In two weeks she was as well as ever. I never had much trouble with them—only with a few, that were always making trouble among themselves and the whites. I caught one stealing my potatoes, and told him to leave the house. He said he would not do it. I could not stand that, and took hold of him and put him out. He showed fight, but I succeeded in getting him out, when two more came in. One was the Indian that nothing could harm. I thought this was a good time to take out a little of their superstition. When Mr. Nina came up with the intention of striking me, I struck him on the end of his nose. He bled profusely, and this rather checked him. The others, on seeing their great chief bleeding, thought that they had better make peace. The whole camp was excited, but a majority of the Indians were in my favor, and they told the unruly Indians that I was a great medicine man; I could have them all die, if I wished, just as easy as I cured them when they were sick. They began to be alarmed, and wanted to smoke the pipe of peace, which I did. All was harmonious after that.

 
[p. 73]

An Indian of the name of Tom was the most superstitious Indian I ever saw. He thought the white men could write on a piece of paper—then they should all die. He told me of a party of six Indians that stole a white man's horse. The white man wrote that they should all sicken and die, which really proved true within a year. It appears that they ran so hard while stealing the horses that they all caught cold, which ended in consumption.

The last one died while I was at Shell Creek. I attended his funeral. It is customary among these Indians to bury their dead in trees or high rocks; but this one, for his evil deeds, was buried in the ground. There was no sleep for us that night. They made the most lamentable howling I ever heard. They believed the writing had caused their deaths—"debope tiguirn," they called it, or poisoned writing. This superstition was very good for the boys on the road, or there would have been many more killed. My hitting their chief on the nose had a good effect upon them. I never had any more trouble with them. I could speak their language. When they had trouble among themselves they would come to me to see if I was writing anything. It would be all peace among them when they found I was not writing.

 
[p. 74]

CHAPTER XIX.

An amusing scene and exploits of the bravest Driver on, the road.

I WOULD here remark that the station keepers on the overland line, whether old or young, are expected to keep all things straight at the stations, besides looking after the emigrants and Indians. I had not been long at Fish Springs, when I heard that William Maston was coming to drive. I heard that he drank, but that was his only failing; and as we all have failings I would think no worse of him for that. He was a noble, brave man, never cross, and would give his last cent to any one in need. When he arrived I took a good look at him, and thought I should like him. He said very little, and was with us some weeks, and never tasted a drop of liquor. One night a train encamped at the station; they wanted fresh water for drinking, the water at the station being brackish. We always had fresh water; we hauled it from Willow Springs, twenty-five miles distant. They offered a bucket of whisky for one of water. The boys spoke to me; I told them they could exchange. This was the first time I saw Will on a spree.

He knew I had not been long on the road, and said he was bound to break me in.

I had just gone to bed on the floor. The bedbugs had taken possession of the bedstead. Will came and kicked me, and told me to get up and take a drink. I told him I never drank; but he was determined that  
[p. 75]
I should get up, and took me by the hair of my head and lifted me up, saying he wanted to make me tough.

I found a man had to be very tough to keep pace with him. He made me sing for him, and then allowed me to go to bed in peace; he kept this up for ten days.

One night he made all the boys get up and go in swimming. The water being warm, it was very pleasant in the daytime, but not so pleasant at night. They took one soldier, to stand guard; he was rather the worse for what be had taken. They were all swimming round, when Bill plunged into the water. The guard, thinking he was down too long, fired into the water. This had the desired effect, for it soon brought him to the shore; his head was level for some time after this.

One day Bill started when there was only one passenger in the stage, and he was a Dutchman, and took but one soldier with him. They were going along very comfortably, when they saw sixteen Indians cross the road, making for the head of the dug way. There was no possible chance to turn back. The object of the Indians was to frighten the horses and upset the stage. The soldier and the Dutchman both entreated Bill to Stop. The Dutchman, speaking of his wife and children, said he should never see them again, if him they attempted to pass those Indians. Bill told he was paid for carrying the mail, and he should do it; he drew his revolver and handed it to the Dutchman, telling him to fight while he drove.

"Me Oh, no! I never shoots one little gun in all my life!"

 
[p. 76]

"Now is the time to learn," said Bill.

He cried: "No! no! I never shoots one man in my life."

Bill saw there was no time to be fooling with him; he leveled the revolver on the Dutchman and told him to take it or die. The poor Dutchman trembled like an aspen leaf. He reached out his hand for the revolver, pale as death, still crying: "I can't shoots! I can't shoots!" He held the revolver with as much fear as he would a copper snake. The poor fellow was so terrified that his head dropped, and he leaned against the seat. He had not power to raise the revolver; it fell by his side.

Bill had a good team, and he threw the "silk" in among them. Before the Indians could reach the top of the hill, Bill was speeding down it. On arriving at the station the poor Dutchman called for a drink of water, but could eat no dinner. I have two more exploits of this brave man to relate, which occurred while he drove from our station.

CHAPTER XX.

Bill and his Pets.

BILL was very fond of pets; he bad a pet chicken and "crazy cat," as he called it. I think it was, as I never saw one like it before or since. When Bill was drinking he would have them in his bosom, walk out  
[p. 77]
among the emigrants, pinch his cat and make his chicken squall, and make a general fright among the old folks and children. He would come in with his pets, lay down and take a few hours' sleep, and be ready for a start; his drive was generally at night. With all his drinking, the agents felt that all on board was secure when he was driving, as Bill was acknowledged a host of himself in case of danger.

One morning he drove up to the station, and called out "Toney! I got a roaster!" I knew he had been taking a little something, and that it was no use speaking harshly to him when he was drinking. I replied, "a little rooster, have you?" "Oh, no! a roaster—a hungry little pig." There was but one passenger on board, a merchant from San Francisco. The gentleman down to breakfast; I stepped into the other room for a moment, and when I returned, to my surprise, Bill had taken a seat at the table, with the pig in his arms; this pig had been raised at a station, and felt quite at home.

Bill poured out some coffee; he gave the pig the first drink; it was rather hot, and he squealed. "Oh, poor little fellow! burney?" then he tried some himself. He put some potatoes on his plate; the pig was so hungry that he swallowed them all before Bill could eat a mouthful. He took some more, and there was a scramble to see which would get the most, Bill or the pig. Bill felt annoyed, and slapped it in the face, saying, "don't make a hog of yourself."

This was more than the merchant could stand; he got up and left the table. I told him I would set him a table to himself, but he declined, saying he had suffi-  
[p. 78]
cient, and asked for his bill. I told him I had no charges to make, and would throw in the menagerie; he laughed, and said that was cheap enough, and proceeded to San Francisco. I am certain he never saw anything of the kind there; it was all original with Bill, and he never disposed of the copyright.

OUR HERO BILL, WITH HIS BOSOM FRIEND DURAN, HAS ANOTHER MIRACULOUS ESCAPE ON THE DUG WAY.

One day Bill left the station with his trusty soldier; there were no passengers. Mr. Duran, our harness maker, thought he would go along, and take a little brandy with them, and have a good time. Duran rode on the seat with Bill until they came near the Dug Way. This is a most formidable place, four miles long with short turns in it, and several hundred feet descent. It was now nearly dark; Duran took a seat in the stage, and the soldier his place on the outside. Bill was getting pretty lively. On arriving at the top of the Dug way Duran looked out, and saw that one of the brake blocks was gone. He called out to Bill, "it is almost sure death to men and horses to go down without the brakes." He called to Bill again, "the brake block is out." "Knock out the other," said Bill; get up, Molly," tapping one of his horses. Duran attempted to jump out; but it was too late, they were going down the grade at full speed, a hill on one side and ravine on the other, distance down, a hundred feet. Standing, one foot on the brake and the other in the stage, and clinging to the side, Duran felt that his end was near—  
[p. 79]
at least, when he reached the bottom of the Dug Way. He was trying to repent of all his wicked deeds that be could remember.

GIVE TWO SPECIMENS.

He once put a snapping turtle in his sister's bed, which nearly deprived her of reason. Another time he got into the wellcurb at night to frighten the servant girl; when she saw him as he rose up, she fell into fits—and he fell down the well. His father ran out to draw up the bucket, but when he saw a head rising above the curb he let go the handle, which struck him in the face. He fell on the ground, and Duran went down the well again.

All this ran in his mind as he went down the hill. He saw by the lamp that Bill had fallen between the wheel horses; he thought it was all over with poor Bill. The soldier did good service on this occasion by holding fast to the reins when Bill fell. At last they reached the foot of the hill and the horses stopped. Bill was on the doubletree, unhurt, only his thumb was dislocated. They started on, and arrived all right, but never forgot the Dug Way ride.

 
[p. 80]

CHAPTER XXI.

A Great Contrast of Character.

THERE was a man that kept station at Dry Creek a short time whom we used to call Terror. He was a terror to all the Indians; they were all afraid of him. During all the troubles he would go into the hills alone, hunting; if he saw an Indian he generally killed him; if he saw a camp of five or six, he would wait until evening, then charge upon them with his big knife and stab them all round. He had lived in the western country all his life, and lost nearly all his friends by the Indians, and would say there were not enough Indians on the plains to pay the debt. At his station they never came into the house without permission; they would do all in their power to please him; he would not kill any there, as it would endanger the lives of the boys. He remained but a short time; a high salary was no inducement to him; revenge was in his heart, and he would go where there was more war. After Terror left a young man from York State came to take his place; he was fearful as a woman, and had a partner of about the same courage. The Indians knew they were afraid of them, as they never went out of the station after dark; consequently, they would only work when they chose; there is generally three or four families at every station.

These Indians would make Bob give them every thing they wanted; they had a good time at that station for a little while; when the stage would drive up  
[p. 81]
they would be very good; they knew the drivers would whip them. One day the squaws came for food; Bob refused them, and they took after him, and gave him a good pounding. His partner laughed, but did not offer to assist him; this roused his courage; be picked up a dub; when the squaws saw he would fight they all run away. This made him feel brave after defeating the squaws. The next day the Indians came for grain. Bob asked them if they would work; they said no, but they should take the grain. At this Bob and his partner both went after them; they had a regular pitched battle; the Indians were getting ahead of them, when Tom Connor, the overland blacksmith, drove up. In a minute he had six of them laying on the ground and the others running for their lives. Connor told them never to undertake to fight so many Indians, but to use their revolvers; they felt very thankful for his instructions. When I left Bob could rout as many Indians as the next man. They always try a new man to see if he has courage. I made my calculations it was necessary to whip about six whenever one goes to a new station, to make them know who are their masters, then be kind to them and there will be no trouble.

The Indians at my station had never seen a negro; one day they came running in and wanted me to go with them to see a taybow man (which signifies a black American). There was a train passing that bad a negro cook; they were afraid of him and kept close to the station. Another time some Chinese came along; the squaws were about two miles from the station digging roots; they were so frightened when they saw them that they run all the way back to the station and  
[p. 82]
could not tell me what they had seen, but something with long tails growing out of their heads. Very soon the Chinamen came up with their large bats and long cues, reaching nearly to the ground. It was a sight for the boys as well as the Indians, as they had never seen any before. The Indians wanted to kill them at once; we explained to them they were good; when they started to go they caught them by their cues and pulled them back.

