CAPTAIN JACK HAYS:

CAPTAIN JACK HAYS:FAMOUS TEXAN RANGER AND COMMANDER OF VALIANT BORDER FIGHTERSIT was the year 1840. Texas was still a wild country, but the white settlers were pressing forward to farm and to raise cattle and horses. The redskins did not like it. The Comanches were particularly troublesome: they had been severely chastised by General Burleson and a Colonel John H. More, so they had sworn to revenge themselves upon the white-skinned invaders. With a large body of painted warriors they made a raid upon the defenseless settlers of Texas. They sacked and burned the town of Linnville, partly destroyed Victoria, and commenced their retreat back to the mountains with a great deal of plunder. There were six hundred warriors and many squaws in the party of invasion.In going down from the mountains the Indians had kept between the rivers, where there were no settlements, and consequently they were not discovered until a short time before the attack upon Linnville. Runners were immediately sent to the various settlements, and men began to cut across the country in small squads from the valleys of the Colorado, the Guadalupe, and San Marcos. All of them were excitedand eager for revenge, none more so than General Burleson, who—at the head of a large company—was just starting for the scene of action. When about one hundred and fifty men had arrived—among them settlers from Guadalupe and San Marcos—they started for the Indians.Among those who came riding to the defense of the Texan frontier was a splendid looking, young fellow, who was the perfect picture of manly vigor. Clad in blue shirt, buckskin chaparejos (large trousers slipping over those usually worn) and high-heeled boots, the youthful Texan was a noble example of health and agility. A broad sombrero was upon his head, while a cartridge-belt hung about his supple waist. His name was John Coffee Hays; better known as Jack Hays: the Ranger.This celebrated scout and Indian fighter had been named after General Coffee, who commanded a brigade in the army of General Jackson, at the battle of New Orleans. He had been born in Wilson County, Tennessee, in 1818, but had come to Texas in 1837, when but nineteen years of age. A surveyor by profession, he had taken up a residence at San Antonio, where he was employed to measure lands upon the frontier. His life in the open had given him a hardy constitution, and no one could endure more hardships or privations than he. His talent as a commander and director of rough-and-ready fighters early developed, and he was soon among the leaders of the borderers in Southwest Texas.With a wild hurrah, which spelled REVENGE, inlarge letters, the Texans started after the Indians, and, after travelling for nine miles upon their broad trail, caught up with them near a winding stream called Plum Creek. Two redskins had been left by the invaders as spies. They were upon a ridge and sat quietly upon their horses, watching the approach of the white men, until the Texans were almost within gun-shot. Both of these Indians had on tall hats which they had obtained at the looting of Linnville. You can well imagine how comical they looked, for a black, stovepipe hat hardly becomes a wild rider of the plains. With his thick, long hair it never quite fits, and it certainly gives the red man a most grotesque appearance.One of the Texan Rangers had a long-range gun. Dismounting, he cried out:“Boys! Just watch me make the redskins hump!”At the crack of his rifle, the Indians wheeled their horses in order to run away. As they did so, both lost their plug hats. They moved swiftly to their comrades, warning them of the approach of the Rangers, who spread out in a fan-shaped line, and kept on after the retreating braves.Now began a hot fight. The redskins were well armed and made a good showing, but nothing could withstand the terrible fire of the Texan rifles. After an hour of rapid shooting the Rangers charged with a wild, ear-splitting whoop. Jack Hays was well up in front of the line as they did so. The Indians broke and galloped away in a disorganized mass.Many of the redskins had on fine coats and bootswhich they had stolen during the raid. Some of them even carried umbrellas. Their spare horses and mules were packed with stolen goods, and these were driven ahead by the squaws, while the warriors fought the battle. After about a mile of fighting, the Comanches rallied in large force and a sharp contest ensued. But they could not stand the accurate rifle-fire from the Texans, and again fled in a scattered mass.The pursuit continued in hot haste, for some high mountains were in front, and the Rangers knew that if the red men once reached them it would be quite possible for them to get away. Many of the pack-animals now gave out, were abandoned, and fell into the hands of the Texans. A boggy branch was in the path of the retreating braves. Several of the Indian ponies stuck fast in the mire: all of the pack-animals which had not yet been captured, became hard aground in the mud. The hindmost Indians used some of the poor, bogged animals as pontoons, and passed over the marsh by jumping from body to body. The Texans saw the predicament which the redskins were in and ran around the branch to the other side, where they cut off some of the Indians who were on foot, and killed them. The rest got away to the foot of the mountains, where the pursuit ended.The Rangers collected at the spot where the fight had been most severe and where most of the Indians had been dispatched. Here they camped for the night. Some of the Texans had been wounded, but none had been killed. Thus the battle of Plum Creek came to a glorious end.Jack Hays had certainly distinguished himself in this affair. He distinguished himself still more in 1842, when San Antonio was captured by the Mexicans. Shortly after the battle of Plum Creek, Jack had been commissioned by General Houston to raise a force for protection of the frontier. He had no difficulty in doing this and was soon in command of several hundred Texan Rangers. They were wild fellows; ready for any emergency that might arise.The Mexicans had about fifteen hundred men in San Antonio. They were commanded by a General Wall. Jack Hays and his Rangers rode up near the town and “dared” the Mexicans to come out and fight. This they were quite willing to do, and soon marched from the adobe huts of San Antonio, crossed a creek in order to face the Texans, planted cannon, and the battle commenced. The Rangers acted upon the defensive, dodged the limbs of the pecan trees which the whistling bullets began to cut off, and prepared to meet the Mexicans when they should charge.General Wall, the Mexican leader, thought to rout the Texans with his artillery fire, but, as he failed to do this, he made preparations to charge them. Cavalry was dispatched across the creek in order to cut off retreat upon this side, and a band of Cherokee Indians were posted upon a branch below. The Mexicans believed that they would have an easy time of it, but they little thought with what kind of men they had to deal. Before them were expert riflemen: allkeen shots and frontier fighters. They made a good account of themselves.The bugles sounded the charge and the Mexicans came on in fine style. They were massed together densely, and, for a time, it looked as if the Rangers would be annihilated by mere force of numbers. But the Texans lay down behind the creek bank, and poured such a volley of death and destruction into the ranks of the oncoming foe that their formation was broken up and they retreated in confusion and disorder to their batteries, posted upon elevated ground. A company of their cavalry also charged, but the horses would not come on before the sheet of lead which the Rangers pumped into them. Many lost their riders and ran among the infantrymen, knocking them down as they galloped wildly about. The Rangers cheered loudly, and Captain Jack Hays grinned from ear to ear.As the Mexicans gathered behind their cannon, about fifty Texans, under Captain Nicholas Dawson, came up on the right flank. They heard the sound of firing and hurried towards it, only to find that they had run into Wall’s entire army. The Mexicans surrounded them immediately, and poured a destructive fire into their ranks. What could fifty do against one thousand? Two Texans made their escape. About twelve were captured. The rest fell before the bullets of the invaders. Dawson, himself, was one of the last to go down.After this, the Mexicans seemed to think that they had had sufficient fighting. They retired towardsSan Antonio, followed by the exultant Texans. Captain Jack Hays with his Rangers fought the rear-guard near Hondo, but the pursuit was soon abandoned and the frontiersmen returned to their homes. They had lost less than one hundred in killed and wounded.The Rangers retreated to a place called Somervell, and, not long afterwards, were ordered out to look for Indians, which were then pretty thick in the neighborhood, and were doing considerable damage. There were between thirty and forty men in this expedition, some of whom had just returned from Mexico, where they had participated in the battle of Mier. They moved off towards the northwest, struck the Medina River, and kept on up the stream towards the place where now stands the town of Bandera. Here they made camp, and next morning turned north towards the Bandera Pass, which they entered at about ten o’clock in the morning.The Comanches were waiting for them. They had discovered the approach of the Rangers as they came through the open country, and laid an ambush for them in the Pass. The famous Bandera Pass is some five hundred yards in length by one hundred and twenty-five in breadth. The red men were concealed among the rocks and gullies on both sides of the gorge, and they allowed Captain Jack Hays with his Texan Rangers to get about one-third of the way through before they commenced firing from both sides at once. The Rangers were riding three abreast, and, when this fusillade commenced, were thrown intomomentary confusion, because of the frightened and wounded horses, which endeavored to wheel and run back.“Steady, boys, steady!” exclaimed Captain Jack Hays. “Get down from your horses and tie them to the brush. We can whip these infernal redskins if you will only keep cool.”The Comanches greatly outnumbered the Rangers. They were armed with rifles and with bows and arrows. Many came down the Pass and rode up to close quarters with the Rangers. Pistols were freely used and many hand-to-hand conflicts took place. The Comanche chief was struck down by a ball from the rifle of “Kit” Ackland, who, himself, was wounded a moment later. It was a furious affair,—one of the most desperate Indian battles of the frontier.One of the scouts—a fellow named Galbreath—was wounded by an arrow which struck him above the pistol-belt, on the left side. It penetrated as far as the hip bone. The hardy frontiersman made no complaint, but drew the missile out at once, loaded his gun, and continued to fight on as if nothing had happened. No one knew that he had been wounded until the worst part of the battle was over.The Indians fought with great fury, but they soon saw that they could not drive the Rangers back, and so withdrew to the north end of the Pass. Here they buried their dead chieftain; killed all of their crippled horses, and held a scalp dance over the remains of their fallen comrades. Five Rangers had been killed and six had been wounded. The men underJack Hays retreated to the south end of the Pass, where they buried those who had met their end, and attended to the wounded. Next morning they jogged along to San Antonio. The Indians did not pursue.The battle of Bandera Pass had taught the red men that the Rangers were not to be trifled with. Captain Jack was continually on the lookout for them, and soon had another experience which he had no occasion to forget. It happened about a year after the famous battle at the Pass.Fourteen Rangers—under Captain Jack—went upon a scout up the Neuces Canyon, with the expectation of meeting the Indians, who were then upon the war-path. After a long trip to the head of the river, without seeing any fresh Indian sign, Hays turned back down the canyon and camped. Next day the little party travelled onward, and—about noon—some one discovered a bee tree.“Hold on, Captain!” said a Ranger. “Just wait a minute and I’ll chop all the honey out of that tree-top.”