CHAPTER XXII.

Daring courage of three boys, at Willow Springs Station—Next attack at Dry Creek Station—A noble boy Shoots himself rather than fall into the hands of the Indians—Attack on Boyd's Station—They there meet the boys in blue, with their sharp shooters.

AT Deep Creek they made preparations for a skirmish, but the soldiers bad arrived, and four or six were posted in every station. The Indians would never attack but one station and stage a day; then they would flee to the mountains, and no one would see or hear from them for a week.

The next attack was on Willow Springs Station. This place never was exempt when there was any trouble; it was always attacked.

This time the Indians made a desperate charge, but the soldiers were there, and they fled, leaving behind  
[p. 83]
several warriors dead on the ground. Our boys did not receive a scratch.

I will mention a circumstance that occurred at this station some time before, as the reason why they came in such numbers on this occasion. They supposed there were only two boys there, but there was a man staying with them.

Early one morning they saw four Indians approaching; they let them come up, as they thought they could manage them.

The boys saw by their appearance they intended mischief, and were careful to keep their guns between themselves and the Indians. The Indians talked among themselves.

One of the boys understood their language; he made a sign to his companions, and before the Indians could offer any resistance three lay dead on the floor; the other started for the mountains. One of the boys jumped on a horse and pursued him. The Indian turned and fired arrows, but being frightened they fell short of their mark. The boy, after firing five shots, succeeded in dropping him. The Indians have never liked Willow Springs Station since.

The Indians made an attack on Dry Creek Station, where there were three boys; they found they would he overpowered, and thought they had better leave. One was already wounded. The Indians were in the front of the station; the horses were all in the pastures; they ran through the back door to the barn, trying to keep the barn between themselves and the Indians. As soon as the Indians found they had left they followed in pursuit; they ran, about a mile, when  
[p. 84]
the wounded boy gave out; his companions took him by the arms and ran with all their might, but the Indians gained on them.

The noble boy said: "Give me a revolver, and make your escape." They saw be could not live, and gave him one, supposing that he wanted to have one good shot at them when they came up, as they were now very near. They had proceeded but a few steps when they heard the revolver; the boy had shot himself, rather than fall into the hands of the Indians; while the Indians halted a moment, the other boys made their escape.

The boys at Boyd's Station were the next to receive a call. The Indians who worked for them had left that morning, stealing their guns and ammunition. The soldiers had not arrived when he left, and he calculated to return with more Indians and have a grand dance that evening over the boys' scalps. When they arrived they were sorely disappointed to hear the music struck up by the boys in blue, with their sharp shooters. They crept away without losing a man that time. They went to another station, where the soldiers had not yet arrived. The stage had just passed there. The Superintendent, Goodwin, was on board. He informed the boys of what had happened at the other stations, and to be on their guard. They unharnessed the horses; in about half an hour James McCurdy went to the door with the intention of watering his horses; but he soon changed his mind; it appeared to him as though the whole country was on fire.

They had stolen up and set fire to the haystack, thinking this would bring the boys out; but this strata-  
[p. 85]
gem did not succeed. The boys closed and barred the door and windows, and piled up sacks of grain against them. The building was of stone, so there was not much danger of fire, and not being finished the boys could look out under the eaves, and the redskins could not see them. James McCurdy took a gun and stood on the table. He saw an Indian standing at the end of the barn. McCurdy fired, and the Indian fell; this surprised the Indians, and they drew back a little. Mr. McCurdy continued firing, to make them think the soldiers were there. It had the desired effect, as they all left, taking with them three horses. They did not try to get those in the barn until they had set the haystack on fire, which so frightened the horses that they would not come out. There were five in the stable. The Indians went about half a mile, taking their dead friend with them, and began setting fires all round the station. This was their signal to other Indians for help. The boys began to be alarmed, as they had but one gun and no ammunition left.

One of the boys was just from England, had never before seen anything of the kind, and was very much terrified.

The others were used to it, and took it more coolly; the Englishman found the pepper box, and stood ready to throw the pepper in their eyes if they came in at the window.

The boys could not keep from laughing although they were in such great danger. The haystack burnt down; all was still, and they thought now was the time to make their cape. They dare not go into the barn to see if the horses were there, so they took off their  
[p. 86]
shoes and crept softly out of the door and started for my station, at Fish Springs, fifteen miles distant.

We did not stand guard at our station, as we had good faithful dogs.

About four o'clock in the morning the dogs began to bark; we knew that something was approaching, and we all got up, thinking, of course, it was Indians.

Charley Tompson, a brave young man, took his rifle and crawled cautiously on all fours to take a look up the road. He called to us: "Indians, boys!" The stations had not been supplied with firearms at that time, and we had but one old shotgun, but took anything that came to hand to defend ourselves, and started. We were determined to sell our lives as dearly as possible. Before we could come within gunshot the men halted, calling out: "Don't shoot us! Don't shoot us!"

To our astonishment we found they were the boys from the other station.

McCurdy and Jack were in good spirits. They made preparations to return to their station, three of our boys going with them. They all mounted horses, taking pitchforks and sticks for weapons. They arrived at the station, and found all safe.

Our poor sick boy soon returned to his friends. We could not get him outside the door after dark, while he staid with us.

 
[p. 87]

CHAPTER XXIII

I had a Fight with three Indians.

ONE day I thought I would go and take a little hunt; the Indians had been very quiet for some time; the boys tried to persuade me not to go, but I thought there would be no danger; I had been in the house so long that I wanted some fresh air, and I took my dragoon revolver and started for the hills. I hunted around through the cedars but saw no game, but I did not care for that, as my mind was on other things.

I began to get tired of such an isolated life, the same thing over and over every day; only when the emigrants were passing could we forget our isolation, and feel comparatively happy; when they were gone we would feel more lonesome than ever. Some of the boys could not stand it, and they would go with the emigrants. Poor Joe Travis and myself would sit for hours, and talk of home and our dear mothers, who were constantly begging us to leave our desolate abodes and return to civilization, to a home where a mother's heart beats in love for her children, and where our brothers and sisters were anxiously waiting our return. Now and then we would receive a letter from our sweethearts, begging us to come home and share their love; how fearful they were of our safety. I was sitting on a rock, reading these letters over, all saying, "come home, we are afraid you will share the same fate as the others," and was making up my mind to go, when I heard a rock rolling down the hill; I turned round and  
[p. 88]
saw three Indians coming towards me. I jumped and ran, as I knew I could not stand and fight them; I also knew they could outrun me, so I ran up a little hill, and hid behind a rock, knowing that when they would get to the top of the hill I would have a fair shot at them. As soon as they reached the top of the hill they halted, and looked to see which way I had gone; two of them had guns. I took good aim at one, fired, and he fell; the other fired at me in a moment, but the rock made a good breastwork; I fired at another one and splintered the stock of his gun; he picked up the gun of the other and fired. The next shot I brought him down; the other shot arrows; I fired at him and he fell, and I thought he was dead; I started towards them, when he raised up and shot another arrow, but luckily it struck my powder flask and glanced off; then the other raised up his gun but I fired before he could take aim; that settled him. This was my last load, and I had no time to load again; the third one was not dead, and he was raising up, when I jumped and grabbed him; we had quite a wrestle; I struck him with my revolver and he laid still after that. I never knew whether they recovered or not. When I found they were all quiet I started for the station, thanking heaven for my lucky escape.

The boys had began to be uneasy about me; I was gone longer than they expected, when they heard the shooting and started out. When they saw I was all right, they asked what I was shooting at so much, and had no game; I did not wish to let them know how near I came losing my life, after they had cautioned me so much, so I never told them until the Indian war was all over.

 
[p. 89]

A few days after my hunt there were two men traveling on foot to the States from California; they had been discouraged at the gold diggins, and were returning home to settle down. On this dangerous road no one knows one minute what will befall him the next. As they were passing through a small ca—on the Indians attacked them; they fought manfully for their lives, but were killed; their bodies were buried and the mournful intelligence sent to their friends.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Description, of the Dug Way Station, together with my Adventures therein.

AFTER staying at. Fish Springs about two years, I thought I would like a change. I spoke to the road agent, Robert McCoombs; he did not like the idea of my leaving that station, but consented at last.

I suppose to make me sick of the change be sent me to the very worst place on the road, to Dug Way Station, in the middle of a large desert. The station was a hole dug in the ground. The roof was made of cedar limbs covered with dirt. My brother, two years younger than myself, was employed there. I thought I would try it for a while, but did not like to sleep under ground on account of the Indians; you cannot see out only as you put your head out, like a ground squirrel; then they had a fair shot at you.

 
[p. 90]

We made our sleeping room at one end of the barn, and made us portholes; we had a full view of the whole country, unperceived by any one, and lived very well. It is the worst place for flies I ever saw. The passengers always shut up the stage when they stopped to change horses. We used to have rice for supper, and the flies were very fond of rice and sugar. The way we cheated them was to take what we wanted on our plates, and then start for the sagebrush; after running two or three hundred yards we could eat in peace. This would seem rather a comfortless way to take our meals, but those who have led a camp life enjoy it as well as eating at the finest hotel, provided they have the same variety of dishes.

I had only been there a few days when some Indians came to the station and wanted water; there was to water there, except what we hauled for twelve miles; we always gave them what they wanted to drink. The man who kept the station before me was afraid of Indians, and would give them almost anything they wanted. When they think you are afraid of them they will take the advantage of you. They would camp two or three days at this station, and make him give them water and food. This they tried with me. They made their camp, which is the ground scooped out in the shape of a saucer about two feet deep, and sagebrush piled round it about four feet high, with no roof. That tribe of Indians have no better shelter than this all through the winter. After they had finished their quarters they brought their bottles for water to cook with, and sacks for barley. I refused them, and they said they must have it, and if we did not give it to  
[p. 91]
them they would take it. I told them they must go to the river bed and there they could get plenty. They said. "No;" they wanted to stay there; they always did, and had plenty of water. I knew it, and it was the reason why Yank, the station keeper, was sent away. I should not have been so positive, but I knew it must be broken up, and it was the best to do so the first time they made the attempt. There were eight Indians, and some started for the water, others for the grain.

I told them to stop, but they paid no attention to me. I first thought I would take my revolver; then I thought it was not the best way to kill any of them, if we could get along without. I took hold of one and pulled him back; he turned and struck at me. I saw at once that we had to fight for our rights, and I knocked him down; then another attacked me, and I served him the same way. One drew his bow and arrow at my brother, but he was quick and strong, and before the Indian could shoot he was laying on the ground; he knocked two more down, while I was doing my best. I jumped to the bed, took my revolver and leveled it at them. At this they stopped. My brother had overcome four of them. They asked my name. The boys had abbreviated my name, Anthony; they called me Toney, and I told them "Toney." They looked at each other with surprise; they knew me by name, and thought I was at Fish Springs; they said they would be good now, as they always do when they are defeated. They picked up their traps, and started for the river bed.