“All right,” replied Hays. “Sail in and let’s see what you can do. Pull your bridles off, men. Let your ropes down and allow your horses to graze. We will rest here awhile and get some honey.”The Ranger secured a small axe that was in the luggage on a pack-mule, and ascended the tree, for the purpose of chopping into the honey without cutting down this stout piece of timber.About this time a large band of Comanches were coming down the canyon on a raid, and, seeing thetrail of the Rangers, they followed it. The fellow in the tree had a good view of the valley, and, to his startled vision appeared a great body of redskins.“Jerusalem, the Golden, Captain!” he sang out. “Yonder come a thousand Indians! Jerusalem!”The Comanches were riding rapidly down the trail and made a good deal of dust. Hays sprang to his feet, as quick as a cat, and sang out his orders promptly, and to the point.“Come out of that tree, there! Men, put on your bridles! Take up your ropes! Be ready for them! Be ready for them!”All sprang to their horses, and were soon prepared to meet the onrush of the red men.The Rangers were armed with Colt’s five-shooters, besides their rifles and a brace of holster single-shot pistols. Thus each man could fire nine shots. The Indians had never before come in conflict with scouts armed with the five-shooter, and they rode on exultingly, for they greatly outnumbered the whites. Jack Hays never ran from Indians, and had never yet been defeated by them.The Comanches came forward, yelling loudly. They thought that it would be an easy matter to ride over the small squad of white men, who were drawn up around the old bee tree. Some of the scouts began to raise their guns, but Captain Jack cried out:“Now, boys, do not shoot too quickly. Let the redskins come closer. Hit something when you do shoot. Stand your ground. We can whip them when we shoot. There is no doubt about that.”The redskins thundered down upon the Rangers. When they were quite close, Captain Jack called:“Fire, and let every shot tell!”A sheet of flame burst from the rifles of the scouts, and so many ponies went down that the redskins divided to the right and left, discharging their arrows as they swept by.At this moment Captain Jack sprang into his saddle.“After them, men,” he cried. “Give them no chance to turn on us! Crowd them! Powder-burn them!”Never was a band of redskins more surprised; for they expected the Rangers to remain near the tree, and upon the defensive. With a wild whoop, the followers of Jack Hays galloped after the running braves, keeping up a perfect fusillade with their pistols. The Comanches were thunderstruck at this turn of affairs. Some tried in vain to turn their horses and make a stand, but such was the wild confusion of running horses, popping pistols, and yelling Rangers, that they abandoned the idea of a rally, and sought safety in furious flight. In endeavoring to dodge the terrible five-shooters, some dropped their bows and round shields. Some kept off the Rangers by thrusting at them with their long lances.The Indians ran for three miles before they could get away. The Rangers now rode back, well satisfied with the day’s work, and were surprised to see the result of their charge. The ground was fairly black with dead redskins. Many years afterwards afriendly Delaware Indian, called “Bob,” met the Comanche chieftain who led his warriors in this fight.“Who did you battle with upon this occasion?” he asked.“Ugh! Jack Hays and his Rangers,” gloomily replied the Comanche chief, shaking his head. “I never want to fight him again. Ugh! Ugh! His soldiers had a shot for every finger on their hands. I lost half of all my warriors. Ugh! Me never fight with him again.”The Rangers soon afterwards had another tough little scrimmage with the Comanches. Fifteen of the Rangers were together at this time and they met an almost equal number of Indians, who were discovered at the foot of the mountains near the Frio River. The Indians were riding very tired horses, and the scouts thus gained upon them rapidly. The red men kept under cover, as much as possible, riding in ravines which had brushes and prickly pears around them, wherever they could do so.Captain Jack and his men arrived at a little dried-up creek called Ci Bolo (buffalo creek) where they came close to the Indians, who were travelling in a ravine which hid them from view. The Rangers heard their leggings scraping against the brush, so, for some distance, they rode parallel with the savages, waiting for a chance to make a charge. The redskins could be heard talking to each other.Suddenly the Comanches left the ravine and rode out in open view, not more than thirty yards away.They apparently were not aware of the presence of the scouts until a sharp crack warned them of their danger. At the first discharge, a redskin fell from his horse. The others attempted to run back to cover, yelling and shooting at the Rangers as they did so. But the scouts were too speedy for them and cut them off. One, however, seemed determined to get into the ravine. He disappeared into a thicket, at the edge of the gully, but a Ranger called Tom Galbraith dismounted, and, running to the edge of the thicket after the Indian had reached it, fired, and killed him.The rest of the savages endeavored to make their escape across the open country, which was filled with scattered bunches of the prickly pear, cactus, and cat-claw bushes. Some were on mules, and others on jaded horses. The Rangers rode hard after them and fired with deadly effect. The Indians had no guns—only bows and arrows—so they did but little damage.As the chase continued, one young Ranger called Stoke Holmes, who rode a fast little pony, singled out an Indian and cried out:“Watch me, Boys! I’m going to rope him!”While he was running along and was swinging his lariat, the pony attempted to jump a large bunch of prickly pears. He reared so high that his rider lost his seat in the saddle and fell backwards into the terrible cactus. Some of his comrades saw the mishap. They quickly shot the redskin and then came rapidly to his rescue, as he was unable to get up. The valiantscout was in a sad plight. His body had thousands of pear thorns in it, and his clothing was pinned to him on all sides. He was in agonies of pain. Pulling him away from the grip of the cactus, the Rangers stripped off all of his clothing, extracted all of the large thorns, and endeavored to pull out the small ones. But this was an impossibility, as there were thousands of small needle-like prickers in his flesh. With a sharp knife the Ranger shaved them close to the skin so that his clothing would not irritate his body by rubbing against them. The bold young fellow was hardly able to ride for several days thereafter. As for the rest of the redskins,—only three escaped.Not many months later Captain Hays and his men were close upon a band of Indians, who had been located by his scouts in a bunch of cedars. The Rangers had not eaten all day, because they had been hot in pursuit.“Dismount, men,” cried the captain. “Stay here a few minutes and partake of the cold bread and beef in your saddle-bags. But, boys, by no means raise any smoke, or the redskins will surely see it, and will know that the Rangers are upon their trail.”“You’re right, Captain!” cried many. “We are half famished.”Captain Hays always had a few Mexicans with him, as they were good guides and trailers, but, upon this occasion, they lighted their cigarettes after eating and dropped the hot ashes into a pile of leaves. Smoke was soon curling above the tree-tops.“Curse it, boys!” cried Captain Hays. “Did I not tell you not to set fire to anything. Put that out, immediately!”Some of the Rangers began to stamp upon the glowing fire. Hays was so angry that he struck the Mexicans with his quirt.“Mount! Mount!” cried he. “We must go quickly after the redskins, as I fear that they have seen the tell-tale fire and have decamped.”A furious run was now made for the tepees of the hostiles, which were a mile away. It was as the knowing Captain had anticipated. The Indians saw the smoke and knew that the Rangers were on their trail. They had fled, leaving many things in their camp, which were seized by the troopers. The Comanches had gotten safely away.In 1844 Captain Hays and his men had a hard fight,—one of his hardest, in fact. It was near the Pedernales River. Upon this occasion he had gone out with fourteen men, about eighty miles northwest from San Antonio, for the purpose of finding out the position of the redskins and the probable location of their camp.As the river came in view, about fifteen Indians were discovered. They soon saw the Rangers. Riding towards them, they shook their clenched fists and seemed to be desirous of having a fight. As the Rangers rode forward they retreated and endeavored to lead them towards a ridge which was covered with thick underbrush.“Oh, no,” said Captain Hays, “I am too wellacquainted with your wiles to move on. I know that you have an ambush laid for me and my men.”It was hard to keep the Rangers from advancing to the attack.“Go around the redskins to the second ridge,” cried the knowing Captain. “We can thus get the Indians in the rear.”The Rangers were posted upon a long hillock, separated from the Indian position by a deep ravine. They were not here long before the redskins discovered who was before them, and, as they knew Captain Jack full well, decided to give up trying to catch him by stratagem. They now showed themselves to the number of seventy-five and cried out, in pigeon English:“Come on, white men! Ugh! Come on! We get your scalps soon!”“I’ll meet you right away!” answered Captain Hays.He started down the hill immediately, followed by his entire command. He moved slowly, and, when the bottom of the ravine had been reached, turned—raced ahead at full speed—and came up in the rear of the Indians. While they had their eyes glued to the front, eagerly awaiting the advance from that direction, they were charged in the rear by the Rangers. The first fire threw them into instant confusion.Yells, war-whoops, and shrill screams rent the air. The redskins scattered like quail, but, seeing the superiority of their own force, soon rallied.“Draw your five-shooters, men,” cried the Captain of the Rangers. “We must meet the charge of the Comanches as we have always met them.”The redskins were surrounding the Texans, so the Rangers were formed in a circle, fronting outwards. They were still mounted on their horses, and, for several minutes maintained that position without firing a shot. The Indians came on, yelping, and were soon near enough to throw their lances at the Texan frontiersmen.Crash!A spitting volley came from the five-shooters of the scouts and many a red man fell to the sod. Again a volley rang out and the Comanches ceased to advance, for the fire of the Rangers was fearfully accurate. The redskins fell back, but they were not defeated, and—in a few moments—again came on to the attack. The fight continued for an hour. Twice the Rangers charged and retreated to their first position. Their loads were now exhausted. The Comanche chief was rallying his henchmen for one more assault. Twenty-five of his painted warriors were prostrate upon the prairie.The situation was critical for the Rangers, as many were badly wounded. Several had been killed.Captain Hays, who was in the centre of the circle, now saw that their only chance was to kill the Indian chief.“Have any of you men a loaded rifle?” he asked.“I have,” answered a scout called Gillespie.“Then dismount, my boy,” said the Ranger Captain, “and make sure work of that chief.”Gillespie was a brave man. He had been badly wounded by an Indian spear which had gone clean through his body. He was hardly able to sit his horse, but, slipping to the ground, took careful aim and fired. As his rifle cracked, the chief fell head-long from his horse.It is a strange thing, but Indians always lose heart when their leader is slain. Wailing loudly, the Comanches now left the field, pursued by a portion of the Texans. They carried their chieftain safely away, in spite of the fact that they were pressed very closely by the Rangers. Thirty Indians lay dead upon the battle-ground, while only two of the Texan frontiersmen had been killed. Five, however, were badly wounded; chief among whom was Gillespie, who had really ended the fight.Captain Hays and his men went back to San Antonio well satisfied with the day’s work. A month later he had another desperate encounter with the Comanches.With twenty of his men the gallant Ranger was on a scout near the “Enchanted Rock.” This was a depression in a hill, which was conical in shape, and was doubtless the crater of an extinct volcano. A dozen or more men could hide in this place and put up a stout defense against a great number of enemies, as the ascent was steep and rugged. Not far from the bottom of this curious hillock the Rangers were attacked by a large force of Comanches.When the first shot was fired, Captain Hays was some distance from his men, looking about in order to see whether or not he could discover the whereabouts of the Indians. As he turned to run towards the “Enchanted Rock,” he was cut off and was closely pursued by a number of red warriors.The nervy Captain Jack dashed madly up the side of the hill and entrenched himself in the extinct crater. He was determined to make the best fight that he could, and to “sell out” as dearly as possible. The redskins arrived upon the summit shortly after he had entrenched, and, after surrounding the famous Captain of Rangers, set up a most hideous howling.“There, Captain Jack,” said one. “Ugh! We get Big Smoky Stick this time. Ugh! We get scalp this time! Ugh! Ugh!”But Captain Jack was game. Each time that the muzzle of his rifle would appear over the rim of the crater the warriors would dodge backwards, knowing that to face his unerring aim was sure death.The Indians grew bolder and made a charge. Hays fired his rifle, killing a redskin at the discharge,—then shot his five-shooter at the yelping braves. Each bullet found a victim, so the redskins withdrew, which gave the gallant Captain a chance to reload. Again they came on, but again they were met with the same cool bravery. Howling dismally, they again drew away and made ready for another attack.Suddenly wild cheering sounded from below the Ranger Captain. Shots came thick and fast. Wild yells arose. His comrades were coming to his rescue.The Rangers had heard the rifle-fire upon the top of the hill and knew that their Captain was surrounded. So they were fighting their way up to him, in spite of the odds. Soon they came cheering and yelling to the edge of the crater, itself, to be greeted by the cool remark:“Boys, I’m sure glad to see you! I was nearly all in!”When the Comanches saw that the Big Chief had been rescued they retreated down the steep sides of the “Enchanted Rock.” They met their comrades, who had been badly cut up, and, deciding that the Rangers were too good for them, withdrew. Wild cheers welled from the crater of “Enchanted Rock,” and loud were the hurrahs for Texas Jack, the gallant and intrepid Ranger.The war with Mexico found Captain Jack Hays ready and willing to march against the hated “Greasers.” He and his famous Rangers fought in nearly all of the desperate battles of the campaign. Many of his faithful friends and companions fell before the leaden missiles of the foe. But Captain Jack had a charmed life: he came through unscathed, returned to his beloved Texas, and then moved to California, where he was elected Sheriff of San Francisco County. He was very efficient as an officer and left an excellent record behind him.In 1860 he had his last Indian fight. The Piute Indians in the state of Nevada declared war upon the whites, in that year, and committed many depredations. They massacred Major Ormsby and his menand spread terror broadcast. At this time there were rich mines in Virginia City, and among the many men who were employed there was an old Texan Ranger, Captain Edward Storey, a man of great personal courage. He was also very popular among the people.“This Indian fighting has to stop, immediately,” said the old fellow, his fighting blood again boiling.At once a company was raised, called the Virginia Rifles. Colonel Jack Hays heard of it, and immediately came over from California in order to enlist. With him were several other bold spirits who were eager for the excitement of a brush with the redskins. They marched to Pyramid Lake, not far from the present town of Reno, and there met the exultant braves,—about one thousand strong. They were flushed with their recent victory over Major Ormsby and his men, and thought that they could easily defeat the whites.In this they were mistaken. The red men were in the hills and had the advantage of position, but the scouts attacked with vigor and a fierce battle ensued. Colonel Jack Hays was in the thick of the fight and conducted himself in a manner quite worthy of his name and fame. A complete victory was won by the Virginia Rangers, but at a fearful loss. Among those slain was brave Captain Storey, whose body was rolled up in a blanket and conveyed to Virginia City on the back of a pack-horse. Colonel Hays rode with the remains of his old friend of the wild days on the Texan plains, then returned to California.Here the famous Indian fighter died in 1883. Inhis later years he became very wealthy and owned a beautiful home near Piedmont, California. He never lived in Texas again, but occasionally went there, in order to visit old friends and relatives. He was buried with a simple ceremony, and thus ended the career of one of the most deadly shots and courageous men who ever rode a mustang upon the plains of the West. His spirit still lives in the hearts of the Texans.i317From “My Sixty Years on the Plains”—Courtesy of the Forest and StreamPublishing Co.“UNCLE BILL” HAMILTON.BILL HAMILTON:FAMOUS TRAPPER, TRADER, AND INDIAN FIGHTERTHE mountaineers were pushing, adventurous and fearless men who thought nothing of laying down their lives in the service of a friend. They usually carried very little with them. A few ponies transported their meagre supplies, and, with only enough provisions to last them a few days, they often set out to journey through a vast wilderness. Naturally they were very self-reliant. With only a gun or two they took desperate risks in a country filled with their red enemies. They overcame every difficulty with a dash and courage that is amazing. “Uncle Bill” Hamilton was a typical example of one of these men.From the time that he was twenty years of age this famous old fellow spent his life on the plains. He became a sign-talker and was able to converse with all the Indian tribes which were met with. Sign-talking will soon be a lost art, but in the old days all of the red men used the same signs, although they spoke different languages. He was also a trapper, trader, and pathfinder. He blazed many a trail which was to lead the frontiersmen to rich agricultural regions. Heset an example of courage and perseverance that will leave a bright memory in the hearts of all.In the spring of 1842, when twenty years of age, young Bill was living in St. Louis, Missouri; but chills and fever were gradually undermining his constitution, so his doctor ordered a change of climate. Consequently his father made arrangements with a party of hunters and trappers, who were in St. Louis for a few days, to let his son accompany them on their next trip, which would last a year. The party consisted of eight “free” traders, with “Bill” Williams and a man named Perkins, as leaders. These two scouts had had fifteen years’ experience on the plains among Indians, and had a wide reputation for fearless courage and daring exploits.The trappers soon reached Independence, Missouri,—where they sold their wagons and rigged up a complete pack outfit, as the expedition would go through a country in which wagons could not travel. Young Bill Hamilton still had on city clothes, and when the old fur traders saw this, they began to laugh and poke fun at him.“What be you going to do with that city cuss in th’ mountains?” said one. “Why, he’ll lose himself in a hour’s time and walk down the throat of some grizzly bear.”Young Bill did not like this remark at all, and hurrying to a frontier store he traded his “store clothes” for two suits of the finest buckskin. When he appeared in camp with these fine togs on one of the mountaineers said:“Williams, that boy o’ yourn will make a fine old pioneer and mountaineer, if he catches on at this rate.”The youthful plainsman heard it and smiled, for he had felt very badly before.The party pushed onward and reached Salt Creek. Camp had just been made when a small herd of buffalo appeared in the distance and made directly for the little band. Williams gave orders to corral all the stock, for he feared that this was the game of some plains Indians, and he was not far from being correct. The stock had barely been secured when the buffalo thundered by, followed by thirty painted Kiowa warriors. They were wild and savage.The trappers had placed their packs in a triangle, and crouched behind them. This made an excellent breastwork. Each man was armed with a rifle, two pistols, a tomahawk, and a large knife, called a “tooth-picker.” Two of the men had bows and arrows with which they were experts.The redskins rode up insolently; examined the outfit, and demanded pay for passing through their country.“You can neither touch our traps nor will we give you pay for riding through your country,” said Williams. “This is Pawnee country and you are Kiowas.”The Indians seemed to be ill pleased and looked vindictively at the sturdy men of the plains. The leader was given some tobacco. He was not a chief, but a young brave with two feathers stuck in his scalp-lock. After receiving this gift the savages withdrew, saying: “Ugh! Ugh! We come again!”The trapper kept close watch during the night, expecting that the Indians would attempt to steal some of the stock and attack the camp. But nothing occurred. Many outfits have come to grief by putting confidence in the red man, who always covets the belongings of the paleface. Old and experienced mountain men like these left nothing to chance.Pretty soon the trappers reached the camp of some Cheyennes and there unpacked their goods in order to trade. Young Bill accompanied the chief’s son, Swift Runner, through the village, who introduced him to all the leading men.“There will be a large hunting party starting out to-morrow after buffalo,” said he, “and if you wish to go along I will furnish you with a good hunting horse.”“I shall be delighted to go,” cried young Bill, so next morning found him riding across the prairie with about fifty Indians and twenty squaws.After travelling for nearly ten miles the scouts discovered a herd and reported its location to the hunting chief. This leader was thoroughly acquainted with the topography of the country and led the redskins upon a long détour, so as to get on the leeward side of the herd. As soon as a favorable position had been reached the Indians stripped to their breech-clouts and advanced, leading their running horses as they did so.i323AN INDIAN BUFFALO HUNT.The chief now divided the hunters into two divisions, in order to get the buffalo into a small area. They rode to within a quarter of a mile of the herd and then the word was given to “Sail in!”In an instant the wild array of naked Indians started for the herd, sending forth yell after yell, and riding like demons in their eagerness to bring down the first buffalo. For this is quite a feat and is commented upon by the whole village.Swift Runner, himself, had the fastest horse in the party and brought down the first buffalo, much to the chagrin of many a young brave—who coveted the honor—for it would bring him smiles from his lady love. Young Bill’s pony loped along with willingness, and Swift Runner pointed out a fat cow for him to dispose of. In a few jumps he was alongside of the great lumbering brute, and fired into her side. As luck would have it, he broke her back and she dropped to the sod. Swift Runner yelled hilariously at this success, but it was a very careless shot, and, had he missed, the cow might have made things ugly for him.There was a great yelling and shooting upon every hand and several riderless ponies were mixed in with the buffalo. Many prairie-dog holes were the cause of this, for when the ponies stepped into them their riders were, of course, thrown over their heads. Ponies are usually sure-footed beasts, but when in a chase like this, where over a thousand buffalo are tearing over the prairie and kicking up a big lot of dust, it makes it impossible for the