This being early in the spring, at just the time they  
[p. 92]
commence war, if they intend it, we thought it best to be on our guard. About nine o'clock in the evening our dogs began to bark; we paid no particular attention, thinking it was some traveler. The dogs kept barking, and we got up and watched for a long time, but could see nothing. I began to think of the Indians we now had trouble with, and watched every sagebrush and fancied I could see a head rise up. My brother had a shotgun and I my revolver. In a few minutes we saw some objects approaching very slowly, one behind another, in Indian style. Being dark we could not see whether they were Indians or white men. They stopped within a hundred yards and talked awhile. We then thought they were Indians, and were laying a plan to attack us. In a moment they went toward the haystack, we thought to set fire to it. We would not shoot until we were positive they were Indians; they did not set fire to the haystack, but took some hay and fed their horses. They, supposing we slept in the house, came to the barn. Then we saw they were white men, and kept still. They took what grain they wanted and went out.

My brother whispered to me: "I am going to have some fun with them for that." He raised his gun and fired over their heads; one fell down and the other ran; we told him to stop, which he did, and begged us to spare his life. By this time the other came to, and felt of himself all over to see where he was shot; he felt of his head and found it was wet, and it being dark he could not see it was water; he took it for granted it was blood, and cried out: "Oh, I am shot, I am shot!

I whispered to my brother: "Are you sure you did  
[p. 93]
not hit him?" "Oh, yes; I shot ten feet above his head."

We ordered them into the barn, and lit a candle to dress his wounds. He looked at his hands, and seeing no blood, and nothing but water on his clothes, and looking up and seeing my brother laughing, he dropped his head and never said one word.

The oats were in the tub soaking, and when he fell he spilled the wet oats all over himself, and thought it was blood. We told them to leave the station as quick as possible, and hereafter to turn their horses out to grass. They gave a heavy sigh of relief and left; we had a good laugh, and went to bed again.

A DESCRIPTION OF THE SCORPION.

It varies from one to three inches in length, and in appearance resembles the crawfish and lobster. Their weapon of defense is their tail, formed like the tail of a crawfish. When used it is thrown over the back. At the end of the tail is a very sharp, hard substance, as pointed as a fine needle. This they can insert into the flesh as easy as a wasp. I have seen people stung by them, and would offer my remedy, which, if used, they would recover. The way I found out the use of tobacco was this: When we found a scorpion we would get a little tobacco juice and drop it on the head; it would paralyze it, and in a moment it would turn green and die; they are naturally of a brown color. My brother would pin them on a board for exhibition. Previous to my leaving Salt Lake I saw a woman stung by one on the cheek; it had got into her bed. Her face com-  
[p. 94]
menced swelling, and in five minutes the pain was so intense that her friends, with great difficulty, could hardly keep her from throwing herself into the river. Her whole face turned as black as a coal, and though everything was done that could be thought of, she died within half an hour. If I had then had the experience which I now have I do believe I could have saved her life.

There are a great many scorpions in that place; their sting is more deadly than that of the rattlesnake. Many have died on the road that were stung by them. They would get into our beds. One day I laid my hand on the bed and one stung me on the thumb; I did not see it until I felt it. The pain was intense, and I thought I should die; I took my knife and cut the place until it bled, and then bound it up with tobacco. I found immediate relief. It is my impression that tobacco is an antidote for all poisonous stings. While I was at the Dug Way a man was stung on the finger; his whole hand and arm was swelled to twice the natural size, turned black, and was covered with large blisters. The physicians thought the only remedy was anputation; this the man would not consent to—he would rather die. He was a poor man, and dependent on hs' labor for a living. We tried the tobacco poultice and he recovered, but it was six months before he could use his hand.

I had heard the boys speak of the Dug Way as a very bad place to stay, on account of the emigrants passing at night. Almost every traveler crosses the desert at night, as then it is cool, and their stock does not suffer for want of water. They would generally  
[p. 95]
be passing our station from eleven in the evening until three in the morning, at intervals of from half an hour to an hour. When I was at the other station I was pleased to see the emigrants come along in the daytime, and answer their many questions. I found that a person has to have a good stock of patience to stay here; Job never lived at the Dug Way station I am sure, or he would never have been held up as a monument of patience. My brother had some dried fruit; we made it into preserves, and took particular pains to have it very nice. To keep it cool we hung it on the telegraph pole outside the door. After we had been in bed about an hour we heard a terrible noise; it sounded like an ox choking to death. My brother jumped up to see what it was; the first sight he thought it was the old fellow himself lying in the road. He called me to come; it not being very light, I could not for a moment tell what it was. After looking a little closer, however, I saw that it was three camels feeding on hay that their masters had taken from our stack. I looked towards the telegraph pole, and there were two fellows just finishing our preserves.

My brother was heavy on fun, and he wanted me to let him have a little at their expense; I saw that they deserved it, and let him go ahead, but I did not know what he was going to do. He took a sheet and put it around himself, and took a piece of raw meat in his hand and stole softly behind them, and with the piece of cold meat touched one fellow's face; he looked around to see what had touched him, and saw—a ghost, and felt, as he thought, the cold hand of death upon him. They both gave a shriek and jumped into an old  
[p. 96]
well. This was carrying the joke further than he had intended; the hole had been sunk ninety feet, but finding no water, it had been filled up within ten feet with rubbish, which had been burning for several days, but, luckily for them it had gone out. I had not been there long enough to have everything regulated; I intended to have had it filled, lest some strangers might fall in. When I saw them go out of sight I knew what had happened; I ran for a rope, lit a lantern, tied it on, and let it down to see how they were situated. They were up to their necks in ashes, and nearly suffocated. When my brother found out that they were not seriously hurt he laughed and rolled, and it was some minutes before he could help me pull them out. When we had them out they looked as though they had been drawn through some dusty street. We asked them how it happened, and they said that they were walking along and fell in, and in their excitement knocked down the bucket of peaches.

We told them we thought not.

They acknowledged that they had just tasted of them, and offered us twenty dollars not to say anything about it.

My brother told them that it was too good to keep. They were almost mad at his laughing at their misfortunes, and as we were only boys, they disliked it the more.

My brother told all the drivers on the road, and they never stopped at a station after that if they could avoid it. The drivers would sing out as they passed them, "ghost! ghost!" They understood it.

In a few weeks the travel commenced. I wished  
[p. 97]
myself back to Fish Springs, for just as we would get to bed some one would sing out:

Halloa, Cap! can we get some water; we are powerful thirsty."

We would get up and give them a drink. Then they wanted to light their pipes. Then they would commence with:

"How far have we come to-night?"

Ans. "Where did you start from?"

"Well, I guess from Indian Springs."

Ans. "Nineteen miles."

"Well, there is a big hill just ahead, ain't there?"

Ans. "The Dug Way."

"How far is it to the top?"

Ans. "Four miles."

"How far is it to the next station?"

Ans. "Eighteen miles."

"Is there a rocky and bad road? How far from the top of the hill to the next station?"

I would tell them to figure it out for themselves, for my patience would be giving out. They would then ask a few more questions, and start on. We had just got to sleep again, when, "Halloa! Mister, have you any water? here is a young lady fainting." This brought us to our feet quickly, as the very name of a young lady was music in our ears. They would ask about the same questions and start on.

I would tell my brother that he must do the talking for the rest of night, as he was shorter in his expressions than I was. Very. soon, "Halloa, boss! how far to the next station." My brother would not give a a straightforward answer, but would say, "eighteen miles, up the Dug Way."

 
[p. 98]

"How are the Indians out here?"

Ans. "All pretty well the last we heard from them."

"I mean are they peaceable?"

"Yes."

"Have you got a horse shoe for me? Mike lost his; he is the best horse ever hitched to a wagon; he is half brother to one that General Jackson rode. He has run against the finest horses in the States."

"And got beat," said my brother."

"Nary a time," was the answer.

My brother's patience would now give out, and he would give them the horse shoe and shut the door. They would take the hint and drive on.

In this way we were annoyed every night. The next morning I would write out a list of questions and answers—everything I could think of, and when they asked a new question I would add that to the list; it saved us much talking.

CHAPTER XXV.

An Amusing Scene with a Traveler—He makes his Will.

THERE are some men who have been to California who think themselves privileged characters, and will take the advantage wherever they can. My brother and myself were sitting in the barn playing with our cats; we had learned them many tricks; they were all we had to amuse ourselves with when our work was fin-  
[p. 99]
ished. Three wagons drove up; the drivers asked if they could get any water for their stock. I told them no, but they could have what they wanted to drink; they were all glad of this privilege except one, who said "I shall take it any how;" I did not think he was worthy of notice and merely smiled. He looked at the scorpions my brother had pinned on a board, and asked if they were caught there, if they were poisonous, and if every body died who were stung by them? I answered him, yes! I would here say that our bed was our depository for our revolvers, wardrobe, and any thing of value we had. He read the notice in large letters, "please keep off this bed," and paid no attention it, but sat down and began pinching our cats as they lay on the bed. My brother was watching me and wondered I did not order him out. He said to me, may I have a little fun? I told him yes; I did not care much what he did, for my patience was nearly worn out. My brother went and sat down beside him on the bed. Very soon something pricked him, and he jumped up and saw a scorpion laying where he had been sitting, and thought he was stung; he grabbed the place and ran up and down the barn, crying "My Got! my Got! I am stung by a scorpion!" I thought I would help my brother a little and crushed the scorpion with my book; I could hardly keep my brother from laughing. The man came to me crying, "Will you do something for me?" I told him that the only remedy I knew of was to make an incision in the flesh, let it bleed well, and put in some salt. He said, "Will you perform the operation." I told him my brother was more skillful than I was; I thought as he  
[p. 100]
had commenced the fun he could finish it. By this time the men were all in the barn; they made an incision, put in some salt, done it up, and laid him on the bed. I went to see him and told him he had better prepare to die; it might not cure him. He asked for a pen and paper and made his will, giving all his property to a young lady in Missouri, asking her pardon for the many wrongs he had done her. He broke the plank across the creek, and then jumped in to save her life, thinking she would marry him for saving her. He intercepted the letters which she wrote to William Thompson, and many other things he had done to break up the match, for he loved her himself. William Thompson was one of the party with him. He then asked Thompson's forgiveness, which was freely given; then uttered a short prayer and said he was ready to die. My brother, when he sat beside him on the bed, took a needle and one of the scorpions and laid it down beside the man; he put the needle in such a position that it would prick him as soon as he moved, which he soon did; the needle pricked him and he thought he was stung. I went to him told him to get up and listen to me; I then told him what had been done, and what it was for, and never to trouble any of the boys on the road again. He did not know what to say or do; he had begged Mr. Thompson's pardon, and exposed himself before half a dozen witnesses. Mr. Thompson was overjoyed, and said now he should get the girl be loved; he never knew before why she had broken off the engagement. The others said it was quite right for he had learned a lesson which would last him his lifetime. And thus frequently something would occur to change the monotony of life on the overland line.