animals to see the holes.Young Bill brought down four of the huge brown bison and received great praise from the Indians forhis skill. They used arrows in their killing and shot behind the shoulder, bringing the buffalo to his knees. Another arrow would be sent deep enough to penetrate the lungs of the beast and it would then be soon over with him.For three-quarters of a mile the prairie was dotted with the dead buffalo. They were soon butchered; the ponies were packed with three hundred pounds of the choicest meat, and the caravan started for home. Several Indians who had been thrown limped quite badly, but no one was seriously injured. At sundown the village was reached, a feast was prepared, and all joined in the affair with the greatest good will and friendship. Young Bill was warmly congratulated upon his success, and this was well, for if a white man fails to acquit himself creditably with the redskins it casts a reflection upon all the whites.The Indians made pemmican and “dupuyer” from the buffalo. The first is manufactured in the following manner: the choicest portions of the buffalo meat are selected, sliced, and cut into flakes. They are then dried. All of the marrow, from the centre of the bones, is put into one pile with the sweetest of the tallow. These ingredients are mixed together and stirred around in a pot which is hung over a slow fire. The combination is then cooled. Some red men put berries into the mixture, which harden and give a sweetish taste. The mountaineers and trappers—when sugar was scarce—always made their pemmican in this manner. The Indian squaws pulverized the meat by beating it upon a flat rock, and then placed it in skinbagsfor future use. It is estimated that one pound of pemmican is equal to about five pounds of beef.A fat substance which lies along the buffalo’s backbone, next to the hide, is known as “dupuyer.” It is about as thick as the hand of a trapper and runs from the shoulder-blade to the last rib. In breadth it measures between seven to eleven inches. The Indians and mountaineers would strip away this substance—dip it in hot grease for thirty seconds—and then hang it to the inside poles of a lodge. A fire would be lighted beneath it and it would be allowed to dry and smoke for ten or twelve hours. “Dupuyer” was considered to be a great delicacy, for it was very nourishing. Besides this it was tender and sweet. The trappers loved this food and would pay a dollar a pound for it, while the Indians always took dried meat and “dupuyer” along with them upon their expeditions.When Williams and his party moved on, Swift Runner presented young Bill with a pony which he had ridden in the hunt, and the squaws gave him a half a dozen pairs of beautifully embroidered moccasins.A few days later the party reached the South Platte River and there found a Sioux village. Big Thunder was the chief, and he requested the trappers to camp there, as his people wanted to trade with them. The Sioux were then a friendly tribe and treated the white men in a cordial manner.Just before dawn—upon the day following—a wild yelping awoke the entire village. The warriors ran out only to find that the Pawnees—themortal enemies of the Sioux—had run off about one hundred head of ponies which had been turned out to graze only a short distance from camp. Among this number were two mules and three ponies belonging to the white men.As soon as this news was received there was a great yelling and shouting, while fifty young warriors hastened to saddle their best ponies. Young Bill Hamilton was with them, and, under the leadership of Young Thunder, they started after the redskins. The trail of the fugitives was soon struck and followed at a brisk gallop, and, after going about eight miles, it was evident that the Pawnees were but a short distance in advance. Passing over a divide, a cloud of dust could be plainly seen about two miles in advance.The Pawnees rode hard, but they were soon in view. There were twelve in the party. As Young Thunder gave a war-whoop, the ponies bounded forward and carried their owners towards the fugitives as if shot out of the mouth of a cannon. The Pawnees heard the chief’s yell, and, leaving the herd of stolen stock, made for a neighboring cottonwood grove. While Bill Hamilton rode onward, a bullet whistled by his ear. The savages fired several more shots but their lead all went wide of its mark.“Don’t you intend to charge the grove and endeavor to capture the Pawnee warriors?” said Bill to the Sioux chief.Young Thunder smiled and shook his head.“No, no,” he answered. “’Nough to get back our ponies.”The young scout thought that the Indians were not such terrible fighters as some writers would have them appear, and this impression never changed, although he occasionally met a few that knew no fear.Two of the Pawnee braves had been killed in this little skirmish, and the warriors rode back to their village carrying the fresh scalps tied on the end of long sticks. The whole village turned out to greet them, yelling like furies. Pandemonium reigned all night, but when old trapper Williams heard that young Bill had ridden in so close to the timber, he said:“I shall have to keep you at home next time, if I expect to return you to your parents. You are a young fool to approach close to timber where hostile Indians are concealed.”“Three of our ponies were in the bunch of captured horses,” answered the young scout. “I did not wish to return without them. As for the Sioux, I consider them a lot of cowards.”The Pawnees had not acted with good judgment in trying to drive off fully one hundred head of horses, so near daylight. For they should have known that the Sioux warriors would be after them, mounted upon their best war-ponies.The trappers soon bade good-by to their kind hosts and continued on towards the Little Wind River, crossing a rugged and romantic country, where lofty, sky-piercing peaks ascended into the banks of drifting clouds. To the northwest were the Wind River Mountains; to the eastward was the Big Horn Range,—the home of the buffalo, elk, antelope, deer, andgrizzly bear. It was a hunter’s paradise, where many different tribes of Indians met on their annual hunt, and often battled for the right to the soil. Hostile war-parties were even now quite numerous in the mountains. At Little Wind River, Evans and Russell picked up a moccasin, showing that the redskins were quite near.Beaver and otter seemed to be plentiful, so the men set their traps. At night they slept with arms at their sides, ready for instant action, and a close guard was stationed beyond camp, as it was almost certain that the Indians would discover them and would run off with their stock. This was the most dangerous country on the plains and was constantly invaded by war-parties of Blackfeet, Bloods, Piegans, and Crows. All had to be constantly upon the alert to avoid losing their horses and their scalps.About four o’clock one morning two rifle reports brought every man to his feet. Yell after yell sounded from the darkness, and shot after shot came whistling into the camp. In an instant the trappers were up and about—their rifles replying to this fusillade. Evans and Russell (two of the most experienced scouts) killed a couple of the Indians with their first shots, for dawn was just coming, and two black bodies were seen to leap into the air and then roll down a hill upon which they had been crouching. The savages were shooting arrows and old Hudson Bay flintlocks which made a big flash when discharged. As the scouts aimed at these flaming jets, they must have done considerable damage, for the Indians fell back.They continued to send shots into camp until day dawned.“Let’s charge the critters!” shouted young Bill Hamilton.“Not on your life, boy!” shouted trapper Williams. “It’s most dangerous to run into such a number of unknown redskins at night.”So the young man desisted.Just before daylight the Indians attempted to recover their slain comrades, by crawling up to them in the grass. The scouts, however, were up to such tactics and added one more to keep company with two of the red men already sent to the Happy Hunting Grounds. At this, the redskins gave a yell of deep despair. Then they filed slowly away, sending a few parting shots at the trappers, just to show that they were still in good fighting order.Five of the trappers’ ponies had been badly wounded, and Williams was so enraged at the injury which had been done that he was determined to punish the Indians still further. Leaving two men in camp, he ordered the rest to follow him on the fresh trail of the early morning marauders, which led up a small stream. The scouts galloped eagerly forward, and, coming to a rise, were soon within plain view of the red men, who were hurrying along, trying to get two of their wounded comrades to the protection of a grove.“Dash on to the right!” shouted Williams. “Head the redskins off from that bunch of trees!”The red men saw in a moment that they wouldbe cut off from the grove, and they made for a patch of willows and stunted box-elders just below them. There were eleven of them in all and the trappers certainly had them cornered.It was about a hundred yards to the Indians, and a scout named Dockett tried a shot at them. The red men returned fire, wounding him in the thigh. There were a quantity of boulders near by, and Williams ordered his men to roll them up to the brow of the hill, in order to form breastworks. Four of the trappers were left behind this, while Williams told Noble and young Bill Hamilton to follow him to the grove without letting the Indians notice that they had decamped.In the grove the trappers concealed themselves, and the wisdom of their move was quite clear. The Indians realized that they would all be shot down if they remained in their present position, for the men behind the brow of the hill now had their range. Six of them made a dash for the cluster of trees.When the scurrying red men were within one hundred yards of the timber, Williams gave orders to shoot. The trappers took careful aim, and, at the flash of their rifles, three of the red men fell face down. The other three gave a yell of despair and ran up the hill. The trappers dashed after them, and the Indians became panic-stricken when they saw the mounted white men debouch from the thick woodland.Williams raced onward, dashed right at the Indians, and, although shot at, managed to bring both of theredskins to the ground. Now all three had been slain, and the revenge which the trappers had wished for had been fully satisfied. The redskins were Blackfeet, the most thieving class of wild riders of the plains.There were still five Indians in the willows. Many men would have let them go. But not so with Williams. He was considered the hardest man on the plains to down in a fight with the Indians, for he was never known to quit when once started. It was to be a battle to the bitter end.“There are five Indians down there who shot at and insulted us,” said he. “They shall have what they would have given us had they been successful in their attack.” Here he turned to young Hamilton. “Boy,” said he, “never let an Indian escape who has once attacked you! I want you to go with me. We will walk to the gulch and approach from below.”But the trappers held their leader in too high estimation to allow him to thus recklessly expose himself.“Your orders are going to be disobeyed for once in your life,” said they. “We cannot afford to lose you.”Williams smiled.