 
[p. 101]

CHAPTER XXVI.

Indian Courtship, and Massacres among themselves.

THERE was an Indian by the name of "Willow Spring Bill," who had a brother named Eagan Jack, of the Goshoot tribe. They were the bravest warriors they had. During the Indian wars they would take the lead in all massacres, and would take more scalps than any of the others. They were highly honored by their own tribe, greatly feared by other tribes, and greatly despised by the boys on the road. The cook at Shell Creek was afraid of them, for they would go into the house and help themselves to everything they wanted, and sit by the stove. There was another Indian there by the name of "Nappeass," which signifies "money." He was just as contemptible as the others, but not so brave. He had a step-daughter, a very fine intelligent looking squaw—the finest I had seen on the whole road. Willow Spring Bill had striven to win her by his daring deeds, and obtained her consent, but Nappeass objected, on the ground that he wanted her himself; but she would never consent to this, as she despised her step-father. Bill was determined that he should not be in the way, and while he was asleep struck him on the head with his tomahawk, killing him instantly; Bill then took the squaw and started for Willow Springs.

An Indian by the name of Armon, who had lived, with the whites a long time, started in pursuit; another Indian went with him, and they overtook Bill at Wil-  
[p. 102]
low Springs, where they first gave him a good pounding for running off with the squaw; this is their punishment for such a crime; they let him rest, and then commenced on him for the murder. Bill showed fight, but they were too much for him, and beat him to death. Then Armon took the squaw to Fish Springs.

When Eagan Jack heard of the death of his brother he went in pursuit, and caught the Indian that helped Armon, and killed him, cut him up in little pieces, and took his heart and scalp and had a war dance over them. The friends of this Indian killed the squaw; this settled their difficulties. There was a great lamentation for a long time among them. We were very glad to hear of the death of Nappeass and Willow Spring Bill. It was a blessing to both Indians and whites; the number of the Indians were reduced in this manner as much as in war.

When I first went to Shell Creek to keep that station, Nappeass was there. We were not on very good terms; he would take a seat in front of the stove, and walk through the dining room, taking anything he fancied; he would say that the ground, the water, and everything belonged to him. I told him they were well paid for the use of their land and water, by the overland company, who gave them provisions and blankets every winter; and I further told them I would feed them, but they must stay out of the house. One day, just as the passengers were sitting down to dinner, Nappeass walked into the dining room. I told him to go out, when he said he would not. I could not stand that and pushed him out, not thinking he would strike me; but he struck me on the breast and cheek. I clenched  
[p. 103]
him, and succeeded in knocking him down. It was like striking a post to hit him, but he made me mad, and I did not know when to stop pommeling him. It was about one week before he left his wigwam, and his wife used to come for his food. I told her I would not feed him, but I always sent enough for both, as I did not wish to punish him any more. That is the only way you can get along with them; let them know you are not afraid of them at first, and they will always obey you.

I made it a rule to treat them kindly as long as they would behave, and when they did not I would make them.

One day he came in and said he wanted to be good and make peace with me. I gave him some tobacco, and he smoked the pipe of peace. He never offered to go into the dining room again without permission.

Previous to my going to Shell Creek Nappeass had trouble with a man, whom he made give him two dollars, a suit of clothes, and some powder. He never tried that game on me.

I remember once, while I was there, that Indian Tom got a little put out, and he told me what they were going to do with all the whites. He said their medicine man told them the next time they went to war they would not have to fight; they would build a fire in the road, and when the horses passed through the smoke they would fall dead, and also the people. They got this idea from burning the prairies; they would find the rabbits and ground squirrels suffocated in great numbers. They tried the plan one night with my little dog. They had five or six dogs they called  
[p. 104]
half breed coyotes; they were half wolves. These dogs would always take the food from Fanny; it made the boys mad, and they drove them away. This offended old Tom, and he made a fire to take little Fanny through the smoke.

I thought I would play medicine man with them. I greased little Fanny's nose, and said a few words over her; as she lived they thought it broke the charm.

No person can form any idea of their superstition unless he has lived with them; they are very degraded in appearance, but superior to many other tribes, as they love their wives and children, and will not sell them.

The Sioux are supposed to be the most intelligent and civilized of any of the tribes on the plains, but they will sell their women.

All the traders and trappers have squaws for wives. The price of a squaw is one horse or two sacks of floor. When you purchase you are considered one of their tribe, and if you do not like your choice you can give her up, and by paying the same price take another. There are hundreds of these men among the Indians. I have often heard them speak of their wives and children that they had left at home, but they appeared to have no desire to return to civilized life. Such men are much worse than the poor degraded Indians; it was very evident they assisted the Indians in their horrible massacres of the emigrants, in the years 1857 and 1858:

Bill Slade, the agent of the eastern mail line, did much good in putting a stop to the massacre of emigrants; he was not a brave Man himself, but those who  
[p. 105]
assisted him were. They were stage drivers on that line, and they knew that as long as the traders who lived with the Indians were allowed to run at large the drivers were in constant danger.

These drivers were rather brutal in their executions. They never waited to see whether the person was guilty or not, but wherever they caught a trader they hung him up. They hung five at one time. Slade acted very imprudently, and sacrificed many innocent men, in his zeal to protect the emigrants, but he met with the same fate.

When the Idaho gold excitement prevailed he went there. He had not been there long when the vigilance committee arrested him, and he was hung without ceremony.

I met with some good men among the traders and trappers, who had been the means of restoring many poor women and children to their heartbroken friends.

These traders, if they would, could do more to protect the whites than any other class of people, as they all speak the Indian language and have great influence among all the tribes. I saw one poor woman who had been scalped. The Indians attacked a train and massacred nearly all the people, about two hundred. They had scalped this woman and left her for dead; when the soldiers arrived they found her living, and with great cares she was restored to her friends.

When they capture women alive they sell them to the chiefs of other tribes at a great price. They treat them very cruelly, and are bought and sold like so many cattle. They make them pack very heavy loads, and when they are exhausted the squaws will beat  
[p. 106]
them, rob them of their shoes, and take hold of their hands and drag them along. I do not know why the squaws are so cruel, unless it is the hard treatment they receive themselves.

The Indians are never punished for killing their squaws for disobedience; the squaws do all the work, the men fish and hunt, except those who are good thieves and murderers, and they do nothing else; these are their braves.

I have seen some of these poor unfortunate white women very much disfigured, their faces being tattooed, large brass rings in their ears and sometimes in their noses. The squaws would tantalize these poor sufferers by pulling the rings. Such scenes as these are not fiction. I leave my readers to imagine their sufferings; it is not in the power of human beings to describe them.

The young ladies in civilization are very fond of earrings, but if they could have one view of what we have seen on the plains I think this barbarous fashion would be at an end.

MY RETURN TO FISH SPRINGS.

The fourth of July was drawing near, and at Fish Springs the boys generally got pretty lively. The cook was not very well liked by the boys, and he knew it, and did not wish to stay while they were on a spree. The agent sent for me, and I assure you I was glad to go. I never wished to return to the Dug Way Station, although it was quite necessary I should go there, and I had been assured that I should have every benefit that a life on the plains afforded.

 
[p. 107]

AN AMUSING SCENE BETWEEN LISH HOUSE, THE DRIVER, DURAN, THE HARNESS MAKER, AND A FREIGHTER.

The boys drank more liquor during the Indian war than at any other time. They kept their spirits up by pouring spirits down. There was a freighter encamped near the station. One day a stage driver of the name of Lish, and Duran, the harness maker, were at the station. They two were great chums; they were noted for their influence for suppressing any hard feelings that would occur among the boys. There were no better or braver men living than those two. Whenever they met they must have a spree—not get drunk and make trouble, but full of fun, singing and dancing and telling stories. They bought some liquor of the freighter, and when that was gone they wanted more. The freighter said he had no more. They did not believe him, and they laid a plan when it was dark to search his wagon. As the freighter wished to sleep in the house I told him to make his bed in the boys' room. After he was in bed Lish and Duran came to me and said: "We are going to have more liquor if it is there, and pay him for it in the morning."

I saw they were bound for a spree, and I made no reply. They took a lantern and went to the wagons and looked them through. The teamsters were sleeping in the wagons, but knowing the freighter was in the house they thought it was all right. They came back with a two gallon keg, saying there was one more that had five gallons. They went into the boys' room,  
[p. 108]
waking and telling them to come and drink, as they had struck a lead. They did not observe the freighter. All got up and came into the kitchen, and the freighter followed. Lish looked up and said: "Duran, by jolly, we are caught!" They had a good laugh, asked the freighter what it was worth. He said: "Sixteen dollars per gallon." They said nothing, but handed him thirty-two dollars. They all had a drink, and then went to bed again, excepting Lish and Duran. Lish said: "Toney, do you think we paid too much?" I said: "Yes." He said: "We will be even with him yet." I was almost asleep when something fell on me, and at the same time a voice said: "Get up, Toney." I thought the roof had fallen in, it was so dark, and I could not move; very soon I saw Duran with a lantern. He said: "Hallo, Lish." I found he was right by my side. Duran came in with a smile on his face, saying: "Toney, by jolly, we are even now."

When he brought the lantern I could see my situation. Lish had thrown the five gallon keg upon me, and for fear of losing it was laying on the top. They had a glorious time over their victory. They could not keep still, they were so pleased to think they would be even with the freighter. They wanted something to put it in, as their intention was to fill the keg with water and take it back. I told them they could take the wash boiler, as we had no kegs. They pulled out the plug, and Duran poured it out, Lish sitting on the floor and smelling as it ran into the boiler. At last he said: "This don't smell very strong," at the same time tasting it with his fingers. He looked up into Duran's face, and his countenance changed. I could not im-  
[p. 109]
agine what was the matter, but in a moment he exclaimed: "By golly, we are fooled, it is water!" They rolled the keg outside and went to bed. In the morning the freighter would have returned them some of their money, but they refused it; they took a drink all around, and parted the best of friends.

Such scenes as these, with a variation of the programme, constituted our amusements.

All was quiet on the road till a party of Indians came from Parowan and attacked Cedar Fort, about thirty-five miles south of Salt Lake City, and five miles east of Fort Crittenden. Four of the Mormons at Crittenden borrowed one of the overland stages, filled it with men, and went to Cedar Fort to assist their brethren; they succeeded in driving the Indians from the fort, killing four of the villains. After this little skirmish they left, but swore vengeance on the overland stage for carrying men to fight them. They called it "paper wagon."

CHAPTER XXVII.

The Sorrowful Murder of Wood Reynolds, one of the best men on the road.