“Evans and I will undertake the job,” cried scout Russell. “You cover us with your fire.”In a second—and before Williams could answer—they bounded into the gulch below. Both were quick of foot and had been in so many desperate battles that they understood the danger of approachingprostrate redskins; for a wounded Indian is an uncertain animal.The rest of the scouts kept up a steady fire until Evans and Russell were seen to be close to the willows. Then they ceased, as the two scouts bounded forward, yelling like Indians. The other trappers also rushed down, and although one of the braves had his arrow in his bow—all ready to shoot—he never pulled it. In a very short time it was all over.The Indians had now been annihilated, and among their effects were found two fine bridles, ammunition, knives, and other articles belonging to trappers. It was evident that some small body of white traders had been surprised by these Blackfeet and put out of the way forever. So ended this stiff little skirmish.The trappers now kept on their way, set many beaver traps, caught a great many of these animals; and traded with several bands of friendly redskins. The men were all fine shots and often received praise from people for their expertness in fire-arms, but no more than they merited, for an American mountaineer had no equal on the globe. It was necessary that the trappers should be very expert, for they carried their lives in their hands, and were liable to come in contact with roving war-parties at any moment. To be taken prisoner meant torture and death, and it was therefore impossible for an Indian to capture either a scout or a trapper. They knew what would follow.Young Hamilton thoroughly enjoyed the life and soon became one of the most proficient talkers in signlanguage on the plains. The trappers reached Fort Bridger, where were many Shoshones, who asked the youthful scout many questions by signs, all of which he answered correctly. This astonished even the older trappers, many of whom thought that he had been raised by some tribe.Williams now left the men of the plains in order to go to Santa Fé on business, but promised to be back in the spring and organize a new party for a two-year expedition. Before he left he took young Hamilton aside and gave him advice in many matters. He looked upon him as a son, and few fathers ever gave their children better counsel. The trappers decided to trap near Salt Lake, and the Bear and Malade Rivers, during the fall.When they had proceeded for some distance they were met by a party of Indians, who spoke the Shoshone tongue, and who informed them that they had to pay for going through their country. Perkins—who was now leader of the trappers—tried to make peace with them, but without success. He made the Indians keep away, but they continued to make signs, meaning “dogs,”—which the white men well understood. The trappers held their rifles ready for any emergency.Perkins cautioned his men to have patience, and, filling his pipe, offered it to the chief, who refused it with contempt, saying: “Big chief never smokes with white dogs.”The head trapper’s patience was now almost exhausted and he told the chief in plain language to“get out.” His men prepared for action, as he spoke, so the redskins mounted their ponies and departed towards the South. As they rode off, they cast all kinds of insults at the white men, both with signs and in spoken language. It was certain that they would soon follow the trappers and then there would be a big fight.That night every precaution was taken to guard against a surprise. Two guards were put on duty, to be relieved at midnight, and a well fortified position was chosen for camp. Perkins said that it was customary for the Utahs to attack just before daylight, for this is the time that the redskins expect to find the whites fast asleep. This is what occurred in the present instance.A little before daylight two or three wolf howls were heard by the guards, who immediately notified Perkins. Soon all the men were up, their packs being placed in a semi-circle as a breastwork. Twenty of the best horses were saddled and tied in a thicket, to protect them from Indian bullets and arrows. Defeat meant death, so the trappers looked stolidly before them, fully prepared for the worst, if it were to come.The first wolf howls were soon followed by others, coming from nearer points and in a semi-circle. Indians are experts in imitating the cries of owls, wolves and coyotes. So adept are they in the art that it is difficult to distinguish them from the calls of real birds and beasts. Few trappers can successfully imitate these animals, although many endeavor to do so.It was not long before the attack commenced. Justas day began to dawn the wolf howls ceased and the trappers knew that the crisis was at hand. The Indians had crept to within one hundred yards of camp before they gave the war-whoop. Then they came on—fully one hundred strong—yelping wildly. The trappers were all ready with their rifles and pistols. Three were armed with double-barrelled shot-guns, loaded with half-ounce balls and fine buck-shot.The Indians raced to within fifty yards before a single trapper fired,—then all began to shoot. The redskins halted. At this the plainsmen began with their six-shooters, one in each hand, for—as a result of long continued practice—they could shoot equally well with either arm. These mountaineers had to be experts in the use of both rifle and pistol, for inability to fire with accuracy meant instant death upon many an occasion.The red men were much surprised to receive so many shots from but twenty men. They became panic-stricken, for they had not supposed that the trappers possessed two pistols each—twelve shots apiece after their rifles had been discharged. They had expected to rush right over the breastworks, before the rifles could be reloaded. They retreated—assisting many of their wounded. An arrow went through young Bill Hamilton’s cap.The redskins had received a repulse which they had not expected, and retreated to their villages, taking their dead and wounded with them. The chief, Old Bear, had been slain, as well as many of their bravest warriors. This tribe had frequently robbed smallparties of trappers, killing them many times and always treating them with great cruelty. After this fight they usually gave well-organized bodies of trappers the “go by.”The plainsmen finished their work without being further molested, and then moved on to Bear River. In the spring, trapper Williams returned from Santa Fé, and made a proposition to the men that he should form a company of forty-three and make a two-years’ trip. This was agreed upon, and the expedition soon started, on the 25th of March, 1843. The trappers were divided into four parties, which collected furs in common; that is, each man had an equal share in all furs caught by his own party. For mutual protection they always pitched their tents and lodges together.They soon passed through the country inhabited by the Bannock Indians. These were troublesome and had many a brush with the stout men of the plains. But the trappers came through every escapade without much loss. The region in which they soon found themselves was rich with beaver and otter; large quantities of which were caught. It was a grandly beautiful country—a paradise for all kinds of game. Bear were particularly plentiful, and many a grizzly and cinnamon fell before the accurate aim of the men in buckskin.“Young Bill” Hamilton could not be called “Young Bill” any more, because he was a seasoned trapper, and his many experiences with wild men and wild beasts had made it possible for him to hold hisown with the most experienced men of the party. The trappers made a wide détour, first going far North, then travelling South to the Carson River in Nevada, where they lost one of their best and most skilled men,—a fellow named Crawford. They were in the Pah Ute country and could tell very readily that the Indians were most unfriendly. In spite of this they set their beaver traps, for they saw that these animals were thick.As Crawford did not return to camp one evening it was decided to make a search for him. Dockett, who was an outside trapper (or one who had his traps furthest from camp), had seen the missing man setting his traps at a bend in the river, at some distance away. To this point the trappers hurried, and, scouting in some cottonwood groves, in order to make sure that there was no ambush, they went in and soon discovered where one of their number had been at work. Indian tracks were thick near by.They saw where a horse had stood, and, going to a thick bunch of willows, found the ground saturated with blood. The Indians had lain hidden in this willow patch, knowing that the trapper would come in the morning to look after his traps. They had thrown Crawford into the river, which was four feet deep. He could be easily seen and was soon pulled to dry land. Crawford was a handsome Texan, six feet tall, brave, kind, generous, and well-educated. Five of his traps were found, and four dead beaver. The Indians had stolen what was left, including his rifle, two pistols, and a horse. The trappers were soon backin camp with the body of their comrade, and, when the men saw Crawford, it was plain that death would be the penalty to any of the redskins who had waylaid him. A grave was dug—the trapper was laid to rest in his blankets—and no monument was placed above to mark the spot, for fear that some wandering redskin would dig up the remains of this fearless man of the plains.The Pah Utes were soon to be encountered, for at two in the afternoon the pickets signalled: “Indians coming on horseback.” The stock was corralled and the scouts stood ready for action. The pickets now rode in and reported sixty Indians, who made their appearance upon a ridge, about three hundred yards from camp.“Come out and fight! Come out and fight!” yelled the redskins.Crawford’s death had cut the scouts down to thirty-eight, but that did not worry these hardy souls. It was impossible to keep the men back, so eager were they to avenge the death of their comrade. Leaving three trappers to take care of camp, the others mounted and started away in the direction of the Indians.When the redskins saw them coming they gave yell after yell, thinking, no doubt, that this would paralyze the white men with fear. Then they divided and charged from two sides. The trappers let them get to within one hundred yards, when they halted and brought their rifles into play. Dropping these upon the ground, they charged with pistols in hand. Fully twenty-five Indians fell before their accurate shots.This bewildered the savages, and, before they could recover, the scouts were in their midst.One tall redskin was mounted on Crawford’s horse. He tried to get away, but delayed entirely too long. He was caught, knocked prostrate to the ground, and the horse, rifle, and pistols of the dead scout were recovered. Forty-three ponies were captured. Very few of the Pah Utes made their escape. Poor Crawford, you see, was thus revenged in full.Two horses which the trappers rode were killed. A few of the scouts received arrow wounds, but none were serious. The secret of the frontiersmen’s success was in making every shot count in the first volley. This bewildered the Indians, and, before they could collect their thoughts, the plainsmen were among them. The scouts were an effective body, and were as well drilled in the use of both rifle and pistol as the soldiers of any nation. Their horses, too, were trained to stand fire and to be quick in evolutions. The war-whoops and yells of the Indians simply made them prick up their ears and look unconcerned.After this affair the little party received little molestation from the red men. At a council it was decided to move, as it was not known how many warriors these Indians could muster, and it was not safe for one or two men to go any distance from camp after furs. The hardy adventurers travelled to the Laramie River, where twenty-five of them determined to go back to St. Louis and to take their furs with them. The original thirteen all returned to the Far West; Williams going to Santa Fé, accompanied byPerkins and six others. It was a sad parting for all, particularly for Bill Hamilton, who had grown to love his comrades like brothers.Bill was now a seasoned trapper, and the rest of his career on the plains was marked by many hazardous adventures with the redskins. He went to California, during the gold excitement, was in the famous Modoc war of 1856, where he belonged to the “Buckskin Rangers,” and was employed as a scout in the uprising of the Sioux in 1876, which was so disastrous to General Custer and his command. He was among those who followed Crazy Horse to his end, and finally resigned from the service of the Government to resume the free and independent life of a trapper. At eighty-two years of age he was living a peaceful and contented life at Columbus, Montana, where—as he says in his biography—“I am thankful that I can still enjoy and appreciate the wonderful beauties of nature.”A true plainsman, a great shot, a nervy fighter,—such was “Uncle Bill” Hamilton. At the present time there is no wild and adventurous West to create such characters as this, for bad Indians have passed away forever.