THE reader must understand that no one could be induced to drive the stage, only men of undaunted courage. Such a man was Wood Reynolds. At this time he was driving from Simpson Springs to Fish Springs. He had previously formed an acquaintance with a young  
[p. 110]
lady at Salt Lake City of the highest respectability, and they were soon to be married. His intended prevailed upon him to take a route from Salt Lake City to Fort Crittenden, as there had been so many killed on his former route. The Indians always attacked the driver first, as they feel sure of their prey if they can kill him. Reynolds had only driven a short time on this route, when the time arrived that they were to be married, and he bid good bye to his betrothed, telling her he would make good time and return next day by twelve o'clock. He arrived at Crittenden in high spirits, and received many compliments for his happy success and future prospects, in winning the heart of a lady so many had sought for in vain. Four o'clock next morning he started on his return to Salt Lake City; there was only one man in the stage; he was so intoxicated he could not set up. Reynolds had traveled about eighteen miles, coming to a short turn in the road where he walked his horses; as he turned the point he saw eighteen Indians on poneys just ahead of him; it took but little time to get his team in full speed. As he passed they fired on him, wounding him and his horses; as his team began to slaken their pace they followed him. One of his horses fell dead, and he jumped down to cut another lose, to ride to the city; but before he could extricate it the Indians were upon him. He drew his revolver and killed three; his ammunition being all gone he took the wrench and fought them with that, till he was so exhausted from the loss of blood be could not stand. He fell on his knees, and while in this attitude an Indian came up with a butcher knife to scalp him; Reynolds flew at him like a tiger, wrenched the knife  
[p. 111]
from him and stabbed the villian with his own weapon; but the other Indians came up, struck him on the back of the head, and he fell to the ground. They scalped him, and cut his heart out; they beat him to such an extent that it was impossible to recognize him by his face. There was a boy herding sheep close by that saw the whole transaction; they were going to kill him, and the only thing that saved him was that as his father had been a friend to them they concluded to let him go. The man with Reynolds was so much under the influence of liquor that he could not be of any assistance whatever; they killed him but they did not scalp him nor mutilate him in any way. They never disfigure those who will not defend themselves; they say they are cowards and not worth noticing; a brave man they scalp and torture in the most cruel manner imaginable. The Indians said afterwards if the other man had fought like poor Reynolds they would have been defeated. Then we must attribute the death of poor Reynolds to the accursed rum. As I said, they cut his heart out, and dividing it among themselves eat it, because he was a brave man. This may seem incredible to those who know nothing of Indian barbarism, but the reader may be assured I write nothing but facts. The boy said a white man came up and robbed him of his boots; the Indians stripped the stage of the curtains and all the leather there was about it, cut open the mail sacks and distributed the mail in every direction, taking all the sacks with them. The same morning that Reynolds left Crittenden a gentleman, of the name of Parks, left there for Salt Lake City, leading some horses for the Overland Mail Company. He arrived at the bloody  
[p. 112]
scene just as the Indians were making their way over the hills, rejoicing over their revolting deeds; he also saw a white man with them. Mr. Parks went to the next station and obtained help; they picked up all the mail they could find, and all that remained of the heartrending transaction, and arrived at Salt Lake City that afternoon.

We will just look at the intended bride. It was twelve o'clock, and the time had now passed for his return; they received a telegram of his departure from Crittenden (it was customary in those days to telegraph the arrival and departure of every stage) they were to be married that afternoon; the friends were all assembled, and the servants were busy preparing the wedding dinner. As the bride was anxiously watching at the door she saw coming up the State road the skeleton of a stage, and a stranger driving, not as it left the day before with a fine coach and gallant driver, with his four bright bays in full trot—another team makes its way slowly to the overland stage office. The bride fell fainting in the house, and the distress and anguish that ensued must be imagined by the reader, I cannot describe it. When she returned to conciousness she wished to see the body, but her friends thought it not best; he was so disfigured there was hardly any thing by which to recognize a human body.

 
[p. 113]

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Massacre of an emigrant party in Salt Creek Canon.

VOLUMES could be written of the massacres; I have selected only a few that came under my own observation. The bones of thousands of braver men than ever marched to a battle field are scattered all the way from Omaha to California. I have heard it remarked that the newspapers gave exaggerated reports at the time these things were transpiring, but I can assure any readers that the half has not been told.

Thank Heaven that by the energy of Americans a brighter day is dawning; the iron horse will soon put an end to their snapping caps at the boys as they pass through the cañons. Too much praise cannot be awarded to General Connor and the brave soldiers with him.

A few hours after the death of poor Reynolds, General Connor had a company of cavalry in pursuit of the Indians. Arriving at Payson, about seventy miles south of Salt Lake City, they learned that a party of Indians had just started to the mountains. They went in quick pursuit, in order to overtake them at Springfield Cañon. They overtook and opened fire upon them, killing two or three; the Indians returned the fire, wounding one of the officers. The soldiers had no chance at them, as they were on the side of a mountain, behind rocks. They killed fifteen Indians, with the loss of three soldiers. After this the Indians south of Salt Lake were very quiet. They are a very bad  
[p. 114]
tribe down that way; they would go round the camps of the emigrants, professing to be on the most friendly terms, and as soon as you would be off your guard they would take your life. In sixty-one a party of emigrants were going south to some of the settlements, and the Indians came to the wagons, as usual, begging for something to eat; they said they were very friendly with the whites. The Indians, on leaving, started in an opposite direction to the emigrants; when they were out of sight they turned their course to Salt Creek Cañon, which they knew the emigrants would have to go through, secreting themselves behind rocks. The emigrants felt quite safe from what the wretches had said to them, and were not on their guard. One of the men started ahead on foot, and passed the Indians without being molested, as they knew that if they fired on him the others would be prepared, and they wished to secure the provisions and clothing that was in the wagons. This cañon is so very narrow, and the.mountains so steep, that it is impossible to escape when attacked in the place.

When they came near the Indians fired upon them, killing one man and wounding another. There were three men, two women and three children, the only one escaping being the man who walked ahead of the wagons. After taking all they could carry and pack on their horses, they threw all the poor sufferers into the wagons and set them on fire. The man that escaped heard their cries of distress, and ran to the top of the mountain where he could see all, but could net render any assistance. His wife and children were enveloped, in flames, and their heartrending cries drove  
[p. 115]
him almost frantic. There was no time to lose, for the Indians were upon him. He started for a Mormon settlement, fifteen miles distant; the Indians started after him on foot, as they had all their horses packed, and ran him to within three miles of the settlement, but could not catch him. A man can run further and faster than he thinks he can when five or six of these bloodthirsty villians are after him with their butcher knives glittering in the sun.

CHAPTER XXIX.

The Great Battle with the Indians on Bear River—General Connor and his brave Soldiers—their Victory and Sufferings.

IN January the Indians, north of Salt Lake City, were committing depredations every few days; the Mormons told them General Connor would be after them if they did not behave; they said they were not afraid of Connor, and they would fight him man to man; they sent the same word to the General, and still continued to murder all along the road. On the twenty-seventh of January the General started with a company of his best men. On arriving at Ogden City, forty miles north of Salt Lake City, they learned there were about three hundred Indians on Bear River (it was their rendezvous for the winter), and that they were so situated that it would be impossible for a thousand men to drive them from it.

 
[p. 116]

Bear River, which is a very rapid stream, protected them on one side; on the other the underwood is so thick it is almost impossible to penetrate it, and at the end of their encampment was a very steep bank; but this did not discourage the General—he was determined to rout them or die in the attempt.

On the twenty-eighth they arrived at a small town by the name of Franklin, a few miles from the Indians. It was intensely cold, with about three feet of snow on the ground. The infantry started ahead of the cavalry, which expected to overtake the infantry before they could arrive at the rendezvous; but for some reason the cavalry were detained. It was so cold that if the infantry had halted they would have frozen, so they kept on until they thought they must be near. This was soon confirmed by a volley from the Indians. They could do nothing until they crossed the river, and they were depending on the cavalry to take them across. The men, anxious to get to work, volunteered to wade the river. They rushed in and found it waist deep. When they made the opposite side they crept through the brush below the Indians, in order to ascend the bank; when on the top they could see all the lodges. General Connor gave orders for the bugler to play, and he had but just commenced when the Indians fired at him, seven shots taking effect.

The battle had commenced. At the first round the Indians are very good, but after that they can do but little. They cannot shoot off-handed. I should have said before that when the boys came out of the river the Indians stood on the bank using the most profane language, and telling them to come on. The Indians  
[p. 117]
around the settlements speak good English. The boys poured the lead among them like hailstones. The Indians fired, the squaws standing behind them and loading, and those who had no guns were shooting arrows. At this crisis the General told the boys to look out for themselves, and go where they could fight best. The cavalry soon arrived and took the head of the ravine, the infantry the foot, and by so doing they cut off the Indians' retreat. Those who did escape, about five or six, had to wade the river. The general saw one soldier shoot down five, and was taking aim at another, when a ball struck him in the heart; he fell dead. By this time they were all in close contact with the Indians, the cavalry using their sabers, and the infantry their guns by the muzzle, felling them to the ground in every direction; many were not killed, but would lay still, pretending to be dead. But they could not deceive the poor suffering soldiers, who took no prisoners, and when an Indian showed any signs of life they put an end to his miserable existence. The Indians lost three hundred men; General Connor fifteen.

At this place the Indians had all their stores for the winter which were all destroyed before leaving. The Indians have been very quiet since that battle. They say, "no challenge General Connor any more." The infantry suffered very severely from wading the river; their feet were frozen so badly that they had to be left at Franklin, a small Mormon settlement in Cache Valley. The Mormons were very kind, took them all in, did everything to relieve their sufferings, and gave them the best the country could afford. Some poor fellows lost their toes, and some their feet, but all recovered eventually except one or two.

 
[p. 118]

CHAPTER XXX.

Murder among the Whites—a very tough man—by his strategy he saves his life.

AFTER the Indians quit their depredations it seems that the white men partook of the savage spirit. In the month of August, 1865, two men started from Shingle Springs, in California, for Idaho. They did not agree very well. One of them was a German. To what nation the other belonged I did not learn.

The Germans started out one morning for the horses; on his return his partner commenced using very abusive language. He had already put up with so much of his partner's abuse that he told him he would not stand it any longer. This enraged him, and he said he would "knock his Dutch head off," at the same time striking him. The German was too much for him; he picked up a piece of wood and struck him over the head, fracturing his skull. The man to all appearances fell dead, but in a few moments he revived again, though there was no hopes of his living. The Dutchman said he could not bear to see him suffer, and did not know where to get a doctor, so he thought it best to put him out of his misery. As he could not bear to look at him while he shot he rolled his shirts up over his own face and shot the man in the heart.

After killing him he carried him a few hundred yards from the road, threw him into a pile of brush, and put his bed over him. This was between Butte and Eagan stations. After disposing of hint in this manner, be started  
[p. 119]
for Eagan Cañon. That evening Mr. Wines camped at the same place, with ox teams. In the morning he went out to gather up his cattle, when, seeing the bed laying on the brush, curiosity led him to turn it over; he was greatly astonished on finding a man under it. He started down to Eagan and told what he had seen, and asked if any one had passed through the day before. They told him yes, and described the German as being alone.