CAPTAIN JACK HAYS:FAMOUS TEXAN RANGER AND COMMANDER OF VALIANT BORDER FIGHTERSIT was the year 1840. Texas was still a wild country, but the white settlers were pressing forward to farm and to raise cattle and horses. The redskins did not like it. The Comanches were particularly troublesome: they had been severely chastised by General Burleson and a Colonel John H. More, so they had sworn to revenge themselves upon the white-skinned invaders. With a large body of painted warriors they made a raid upon the defenseless settlers of Texas. They sacked and burned the town of Linnville, partly destroyed Victoria, and commenced their retreat back to the mountains with a great deal of plunder. There were six hundred warriors and many squaws in the party of invasion.In going down from the mountains the Indians had kept between the rivers, where there were no settlements, and consequently they were not discovered until a short time before the attack upon Linnville. Runners were immediately sent to the various settlements, and men began to cut across the country in small squads from the valleys of the Colorado, the Guadalupe, and San Marcos. All of them were excitedand eager for revenge, none more so than General Burleson, who—at the head of a large company—was just starting for the scene of action. When about one hundred and fifty men had arrived—among them settlers from Guadalupe and San Marcos—they started for the Indians.Among those who came riding to the defense of the Texan frontier was a splendid looking, young fellow, who was the perfect picture of manly vigor. Clad in blue shirt, buckskin chaparejos (large trousers slipping over those usually worn) and high-heeled boots, the youthful Texan was a noble example of health and agility. A broad sombrero was upon his head, while a cartridge-belt hung about his supple waist. His name was John Coffee Hays; better known as Jack Hays: the Ranger.This celebrated scout and Indian fighter had been named after General Coffee, who commanded a brigade in the army of General Jackson, at the battle of New Orleans. He had been born in Wilson County, Tennessee, in 1818, but had come to Texas in 1837, when but nineteen years of age. A surveyor by profession, he had taken up a residence at San Antonio, where he was employed to measure lands upon the frontier. His life in the open had given him a hardy constitution, and no one could endure more hardships or privations than he. His talent as a commander and director of rough-and-ready fighters early developed, and he was soon among the leaders of the borderers in Southwest Texas.With a wild hurrah, which spelled REVENGE, inlarge letters, the Texans started after the Indians, and, after travelling for nine miles upon their broad trail, caught up with them near a winding stream called Plum Creek. Two redskins had been left by the invaders as spies. They were upon a ridge and sat quietly upon their horses, watching the approach of the white men, until the Texans were almost within gun-shot. Both of these Indians had on tall hats which they had obtained at the looting of Linnville. You can well imagine how comical they looked, for a black, stovepipe hat hardly becomes a wild rider of the plains. With his thick, long hair it never quite fits, and it certainly gives the red man a most grotesque appearance.One of the Texan Rangers had a long-range gun. Dismounting, he cried out:“Boys! Just watch me make the redskins hump!”At the crack of his rifle, the Indians wheeled their horses in order to run away. As they did so, both lost their plug hats. They moved swiftly to their comrades, warning them of the approach of the Rangers, who spread out in a fan-shaped line, and kept on after the retreating braves.Now began a hot fight. The redskins were well armed and made a good showing, but nothing could withstand the terrible fire of the Texan rifles. After an hour of rapid shooting the Rangers charged with a wild, ear-splitting whoop. Jack Hays was well up in front of the line as they did so. The Indians broke and galloped away in a disorganized mass.Many of the redskins had on fine coats and bootswhich they had stolen during the raid. Some of them even carried umbrellas. Their spare horses and mules were packed with stolen goods, and these were driven ahead by the squaws, while the warriors fought the battle. After about a mile of fighting, the Comanches rallied in large force and a sharp contest ensued. But they could not stand the accurate rifle-fire from the Texans, and again fled in a scattered mass.The pursuit continued in hot haste, for some high mountains were in front, and the Rangers knew that if the red men once reached them it would be quite possible for them to get away. Many of the pack-animals now gave out, were abandoned, and fell into the hands of the Texans. A boggy branch was in the path of the retreating braves. Several of the Indian ponies stuck fast in the mire: all of the pack-animals which had not yet been captured, became hard aground in the mud. The hindmost Indians used some of the poor, bogged animals as pontoons, and passed over the marsh by jumping from body to body. The Texans saw the predicament which the redskins were in and ran around the branch to the other side, where they cut off some of the Indians who were on foot, and killed them. The rest got away to the foot of the mountains, where the pursuit ended.The Rangers collected at the spot where the fight had been most severe and where most of the Indians had been dispatched. Here they camped for the night. Some of the Texans had been wounded, but none had been killed. Thus the battle of Plum Creek came to a glorious end.Jack Hays had certainly distinguished himself in this affair. He distinguished himself still more in 1842, when San Antonio was captured by the Mexicans. Shortly after the battle of Plum Creek, Jack had been commissioned by General Houston to raise a force for protection of the frontier. He had no difficulty in doing this and was soon in command of several hundred Texan Rangers. They were wild fellows; ready for any emergency that might arise.The Mexicans had about fifteen hundred men in San Antonio. They were commanded by a General Wall. Jack Hays and his Rangers rode up near the town and “dared” the Mexicans to come out and fight. This they were quite willing to do, and soon marched from the adobe huts of San Antonio, crossed a creek in order to face the Texans, planted cannon, and the battle commenced. The Rangers acted upon the defensive, dodged the limbs of the pecan trees which the whistling bullets began to cut off, and prepared to meet the Mexicans when they should charge.General Wall, the Mexican leader, thought to rout the Texans with his artillery fire, but, as he failed to do this, he made preparations to charge them. Cavalry was dispatched across the creek in order to cut off retreat upon this side, and a band of Cherokee Indians were posted upon a branch below. The Mexicans believed that they would have an easy time of it, but they little thought with what kind of men they had to deal. Before them were expert riflemen: allkeen shots and frontier fighters. They made a good account of themselves.The bugles sounded the charge and the Mexicans came on in fine style. They were massed together densely, and, for a time, it looked as if the Rangers would be annihilated by mere force of numbers. But the Texans lay down behind the creek bank, and poured such a volley of death and destruction into the ranks of the oncoming foe that their formation was broken up and they retreated in confusion and disorder to their batteries, posted upon elevated ground. A company of their cavalry also charged, but the horses would not come on before the sheet of lead which the Rangers pumped into them. Many lost their riders and ran among the infantrymen, knocking them down as they galloped wildly about. The Rangers cheered loudly, and Captain Jack Hays grinned from ear to ear.As the Mexicans gathered behind their cannon, about fifty Texans, under Captain Nicholas Dawson, came up on the right flank. They heard the sound of firing and hurried towards it, only to find that they had run into Wall’s entire army. The Mexicans surrounded them immediately, and poured a destructive fire into their ranks. What could fifty do against one thousand? Two Texans made their escape. About twelve were captured. The rest fell before the bullets of the invaders. Dawson, himself, was one of the last to go down.After this, the Mexicans seemed to think that they had had sufficient fighting. They retired towardsSan Antonio, followed by the exultant Texans. Captain Jack Hays with his Rangers fought the rear-guard near Hondo, but the pursuit was soon abandoned and the frontiersmen returned to their homes. They had lost less than one hundred in killed and wounded.The Rangers retreated to a place called Somervell, and, not long afterwards, were ordered out to look for Indians, which were then pretty thick in the neighborhood, and were doing considerable damage. There were between thirty and forty men in this expedition, some of whom had just returned from Mexico, where they had participated in the battle of Mier. They moved off towards the northwest, struck the Medina River, and kept on up the stream towards the place where now stands the town of Bandera. Here they made camp, and next morning turned north towards the Bandera Pass, which they entered at about ten o’clock in the morning.The Comanches were waiting for them. They had discovered the approach of the Rangers as they came through the open country, and laid an ambush for them in the Pass. The famous Bandera Pass is some five hundred yards in length by one hundred and twenty-five in breadth. The red men were concealed among the rocks and gullies on both sides of the gorge, and they allowed Captain Jack Hays with his Texan Rangers to get about one-third of the way through before they commenced firing from both sides at once. The Rangers were riding three abreast, and, when this fusillade commenced, were thrown intomomentary confusion, because of the frightened and wounded horses, which endeavored to wheel and run back.“Steady, boys, steady!” exclaimed Captain Jack Hays. “Get down from your horses and tie them to the brush. We can whip these infernal redskins if you will only keep cool.”The Comanches greatly outnumbered the Rangers. They were armed with rifles and with bows and arrows. Many came down the Pass and rode up to close quarters with the Rangers. Pistols were freely used and many hand-to-hand conflicts took place. The Comanche chief was struck down by a ball from the rifle of “Kit” Ackland, who, himself, was wounded a moment later. It was a furious affair,—one of the most desperate Indian battles of the frontier.One of the scouts—a fellow named Galbreath—was wounded by an arrow which struck him above the pistol-belt, on the left side. It penetrated as far as the hip bone. The hardy frontiersman made no complaint, but drew the missile out at once, loaded his gun, and continued to fight on as if nothing had happened. No one knew that he had been wounded until the worst part of the battle was over.The Indians fought with great fury, but they soon saw that they could not drive the Rangers back, and so withdrew to the north end of the Pass. Here they buried their dead chieftain; killed all of their crippled horses, and held a scalp dance over the remains of their fallen comrades. Five Rangers had been killed and six had been wounded. The men underJack Hays retreated to the south end of the Pass, where they buried those who had met their end, and attended to the wounded. Next morning they jogged along to San Antonio. The Indians did not pursue.The battle of Bandera Pass had taught the red men that the Rangers were not to be trifled with. Captain Jack was continually on the lookout for them, and soon had another experience which he had no occasion to forget. It happened about a year after the famous battle at the Pass.Fourteen Rangers—under Captain Jack—went upon a scout up the Neuces Canyon, with the expectation of meeting the Indians, who were then upon the war-path. After a long trip to the head of the river, without seeing any fresh Indian sign, Hays turned back down the canyon and camped. Next day the little party travelled onward, and—about noon—some one discovered a bee tree.“Hold on, Captain!” said a Ranger. “Just wait a minute and I’ll chop all the honey out of that tree-top.”“All right,” replied Hays. “Sail in and let’s see what you can do. Pull your bridles off, men. Let your ropes down and allow your horses to graze. We will rest here awhile and get some honey.”The Ranger secured a small axe that was in the luggage on a pack-mule, and ascended the tree, for the purpose of chopping into the honey without cutting down this stout piece of timber.About this time a large band of Comanches were coming down the canyon on a raid, and, seeing thetrail of the Rangers, they followed it. The fellow in the tree had a good view of the valley, and, to his startled vision appeared a great body of redskins.“Jerusalem, the Golden, Captain!” he sang out. “Yonder come a thousand Indians! Jerusalem!”The Comanches were riding rapidly down the trail and made a good deal of dust. Hays sprang to his feet, as quick as a cat, and sang out his orders promptly, and to the point.“Come out of that tree, there! Men, put on your bridles! Take up your ropes! Be ready for them! Be ready for them!”All sprang to their horses, and were soon prepared to meet the onrush of the red men.The Rangers were armed with Colt’s five-shooters, besides their rifles and a brace of holster single-shot pistols. Thus each man could fire nine shots. The Indians had never before come in conflict with scouts armed with the five-shooter, and they rode on exultingly, for they greatly outnumbered the whites. Jack Hays never ran from Indians, and had never yet been defeated by them.The Comanches came forward, yelling loudly. They thought that it would be an easy matter to ride over the small squad of white men, who were drawn up around the old bee tree. Some of the scouts began to raise their guns, but Captain Jack cried out:“Now, boys, do not shoot too quickly. Let the redskins come closer. Hit something when you do shoot. Stand your ground. We can whip them when we shoot. There is no doubt about that.”The redskins thundered down upon the Rangers. When they were quite close, Captain Jack called:“Fire, and let every shot tell!”A sheet of flame burst from the rifles of the scouts, and so many ponies went down that the redskins divided to the right and left, discharging their arrows as they swept by.At this moment Captain Jack sprang into his saddle.