Mr. Wines knew there were two men with the wagon when they left Ruby Valley, and as soon as he reached a telegraph office he sent word all along the line to look out for the Dutchman, giving a description of him. We received a dispatch at Fish Springs, and were on the watch; about four-o'clock in the afternoon the stage came in, and the driver said that he had seen the man, and that he would be there in about an hour. He had driven one hundred and fifty miles in two days, and had not encamped at any of the stations since the murder. We thought he would not stop at ours, so the driver, "Big Tom," as he was called, started up the road to meet him, under the pretense of losing a mail sack, for which he would inquire of him when they met, ask for a ride back, find out where he intended camping, and try to get him to stop at our station. The boys were anxious to arrest him, as they wished to have the praise of the overland company for their bravery. He was rather suspicious, and would not camp very near the station. After he had secured his team the boys walked out, as was customary, to see all who are traveling. While the driver was riding with him he had succeeded in getting his revolver; it was laying in  
[p. 120]
front of the wagon. When he saw us coming towards him he jumped into his wagon to find his revolver; but it was gone. As he stepped down the driver showed it to him, and told him to stand, but he flew at him like a madman. Robert McCoombs, the stage agent, drew his revolver, but he paid no attention to the arms. Not wishing to harm him, three men took hold of him and threw him down. The agent called for a rope to tie him, but he thought we were going to hang him, and three men, the smallest weighing one hundred and seventy-five pounds, could not hold him. The fourth took hold and tied his hands, and then told him to walk to the station. But he said that if we intended to hang him we should carry him. We told him that we did not intend to hang him, upon which he arose and walked to the station. He plead hard for us to let him go, saying that he would join the army and serve the country the remainder of his days; but we told him that we would send him to Austin, where he should have a fair trial.

The next day, after chaining him hand and foot, we put him aboard the stage for Austin. On arriving at Willow Springs the driver thought it best to have a guard, as it would be dark before he would arrive at Deep Creek, the end of his drive. He put the prisoner inside the stage (he had been on the seat by his side before), now he had the guard outside; they attached a chain to his leg through the front of the roach, so that they could pull on it when it was dark. After leaving Cañion Station the Guard, pulled on the chain when it appeared all right; went on a mile gave it another pull, and it still seemed all right. The driver called to  
[p. 121]
the prisoner to know if he was cold, but no answer; the driver said, "Bill (speaking to the guard), he is asleep; pull the chain and wake him up." The chain was fast, but no one answered; they struck a match and looked into the stage, but the, prisoner was gone. A pretty good joke; he had succeeded in getting the shackles of his feet, made the chain fast to a large mail sack, and escaped by the back of the stage; our noble guard had been pulling on a mail sack all the time. When the boys wanted a little fun with Bill they would commence pulling at something.

That night it rained in torrents—not a warm California rain, but a cold mountain rain; the poor fellow almost wished he had not left the stage; he broke the chain on his hands on rocks; but there was no chance of his escape, as he could get something to eat at the stations only, and every one was watching for him; he wished himself dead. The following morning he started for Deep Creek; he was cold and hungry, and did not care if he was taken or not; on his way he saw a wagon that belonged to Major Eagan standing beside the road; the men were off cutting hay. He got in and found something to eat, and feeling overpowered by being exposed during the night to the cold rain, laid down and fell asleep. When he woke he found he was surrounded, the men having returned from mowing; he made no resistance; it would have been useless, and they took him to Deep Creek Station. The blacksmith made a pair of handcuffs and he was made secure. He was treated kindly while there, for they felt he was to be pitied rather than abused; they put him aboard the stage for Austin, where he wait to be tried. At Eagan  
[p. 122]
Cañon there is a small mining camp; at that time there was some hard cases there; they said he should not have a trial, and they would hang him in that cañon. They erected a scaffold in readiness, and when the stage arrived they demanded the prisoner; as the drib er refused to let him go they said they would take him by force, if they could not get him any other way; it was useless for the driver to offer any resistance against so many, so they took the poor fellow and led him to the scaffold; in vain he pleaded with them to spare his life, or at least to give him a fair trial. "No," they answered, "you must hang." I would say they were all under the influence of liquor. They put the rope round his neck and gave the word to let him swing; they pulled the plank from under his feet, and down he came; the knot coming unfastened let him fall to the ground. The poor fellow looked all around, and seemed to be asking himself the question, am I dead or alive? but he soon found he was alive, as some of the men ran up to him to try it over again; but the rest refused, saying he had been hung once and that was sufficient. They took him down to the saloon, gave him a drink of brandy, and sent him to Austin for a fair trial. Some one on the road told him to feign himself crazy and he would get off, which he did very well, and was acquitted. The boys at Eagan Cañon felt much better than they would have done had the knot held him, and it gave the German a lesson he will never forget.

 
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CHAPTER XXXI.

A Horrible Massacre by two Boys.

A FEW days after we took the Dutchman a party of fire rode up with a small band of horses; two of the party were young men from Salt Lake; they had been to California by the way of Los Angeles. I will call the oldest boy George, aged nineteen, the youngest, Albert, aged eighteen. (I do not call their right names, as their friends are now living.) They were very wild young men, and their happiness seemed to consist in annoying their comrades; they would lasso the horses by their legs to see them jump and fall; this aggravated their companions, who told the boys they must stop it; they would still do it in defiance, and consequently hard words ensued. George said to Albert, "we will not take any words from them;" Albert replied, "it is not best to have any trouble;" George called him a coward, and told him to stand up for his rights. Finally he persuaded Albert to assist him in getting "revenge," as he called it, forgetting they were the aggressors. George made a proposition to Albert to kill them, and take their stock; Albert did not like to take life, but George had such influence over him that he consented to assist; this conversation took place at Eagan Cañon. Albert had a sister living there, and she knew George to be a very bad young man; he was always in trouble in Salt Lake City, and other places where he had lived. She tried to persuade her brother not to accompany George any further, as she, knew he  
[p. 124]
would get him into trouble; Albert promised her he would not take a part in any thing that was wrong, saying he would go directly to Payson, a small town south of Salt Lake City, where his mother was then living. The following morning they started; his sister again spoke to him of the danger of traveling with George, but he bid her good bye and promised to be careful. He had made up his mind to abandon such horrible thoughts as taking the lives of their best friends; who had been like brothers to them both. As soon as he was away from the gentle surroundings of his sister, and again under the influence of George, he forgot his good resolutions, and agreed to assist in killing their innocent friends. Oh! what horrid crimes have come under my observation; my blood runs chill while I write. On arriving at Shell Creek they camped about half a mile below the station; here they laid their plans—George was to kill two, and Albert the other. George laid down between his two victims, Albert with his, as they had done all the way; they secreted their hatchets under their pillows; when they thought their victims asleep they would strike the fatal blow. George was to make the first move; as soon they were asleep he raised up carefully, and taking the hatchet he struck the blows, killing them instantly; this aroused Albert's victim; who raised up; Albert struck him, but the hatchet glanced and did not knock him down; George ran up and struck him on the back of the head, and the poor sufferer fell dead. When Albert saw and realized the horror of the deed, as the —three poor fellows lay before him, he began to repent; George mocked and called him a poor coward, and this  
[p. 125]
nerved him up again. They took some large knotty sticks and pounded their faces until it was impossible to recognize them by their features; then threw them on the horses, carried them to a little ravine, and laid some brush over them; took the saddles and other things they did not want to the hills, and burnt them. Their object in disfiguring the men was to make it appear like Indian brutality; but the Indians were peaceable at this time.

The next morning after the crime an Indian was out looking for some horses belonging to the station, and saw the bodies laying in the ravine; he ran back to make it known, and they sent word to Eagan Cañon to the Sheriff; and also telegraphed along the line to watch for the two men (describing them). On the boys arriving at Deep Creek there was a young man there who wished to go the city; as he was waiting for an opportunity they told him he could go with them, and as they had several horses he could ride one; he accepted the generous offer and they started. We received a dispatch from the agent of the road to take them prisoners if we saw them. We thought we should have to do so by force, and as one of them was innocent we might injure him, not knowing which one of the three it was; as there was not enough of us to surround them, and we knew there would be a party from Eagan Cañon in a few hours, we made up our minds when they arrived to persuade them to stay over night. About nine o'clock in the evening we heard persons approaching, and we thought they were all drunk from the noise they made; it was plain to see they were the guilty party; they were trying to drive the guilt from their minds by  
[p. 126]
singing and shouting. They would come to the station only one at a time; George came into the house and lit his cigar; he was dressed in Salt Lake style—wide brimmed hat, leggins, and large steel spurs with little bells on them. We could see that he was uneasy, and we urged him to stay all night as there was plenty of grass and water.

We told him that it was better to cross the desert in the daytime; he thought not, asked for a drink of water, and started. The others would not come in, and they went on their journey as fast as their horses could travel, singing and shouting to make us believe that they were very happy. About an hour after the stage arrived with the Sheriff and three men; they took supper, and then started at full speed, in order to pass them before they should arrive at River Bed Station, where the road forks, one going over the mountains and leaving the stage road. The emigrants generally take that road, as there is plenty of grass and water. The stage passed them at the Dug Way; they were hurrying their stock, but they were getting tired, having driven them ninety miles without resting over an hour. The stage has a change every ten miles, consequently they can make good time. The stage arrived at River Bed about half an hour before the boys; the officers stopped and the stage went on. There is no water to be had between Fish Springs and the Station; everyone stops to get a drink. The well is within a few feet of the house; George would not venture too near until he saw whether the others were molested. Neither would he get off his horse, knowing the stage had  
[p. 127]
passed; the other two came up to the well, the innocent one without fear, not mistrusting anything.

As soon as they were near the men rushed out and drew their fire arms. George saw them, and, turning his horse, hung on one side; if they shot they would would hit the horse and not him; the sheriff fired, but he made his escape; the other two surrendered. The innocent one begged and prayed for them not to shoot him, and they told him if he was innocent to hold up his hands; he would try, but, in spite of himself they would drop. They would cry to him, "hold up your hands;" but the poor fellow could not—he fainted and fell, and they carried him into the house. Albert they bound; he acknowledged his guilt, and begged for his life. He stated to them how he was drawn into it, but they told him he must pay the debt by hanging.

This overpowered him; he thought of his dear sister at Eagan Cañon, and his dear mother at his once happy home at Payson, and how she tried to persuade him not to go to California, where there were so many temptations; and the playmates of his childhood, and of one he had learned to love dearer than his sister, and the bright hopes he had a few days before. Now, alas, they were all faded and gone—he must die on the gallows, a murderer, and disgrace the name of his family, never before tarnished. These thoughts overpowered him—he wept bitterly.

After the innocent one had revived they gave him enough provisions to take him through to Salt Lake, and started him off on foot, a distance of a hundred miles. I think it learned him a good lesson.