“After them, men,” he cried. “Give them no chance to turn on us! Crowd them! Powder-burn them!”Never was a band of redskins more surprised; for they expected the Rangers to remain near the tree, and upon the defensive. With a wild whoop, the followers of Jack Hays galloped after the running braves, keeping up a perfect fusillade with their pistols. The Comanches were thunderstruck at this turn of affairs. Some tried in vain to turn their horses and make a stand, but such was the wild confusion of running horses, popping pistols, and yelling Rangers, that they abandoned the idea of a rally, and sought safety in furious flight. In endeavoring to dodge the terrible five-shooters, some dropped their bows and round shields. Some kept off the Rangers by thrusting at them with their long lances.The Indians ran for three miles before they could get away. The Rangers now rode back, well satisfied with the day’s work, and were surprised to see the result of their charge. The ground was fairly black with dead redskins. Many years afterwards afriendly Delaware Indian, called “Bob,” met the Comanche chieftain who led his warriors in this fight.“Who did you battle with upon this occasion?” he asked.“Ugh! Jack Hays and his Rangers,” gloomily replied the Comanche chief, shaking his head. “I never want to fight him again. Ugh! Ugh! His soldiers had a shot for every finger on their hands. I lost half of all my warriors. Ugh! Me never fight with him again.”The Rangers soon afterwards had another tough little scrimmage with the Comanches. Fifteen of the Rangers were together at this time and they met an almost equal number of Indians, who were discovered at the foot of the mountains near the Frio River. The Indians were riding very tired horses, and the scouts thus gained upon them rapidly. The red men kept under cover, as much as possible, riding in ravines which had brushes and prickly pears around them, wherever they could do so.Captain Jack and his men arrived at a little dried-up creek called Ci Bolo (buffalo creek) where they came close to the Indians, who were travelling in a ravine which hid them from view. The Rangers heard their leggings scraping against the brush, so, for some distance, they rode parallel with the savages, waiting for a chance to make a charge. The redskins could be heard talking to each other.Suddenly the Comanches left the ravine and rode out in open view, not more than thirty yards away.They apparently were not aware of the presence of the scouts until a sharp crack warned them of their danger. At the first discharge, a redskin fell from his horse. The others attempted to run back to cover, yelling and shooting at the Rangers as they did so. But the scouts were too speedy for them and cut them off. One, however, seemed determined to get into the ravine. He disappeared into a thicket, at the edge of the gully, but a Ranger called Tom Galbraith dismounted, and, running to the edge of the thicket after the Indian had reached it, fired, and killed him.The rest of the savages endeavored to make their escape across the open country, which was filled with scattered bunches of the prickly pear, cactus, and cat-claw bushes. Some were on mules, and others on jaded horses. The Rangers rode hard after them and fired with deadly effect. The Indians had no guns—only bows and arrows—so they did but little damage.As the chase continued, one young Ranger called Stoke Holmes, who rode a fast little pony, singled out an Indian and cried out:“Watch me, Boys! I’m going to rope him!”While he was running along and was swinging his lariat, the pony attempted to jump a large bunch of prickly pears. He reared so high that his rider lost his seat in the saddle and fell backwards into the terrible cactus. Some of his comrades saw the mishap. They quickly shot the redskin and then came rapidly to his rescue, as he was unable to get up. The valiantscout was in a sad plight. His body had thousands of pear thorns in it, and his clothing was pinned to him on all sides. He was in agonies of pain. Pulling him away from the grip of the cactus, the Rangers stripped off all of his clothing, extracted all of the large thorns, and endeavored to pull out the small ones. But this was an impossibility, as there were thousands of small needle-like prickers in his flesh. With a sharp knife the Ranger shaved them close to the skin so that his clothing would not irritate his body by rubbing against them. The bold young fellow was hardly able to ride for several days thereafter. As for the rest of the redskins,—only three escaped.Not many months later Captain Hays and his men were close upon a band of Indians, who had been located by his scouts in a bunch of cedars. The Rangers had not eaten all day, because they had been hot in pursuit.“Dismount, men,” cried the captain. “Stay here a few minutes and partake of the cold bread and beef in your saddle-bags. But, boys, by no means raise any smoke, or the redskins will surely see it, and will know that the Rangers are upon their trail.”“You’re right, Captain!” cried many. “We are half famished.”Captain Hays always had a few Mexicans with him, as they were good guides and trailers, but, upon this occasion, they lighted their cigarettes after eating and dropped the hot ashes into a pile of leaves. Smoke was soon curling above the tree-tops.“Curse it, boys!” cried Captain Hays. “Did I not tell you not to set fire to anything. Put that out, immediately!”Some of the Rangers began to stamp upon the glowing fire. Hays was so angry that he struck the Mexicans with his quirt.“Mount! Mount!” cried he. “We must go quickly after the redskins, as I fear that they have seen the tell-tale fire and have decamped.”A furious run was now made for the tepees of the hostiles, which were a mile away. It was as the knowing Captain had anticipated. The Indians saw the smoke and knew that the Rangers were on their trail. They had fled, leaving many things in their camp, which were seized by the troopers. The Comanches had gotten safely away.In 1844 Captain Hays and his men had a hard fight,—one of his hardest, in fact. It was near the Pedernales River. Upon this occasion he had gone out with fourteen men, about eighty miles northwest from San Antonio, for the purpose of finding out the position of the redskins and the probable location of their camp.As the river came in view, about fifteen Indians were discovered. They soon saw the Rangers. Riding towards them, they shook their clenched fists and seemed to be desirous of having a fight. As the Rangers rode forward they retreated and endeavored to lead them towards a ridge which was covered with thick underbrush.“Oh, no,” said Captain Hays, “I am too wellacquainted with your wiles to move on. I know that you have an ambush laid for me and my men.”It was hard to keep the Rangers from advancing to the attack.“Go around the redskins to the second ridge,” cried the knowing Captain. “We can thus get the Indians in the rear.”The Rangers were posted upon a long hillock, separated from the Indian position by a deep ravine. They were not here long before the redskins discovered who was before them, and, as they knew Captain Jack full well, decided to give up trying to catch him by stratagem. They now showed themselves to the number of seventy-five and cried out, in pigeon English:“Come on, white men! Ugh! Come on! We get your scalps soon!”“I’ll meet you right away!” answered Captain Hays.He started down the hill immediately, followed by his entire command. He moved slowly, and, when the bottom of the ravine had been reached, turned—raced ahead at full speed—and came up in the rear of the Indians. While they had their eyes glued to the front, eagerly awaiting the advance from that direction, they were charged in the rear by the Rangers. The first fire threw them into instant confusion.Yells, war-whoops, and shrill screams rent the air. The redskins scattered like quail, but, seeing the superiority of their own force, soon rallied.“Draw your five-shooters, men,” cried the Captain of the Rangers. “We must meet the charge of the Comanches as we have always met them.”The redskins were surrounding the Texans, so the Rangers were formed in a circle, fronting outwards. They were still mounted on their horses, and, for several minutes maintained that position without firing a shot. The Indians came on, yelping, and were soon near enough to throw their lances at the Texan frontiersmen.Crash!A spitting volley came from the five-shooters of the scouts and many a red man fell to the sod. Again a volley rang out and the Comanches ceased to advance, for the fire of the Rangers was fearfully accurate. The redskins fell back, but they were not defeated, and—in a few moments—again came on to the attack. The fight continued for an hour. Twice the Rangers charged and retreated to their first position. Their loads were now exhausted. The Comanche chief was rallying his henchmen for one more assault. Twenty-five of his painted warriors were prostrate upon the prairie.The situation was critical for the Rangers, as many were badly wounded. Several had been killed.Captain Hays, who was in the centre of the circle, now saw that their only chance was to kill the Indian chief.“Have any of you men a loaded rifle?” he asked.“I have,” answered a scout called Gillespie.“Then dismount, my boy,” said the Ranger Captain, “and make sure work of that chief.”Gillespie was a brave man. He had been badly wounded by an Indian spear which had gone clean through his body. He was hardly able to sit his horse, but, slipping to the ground, took careful aim and fired. As his rifle cracked, the chief fell head-long from his horse.It is a strange thing, but Indians always lose heart when their leader is slain. Wailing loudly, the Comanches now left the field, pursued by a portion of the Texans. They carried their chieftain safely away, in spite of the fact that they were pressed very closely by the Rangers. Thirty Indians lay dead upon the battle-ground, while only two of the Texan frontiersmen had been killed. Five, however, were badly wounded; chief among whom was Gillespie, who had really ended the fight.Captain Hays and his men went back to San Antonio well satisfied with the day’s work. A month later he had another desperate encounter with the Comanches.With twenty of his men the gallant Ranger was on a scout near the “Enchanted Rock.” This was a depression in a hill, which was conical in shape, and was doubtless the crater of an extinct volcano. A dozen or more men could hide in this place and put up a stout defense against a great number of enemies, as the ascent was steep and rugged. Not far from the bottom of this curious hillock the Rangers were attacked by a large force of Comanches.When the first shot was fired, Captain Hays was some distance from his men, looking about in order to see whether or not he could discover the whereabouts of the Indians. As he turned to run towards the “Enchanted Rock,” he was cut off and was closely pursued by a number of red warriors.The nervy Captain Jack dashed madly up the side of the hill and entrenched himself in the extinct crater. He was determined to make the best fight that he could, and to “sell out” as dearly as possible. The redskins arrived upon the summit shortly after he had entrenched, and, after surrounding the famous Captain of Rangers, set up a most hideous howling.“There, Captain Jack,” said one. “Ugh! We get Big Smoky Stick this time. Ugh! We get scalp this time! Ugh! Ugh!”But Captain Jack was game. Each time that the muzzle of his rifle would appear over the rim of the crater the warriors would dodge backwards, knowing that to face his unerring aim was sure death.The Indians grew bolder and made a charge. Hays fired his rifle, killing a redskin at the discharge,—then shot his five-shooter at the yelping braves. Each bullet found a victim, so the redskins withdrew, which gave the gallant Captain a chance to reload. Again they came on, but again they were met with the same cool bravery. Howling dismally, they again drew away and made ready for another attack.Suddenly wild cheering sounded from below the Ranger Captain. Shots came thick and fast. Wild yells arose. His comrades were coming to his rescue.The Rangers had heard the rifle-fire upon the top of the hill and knew that their Captain was surrounded. So they were fighting their way up to him, in spite of the odds. Soon they came cheering and yelling to the edge of the crater, itself, to be greeted by the cool remark:“Boys, I’m sure glad to see you! I was nearly all in!”When the Comanches saw that the Big Chief had been rescued they retreated down the steep sides of the “Enchanted Rock.” They met their comrades, who had been badly cut up, and, deciding that the Rangers were too good for them, withdrew. Wild cheers welled from the crater of “Enchanted Rock,” and loud were the hurrahs for Texas Jack, the gallant and intrepid Ranger.The war with Mexico found Captain Jack Hays ready and willing to march against the hated “Greasers.” He and his famous Rangers fought in nearly all of the desperate battles of the campaign. Many of his faithful friends and companions fell before the leaden missiles of the foe. But Captain Jack had a charmed life: he came through unscathed, returned to his beloved Texas, and then moved to California, where he was elected Sheriff of San Francisco County. He was very efficient as an officer and left an excellent record behind him.In 1860 he had his last Indian fight. The Piute Indians in the state of Nevada declared war upon the whites, in that year, and committed many depredations. They massacred Major Ormsby and his menand spread terror broadcast. At this time there were rich mines in Virginia City, and among the many men who were employed there was an old Texan Ranger, Captain Edward Storey, a man of great personal courage. He was also very popular among the people.“This Indian fighting has to stop, immediately,” said the old fellow, his fighting blood again boiling.At once a company was raised, called the Virginia Rifles. Colonel Jack Hays heard of it, and immediately came over from California in order to enlist. With him were several other bold spirits who were eager for the excitement of a brush with the redskins. They marched to Pyramid Lake, not far from the present town of Reno, and there met the exultant braves,—about one thousand strong. They were flushed with their recent victory over Major Ormsby and his men, and thought that they could easily defeat the whites.In this they were mistaken. The red men were in the hills and had the advantage of position, but the scouts attacked with vigor and a fierce battle ensued. Colonel Jack Hays was in the thick of the fight and conducted himself in a manner quite worthy of his name and fame. A complete victory was won by the Virginia Rangers, but at a fearful loss. Among those slain was brave Captain Storey, whose body was rolled up in a blanket and conveyed to Virginia City on the back of a pack-horse. Colonel Hays rode with the remains of his old friend of the wild days on the Texan plains, then returned to California.Here the famous Indian fighter died in 1883. Inhis later years he became very wealthy and owned a beautiful home near Piedmont, California. He never lived in Texas again, but occasionally went there, in order to visit old friends and relatives. He was buried with a simple ceremony, and thus ended the career of one of the most deadly shots and courageous men who ever rode a mustang upon the plains of the West. His spirit still lives in the hearts of the Texans.i317From “My Sixty Years on the Plains”—Courtesy of the Forest and StreamPublishing Co.“UNCLE BILL” HAMILTON.