The officers waited until the stage came from the  
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East, and started back to Shell Creek with Albert. On arriving at Fish Springs I had dinner ready for them. Albert could not eat; I talked to him while the others ate, and my heart ached for the poor boy. It brought to mind how the negro had threatened me at Lime Kiln Cañon, at the time the man stole the mule; although I was innocent I felt thankful that I had a mind of my own. I tried to cheer him up; I told him that it would be better for him to die now; he would never be happy, and would probably commit similar deeds; that a man, when he once commenced, hardly ever stopped at one. He said that if he lived he knew he should never be happy; that he had not slept one wink since committing the deed—he fancied he saw the victims before his eyes all the time.

By this time the stage was ready, and they started out. They sent a man in pursuit of George, but he could not find him. His horse being wounded when the officer shot at him, he had to leave him and go on foot. He had nothing to eat with him, and that was bound to drive him to some of the stations, or he must starve.

He mustered courage to go into Point Lookout Station and ask for something to eat. The boys fed him (they never refuse a man on foot on that line), and after eating he started on to Faust's Station, in Rush Valley. On arriving there the boys had heard of the murder, and the capture of one and the escape of the other of the murderers. They took particular notice of him, but still they did not think he was the one; he was on foot, and came boldly to the station, traveling on the main road. Soon after he left the stage arrived; they  
[p. 129]
gave the driver a description of the man who had just passed, and in it he recognized George, the escaped murderer. One of the men started out after him, not keeping the main road, but riding out on either side amongst the cattle that were there grazing, as though he was hunting up his stock. He rode up to George and entered into conversation with him; George did not appear to mistrust anything. George had a revolver, and the man wished to get possession of it in some way; he asked George if he would sell it. He said yes. He then asked to look at it, and George handed it to him; after examining it, and seeing that it was well loaded, he drew it on him, and said "you are my prisoner."

George was astonished. He stared at the man for a moment, then answerd, "you have the advantage of me; had I mistrusted you you would have been a dead. man, Frank." George knew him.

"I believe that; and this was why I obtained the revolver."

He ordered George to walk ahead of him to Fort Crittenden. On arriving at the Fort some there wantee to hang him, but a majority insisted that he should be taken to Shell Creek, and both hung together. On the following morning they put him on board the stage for Shell Creek; on arriving at my station dinner was all ready, and they took his handcuffs off while he ate. He asked how Albert felt; we told him that he felt so bad that he could not eat. He said he felt very sorry, but it did not affect his appetite; he ate a hearty dinner, and acted in quite a different manner from Albert. You set that he was hardened to almost anything. He  
[p. 130]
had once broken jail in California, and thought that he would yet make his escape.

On his arrival at Shell Creek the scaffold was erected over the graves of their poor murdered victims. When George realized how short his time was to make peace with his God, his heart began to soften; he began to think of his wicked life. He asked the favor to live over night, that he might try and prepare himself for death. It was granted.

The following morning they were led to the scaffold. Albert spoke of his mother and sister, and what a sea of trouble he had brought upon them; he said that if it were not for them he could bear it with more firmness—he knew that the sentence was just, and would rather die than live. George had no word for any one; there was not a particle of love or affection in him, yet he feared death more than Albert. The handkerchiefs were bound over their eyes, and they were swung off and hung until they were Dead! Dead!

CHAPTER XXXII.

A Laughable Incident—The Indians Learn a new way of Scalping.

AT Fish Springs there were a good many Indians, and we would play tricks that would puzzle them; in one instance they were so astonished that they never forgot it. There was a train of emigrants at the sta-  
[p. 131]
tion, and as there was plenty of grass and water they concluded to rest for a week. There were several young people among them and some musicians, and we had several dances at the station. There was one young lady, a Miss Sally Jones, whose acquaintance I made; she was a lovely girl, and I thought then that had I been differently situated I should have continued the acquaintance during life. There was an old man in the train who wanted Miss Sally for a wife; he annoyed her very much, and did not like the idea of Sally being so intimate with me; he was always on the watch, and whenever she came to the station he would be sure to come along. I told Sally I would put a stop to that. She wished to know what I was going to do. "Well," I said, "he wears a wig." "I think not," she replied. We went outside of the house, and there were many of the emigrants talking with the Indians; the old man had more to say than any of them; he talked "Indian," as he called it, but the Indians could not understand a word. I spoke to the Indians in their own language, and asked them if they would like to see a trick. They all said, "Yes, yes." I was standing by the side of Sally, when the old man came up to me, throwing his hands, and wanted to box; he struck at me, and I knocked his hat off. The Indians came close up, watching for the trick, and as he stooped to pick up his hat I lifted his wig off. The Indians: were so astonished they could not move; they had never seen or heard of a wig before. They would first look at the wig as I held it up, then at the old man's bald head; they thought I had taken his whole scalp off; the emigrants almost went into convulsions from laughter. The wind had  
[p. 132]
blown the old man's hat away, and he was trying cover his bald head with his hands. The Indians thought he was suffering the most excruciating pain, as he ran around looking for his hat. I went and put his wig on again, and the Indians were still more astonished when they saw it on as good as ever and the old man quite calm; they never knew but that I actually took his scalp off.

The old man never troubled Sally after that, so she wrote me after she left; if he spoke to her she said, "I will scalp you," and that was sufficient. Whenever the Indians were troublesome I would tell them I would play that trick on them, and they would be quiet.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

An amusing Scene with an old Lady.

A FEW days after the Cañon Station massacre an old lady came along alone on foot; the boys said she was a little demented. I think she was, to be traveling alone when the Indians were so very hostile. The drivers generally gave her a ride. When she arrived at my station she asked to stay all night. I told her she could, gave her supper and made her a bed on the door in the dining room. It was very warm weather, and I told her to leave the door open, as no one would molest her. I slept in the next room. I went to bed early, as I had been up all the night before watching for the stage and  
[p. 133]
Indians. I thought I would have a good night's rest. I had been in bed about an hour, when the old lady called: "Mr. Cook, I hear Indians!" I got up, but could neither hear nor see Indians. I laid down again. In a few minutes the old lady cried: "Mr. Cook, give a light; there are ants in my bed!" I got up and gave her a light; while she routed the bedbugs I got to sleep again. This time I slept about half an hour, when she gave a terrible scream: "Cook, cook! get up; there is some one on my bed! Quick! I have him by the throat! "I jumped up in an instant, struck a light, and what did I see? My poor old dog stretched on the floor nearly choked to death. The old woman had fainted. I threw some water in her face and she was all right enough.

The door being open the dog thought he would lay on the bed, but like many other intruders he had the worst of it. I quieted her again, and began to wish she had taken lodgings somewhere else. In about an hour she gave another unearthly scream; at the same time there was a terrible crash. I thought the house was coming down. She was hallooing: "Snakes! snakes!" I found a light and ran into the room. She had knocked down the cupboard, broke all the crockery, and was laying insensible on the floor. The dogs were frightened, and the boys in the next room hearing the noise thought that the Snake Indians had made a charge for us, as this tribe was near us. I laid the old lady on the bed, and was fanning her, when the boys came running into the room with their guns in their hands, and seeing me fanning her thought she was shot. We were glad there were no photographers in that country. No  
[p. 134]
one thinks of clothing in such an emergency. We soon found the cause of all this alarm.

The hose that we used to fill the water barrel was laying in the room; in her rambles she had stepped upon it and thought it was a snake. The boys had a good laugh and went to bed, leaving me to do the best I could with the old lady. I started to bed again, but she told me she was afraid to stay alone, so I had to spend the remainder of the night in keeping her company.

I was glad when morning came. Mr. Powell, the blacksmith on the overland line, being at our station with his team, he kindly took the old lady on her journey twenty-five miles, to Willow Springs. This comedy lasted the boys some time for amusement; they never had a chance for a rehearsal, as we always had a change of actors.

As the rebellion had subsided in the States and the Indians bad become peaceable, I resolved to make another start, for civilization, as I had seen nothing but excitement since I left my native land. Although but twenty-two years of age I thought my experience of savage life would be sufficient for an old man. I have never taken any part in civil warfare, but I have seen as much bravery displayed as seen on the battle field. All that was wanting was the numbers. When the boys would get the newspapers (all men under thirty are called "boys" on the overland line) giving accounts of the sufferings of the soldiers at Andersonville and the Massacre at Fort Pillow, they had such resemblance to what they had witnessed in savage life, and their indignation would rise to such a pitch that distance  
[p. 135]
would seem to be annihilated, and they felt already like preparing for the deliverance of their friends; such was the loyalty on the overland line.

The agents were men of sterling energy; they spared no pains or expense to protect the mail and passengers, and whenever they found men brave enough to face the Indians they employed them at high salaries to fill the places of those noble men like Reynolds, Hank Harper, poor deaf Riley, and many others who fell at the stations.

I had made up my mind to see California, and the Indians were very sorrowful to have me leave. When at Omaha I spoke of my father taking the gold fever; he did not remain long at Pike's Peak, but came directly to this land of peace and plenty, with his family, and they all cried with joy at my arrival. A thousand blessings on California, my adopted country!

I cannot refrain from giving my readers an account of some massacres on the southern road, as told me by one of the drivers. "When the mail was changed from the southern to the central road many of the drivers came up to our stations. I will give these accounts in their own words.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

The Indians on the Southern Road.

THEY are more daring and blood thirsty than the Indians of the north; as they have plenty of game and  
[p. 136]
no snow they can fight the whole year; these Indians are the Apaches and Camanches. The Indians of the north have to work hard every fall to gather pine knots and roots to subsist on; it is much easier to bring them into subjection than the others. The Apaches will fight man to man; there are parties of men that do nothing else but ride through the country fighting these Indians; they are called the Texan Rangers, and while we were busy in the north they were having lively times in the south.

THE DRIVER'S STORY.

One morning when we arose as we found no Indians round the station we were sure they intended war; as the stage drove up we were very anxious to learn how things were at the other stations; the driver said they were all right yet, but the Indians had all left the stations, and they expected trouble. We had our guns all in good order, prepared for the worst. Our blacksmith was on the road, at Lucky Station, we called it, the Indians having attacked it so many times without success. The boys tried to persuade him not to return; he spoke the Indian language and had no fears, as he was in the habit of spending hours with them, telling them of scenes in civilization, and the great white chief in Washington, and how they received all their presents from him. The Indians did not care for food, as they had plenty; they wanted paints, looking glasses, and combs; and when they were mad they could do without these things.

Pete, the blacksmith, started home in a wagon, with two mules. When about half way the mules com-  
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menced snuffing, and looking around; they can smell Indians a mile off; he knew by this they were near. Pete was well armed, and he thought he would show no signs of fear; in a moment about twenty Indians surrounded him, their faces all painted black (as is their custom when at war). He wished them good morning, and asked them what tribe they were going to war with; they answered, "No tribe; pale faces." He tried to persuade them to go to the station with him and wait; he told them the pale faces had a war among themselves. They did not believe him, as the whites had sent more men to Fort Tucson to fight them; they told him to leave the country until all was settled, as they did not wish to kill him; they promised they would wait and see what the soldiers had come for. He started for home when one of the Indians shot at him, killing him instantly. This enraged the others who had pledged their word with him; they took the one that shot and burnt him, with all his implements of war; when the stage came up the driver saw our poor blacksmith laying dead on the ground; he picked him up, put him in the stage, and brought him to the station. The war had now commenced.

A COURAGEOUS FAMILY.

Soon after the murder of our blacksmith a boy twelve years old was herding stock near a small stream that ran directly to the station; his father, mother, and younger brother were all that kept the station; he saw the Indians coming towards him, and pulled off his clothes, tying them on his back and jumped into the  
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stream, keeping close to the bank, and the Indians did not observe him. His father had time to prepare for them, secure the door and windows with sacks of grain, and loaded all their guns. The Indians soon gave the war whoop, and rushed on the station; all inside could use guns and four of the Indians fell dead; they dragged off their dead and returned again; the father was from old Kentucky, and dropt them every time. One of the Indians would stand at a distance and tap his breast in defiance; the little boy said, "Father, let me take a shot at him;" when he raised up the little fellow took aim at his head; the Indian gave one yell and that was the last of him; when the little fellow saw him fall he said, "I fetched the black villain, pap." The father had fired at his breast all the time, and he had a coil of ropes around him. All was now still; they had killed six or seven; the Indians came in the night and took all away except this one, and for a short time all was quiet about the station.

The Indians now laid a plan to upset the stage into a deep ravine; they dug a trench on each side of the road, the width of the stage, and then laid in wait, making their calculations for a scalp dance. The driver on this route was called the Flying Dutchmanm, he drove so fast; his stock were all Spanish—they ran up and down hill too; this suited the Flying Dutchman. The stage came full speed down the hill, the wheels went into the trenches, the stage dragged on its axles for a moment, and with one or two jumps they were on a good road again. The Indians fired, but were so excited by their disappointment that they could not shoot straight; our Dutchman stopped his team and drew  
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his revolver, killing one, while the passengers poured in a volley among them; then drove to the station all safe. That evening there was a train started from Fort Tucson, loaded with grain for the stage line; they made two days travel and encamped on Dog Creek; they were mostly Mexicans. The Indians stole upon them and fired a volley, killing six. Taking what grain they wanted, they saved one little boy alive, and set fire to the wagons. Two of the Mexicans were out guarding the cattle; they could see the wagons burning, but could render no assistance, and made their way to the Fort. Captain Brown, with a party of men, started in pursuit; after traveling a few days they came to a camp of fifty Indians; they surrounded them, when Captain Brown gave the word to fire, and in fifteen minutes they were all dead on the ground.

MASSACRE OF MEXICANS BY INDIANS.

Some time after a party of Mexicans came to our station. They were in pursuit of the Indians who had murdered their countrymen; they wished to make peace with the Indians, so as to obtain the boy. Our station was well fortified against the Indians, with a wall around the house and barn. The Mexicans wished to sleep inside the corral, and it was permitted. There were two men at the station who were great favorites with the Indians, of the names of Buckley and Baker; they could speak their language, and we felt quite safe. One morning we saw a party of Indians coming towards the station with a white flag. We hardly knew what to do, as they are very treacherous. Buckley volun-  
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teered to go out and talk to them; they had a long conversation, and told him all about killing the blacksmith. They wished to make peace with the Mexicans, and built a tent close to the station.

About thirty of the chiefs assembled, and the controversy was settled. They knew nothing of the boy, but said that they would try to get him:

The Mexicans in this part of the country are a mixture of Indian and Negro. They are a mean race; when the rebellion broke out we feared them more than any other class of beings. These mongrels laid a plan to kill all the chiefs that were there assembled; they were talking with them in the tent, and seemed pleased that they had made peace. The Indians were off their guard when the Mexicans drew their revolvers, and told them to surrender all their arms. One of the chiefs drew his knife, and splitting the tent, made his escape; the rest were all killed by the Mexicans.

In ten minutes he returned with about there hundred warriors, with their knives glittering in the sun. They would not shoot for fear of hitting their own men, and in five minutes there was not a live Mexican left.

 
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CHAPTER XXXV.

An exciting scene at the Fort—the murder of the noble Buckley and Baker by the Indians, together with the Heroism of Mrs. Parsons, and the daring feat of young Charley.

AT this time Baker drove up with the stage, with six passengers, one a lady. They were nearly frightened to death.

The Indians raised a red flag, which signified blood. Baker and Buckley thought they could yet make a compromise. We would not let the stage go out of the fort, and it laid over; it was not safe to proceed.

The next morning five Indians came towards the station with a white flag. Baker, Buckley, and the Dutchman who herded the stock, volunteered to go out; the lady begged them not to go, but when she was told that our lives depended upon treating with the Indians, she became reconciled. They started, and the Indians put out their hands to shake hands, at the same time grabbing them with their other hands. The Dutchman and Baker got away, but before they reached the station the Indians who were concealed shot them both. They dragged poor Buckley into the brush, and the Indians then all rose up. There were about fire hundred of them.

This was a terrible blow for us—three of our best men gone. There were only two others and myself, beside the passengers, and they were nearly distracted having never seen an Indian until they started on the  
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road. There was one young man who deserved great praise for his courage; after the first fright he was ready to do anything that was necessary to be done. Johnny Parsons, the husband of the lady, was trying to hide himself, and mourning over their perilous condition; his wife would hunt him up, saying, "Johnny Parsons, you great big coward, come out here and be in readiness to fight," at the same time punching him under the ribs with her fist. He would answer, "My dear wife, I feel so sick, much worse than I did on board ship. You know I came very near throwing my life away." Mrs. Parsons, in a low voice, said, "I wish you had." Then he would sink down in the hay again. In a few minutes she would be at him again; poor Johnny by this time would be on his feet again, trying to find a quieter place. This so exasperated Mrs. Parsons that she struck him and he fell on the hay again. The next morning the Indians came within fifty yards of the station, with a rope round poor Buckley's neck, leading him like a dog; we dared not shoot, as they would kill Buckley instantly if we did; we talked with him through the porthole, and be said there was no hope for his life unless we could send to Tucson for assistance. The Indians had parties out to attack the stage, and they intended to starve us out, as they thought we had assisted the Mexicans in killing their chiefs. Something now must be done. Mrs. Parsons volunteered to put Johnny on a horse and send him to the fort, as be would be of no use here; but Johnny would not agree to any such thing; this enraged her again, when she picked up a stick and took after him; as he ran round the fort be fell into the  
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sink hole. We should have been much cast down had it not been for these two eccentric creatures; they kept us laughing in the midst of danger.

Charley Keith, one of our boys, and a great rider, said that he would go to the fort. He put a bridle on the swiftest horse—he would have no saddle—buckled on his revolver, and was ready. Mrs. Parsons commenced crying, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him, saying, "I should be proud of such a son." When Parsons saw her kissing him, he caught hold of her, saying," My dear wife, do you know what you are about?" She fetched him a blow, and he fell back into a tub of water; this so enraged Mrs. Parsons that she grabbed hold of the little Johnny, gave him a good ducking, and sent him into the barn.

Charley mounted his swift horse, the gates were thrown open, and in a flash he was past the Indians; they fired on him but did not hit him. He rode twenty miles and met the cavalry under the command of Captain Brown; as the stage had not come in the cavalry had already started; in three hours from the time Charley left us they had reached our fort. The Indians seeing the soldiers hung poor Buckley, and started for the hills; the Captain gave orders to follow, overtook them, and killed two hundred and fifty. The stage was again hitched up and all passengers aboard, Charley drove until more men could he sent out; Mrs. Parsons pressed us to call on her at San Francisco if we ever came that way; she said Mr. Parsons would make us at home; that he was a a dear good old man, although a terrible coward, and with a hearty God bless you, she left us. I may never see her more, but shall not forget her heroism arid the great amusement she afforded us.

 
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CHAPTER XXXVI.

An Account of Two more Heroines on the Southern Route.

SOMETIME after Mrs. Parsons left us the Indians attacked Smith's Station. Mr. Smith had a very large ranch; he raised grain for the overland stage company. He had a wife and four children. Mrs. Smith was a very brave woman and could handle a gun as well as most men. She would frequently shoot for prizes and won. Their house was built of logs, and the upper part was not yet finished.

One morning while they were at breakfast the dogs commenced barking. Mr. Smith went to the door and saw a party of Indians within two hundred yards of the house, and before he could retreat they fired at him and he fell dead. Mrs. Smith pulled him into the house, shut and secured the door, and ran up stairs. There they kept twelve guns ready loaded, and when the Indians came up she fired the twelve guns at them, killing an Indian every time. This caused them to retreat, and gave her time to reload. They made another charge, and again she poured the lead into them; this kept them at bay, and she kept this up for half the day.

Finally they returned in greater numbers and surrounded the station, broke in the back door, and rushed up the stairs; but Mrs. Smith was not conquered; she fought them like a tigress for her young.

She, took the butt of a gun, and as they ascended the stairs she knocked them down. She fought them this  
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way for some time, but they were determined not to be overcome by a woman, and were crowding on her; her strength began to fail, and she was almost ready to give up, when she heard the stage approaching and the voices of men. Our noble Charley, who took such an active part at the time Mrs. Parsons was at the fort, was on hand with three others equally brave as himself. They soon made a scattering among the Indians, killing many of them.

Mrs. Smith had succeeded in killing about thirty; such women deserve a pension from the Government.

ANOTHER HEROINE NAMED NETTY, ONLY SIXTEEN YEARS OLD.

Little Netty was the only child of Mr. Harrison; he had lost all his family but her. He was in the habit of going into the hills in the summer with his daughter, taking his tent and remaining three or four months, for the purpose of killing game and gathering wild fruit. The women in that wild country seem to partake of a different spirit than those of civilization. They can fire guns, set traps and kill bears equal to any man. In that country the black and grizzly bears are very numerous, and they would come close to the tent at night for food, smelling the provisions. Mr. Harrison had learned his daughter to set the spring guns. She had arranged one a little way from the tent, and in the night she heard the gun go off, and could hardly wait till daylight to see what it had shot.

Early in the morning her father went out to ascertain the result of her experiment, while she was busy in the  
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tent. He saw a large grizzly bear laying a few feet from the gun, apparently dead. He went to it, when the bear jumped up and knocked him down, and with his big paws tore the flesh from his face and arms. Netty heard the screams of her father, and taking a rifle in one hand and a revolver in the other she ran to his assistance. She fired the rifle and the bear fell; she threw the rifle down, ran up with the revolver and shot six balls into him, for fear he might rise up again.

Her father lay as though he was dead; she dragged him into the tent, dressed his wounds as well as she was able, mounted a horse and rode ten miles for a physician. Her father lay for many weeks, no one expecting he could live. At last he recovered, but was a cripple for life.

Our noble little Netty married one of the richest men in that country, and her principal care is her invalid father. Mr. Harrison, with all his past sufferings, is now very happy in the society of his dear little Netty.