FAMOUS TEXAN RANGER AND COMMANDER OF VALIANT BORDER FIGHTERS

IT was the year 1840. Texas was still a wild country, but the white settlers were pressing forward to farm and to raise cattle and horses. The redskins did not like it. The Comanches were particularly troublesome: they had been severely chastised by General Burleson and a Colonel John H. More, so they had sworn to revenge themselves upon the white-skinned invaders. With a large body of painted warriors they made a raid upon the defenseless settlers of Texas. They sacked and burned the town of Linnville, partly destroyed Victoria, and commenced their retreat back to the mountains with a great deal of plunder. There were six hundred warriors and many squaws in the party of invasion.

In going down from the mountains the Indians had kept between the rivers, where there were no settlements, and consequently they were not discovered until a short time before the attack upon Linnville. Runners were immediately sent to the various settlements, and men began to cut across the country in small squads from the valleys of the Colorado, the Guadalupe, and San Marcos. All of them were excitedand eager for revenge, none more so than General Burleson, who—at the head of a large company—was just starting for the scene of action. When about one hundred and fifty men had arrived—among them settlers from Guadalupe and San Marcos—they started for the Indians.

Among those who came riding to the defense of the Texan frontier was a splendid looking, young fellow, who was the perfect picture of manly vigor. Clad in blue shirt, buckskin chaparejos (large trousers slipping over those usually worn) and high-heeled boots, the youthful Texan was a noble example of health and agility. A broad sombrero was upon his head, while a cartridge-belt hung about his supple waist. His name was John Coffee Hays; better known as Jack Hays: the Ranger.

This celebrated scout and Indian fighter had been named after General Coffee, who commanded a brigade in the army of General Jackson, at the battle of New Orleans. He had been born in Wilson County, Tennessee, in 1818, but had come to Texas in 1837, when but nineteen years of age. A surveyor by profession, he had taken up a residence at San Antonio, where he was employed to measure lands upon the frontier. His life in the open had given him a hardy constitution, and no one could endure more hardships or privations than he. His talent as a commander and director of rough-and-ready fighters early developed, and he was soon among the leaders of the borderers in Southwest Texas.

With a wild hurrah, which spelled REVENGE, inlarge letters, the Texans started after the Indians, and, after travelling for nine miles upon their broad trail, caught up with them near a winding stream called Plum Creek. Two redskins had been left by the invaders as spies. They were upon a ridge and sat quietly upon their horses, watching the approach of the white men, until the Texans were almost within gun-shot. Both of these Indians had on tall hats which they had obtained at the looting of Linnville. You can well imagine how comical they looked, for a black, stovepipe hat hardly becomes a wild rider of the plains. With his thick, long hair it never quite fits, and it certainly gives the red man a most grotesque appearance.

One of the Texan Rangers had a long-range gun. Dismounting, he cried out:

“Boys! Just watch me make the redskins hump!”

At the crack of his rifle, the Indians wheeled their horses in order to run away. As they did so, both lost their plug hats. They moved swiftly to their comrades, warning them of the approach of the Rangers, who spread out in a fan-shaped line, and kept on after the retreating braves.

Now began a hot fight. The redskins were well armed and made a good showing, but nothing could withstand the terrible fire of the Texan rifles. After an hour of rapid shooting the Rangers charged with a wild, ear-splitting whoop. Jack Hays was well up in front of the line as they did so. The Indians broke and galloped away in a disorganized mass.

Many of the redskins had on fine coats and bootswhich they had stolen during the raid. Some of them even carried umbrellas. Their spare horses and mules were packed with stolen goods, and these were driven ahead by the squaws, while the warriors fought the battle. After about a mile of fighting, the Comanches rallied in large force and a sharp contest ensued. But they could not stand the accurate rifle-fire from the Texans, and again fled in a scattered mass.

The pursuit continued in hot haste, for some high mountains were in front, and the Rangers knew that if the red men once reached them it would be quite possible for them to get away. Many of the pack-animals now gave out, were abandoned, and fell into the hands of the Texans. A boggy branch was in the path of the retreating braves. Several of the Indian ponies stuck fast in the mire: all of the pack-animals which had not yet been captured, became hard aground in the mud. The hindmost Indians used some of the poor, bogged animals as pontoons, and passed over the marsh by jumping from body to body. The Texans saw the predicament which the redskins were in and ran around the branch to the other side, where they cut off some of the Indians who were on foot, and killed them. The rest got away to the foot of the mountains, where the pursuit ended.

The Rangers collected at the spot where the fight had been most severe and where most of the Indians had been dispatched. Here they camped for the night. Some of the Texans had been wounded, but none had been killed. Thus the battle of Plum Creek came to a glorious end.

Jack Hays had certainly distinguished himself in this affair. He distinguished himself still more in 1842, when San Antonio was captured by the Mexicans. Shortly after the battle of Plum Creek, Jack had been commissioned by General Houston to raise a force for protection of the frontier. He had no difficulty in doing this and was soon in command of several hundred Texan Rangers. They were wild fellows; ready for any emergency that might arise.

The Mexicans had about fifteen hundred men in San Antonio. They were commanded by a General Wall. Jack Hays and his Rangers rode up near the town and “dared” the Mexicans to come out and fight. This they were quite willing to do, and soon marched from the adobe huts of San Antonio, crossed a creek in order to face the Texans, planted cannon, and the battle commenced. The Rangers acted upon the defensive, dodged the limbs of the pecan trees which the whistling bullets began to cut off, and prepared to meet the Mexicans when they should charge.

General Wall, the Mexican leader, thought to rout the Texans with his artillery fire, but, as he failed to do this, he made preparations to charge them. Cavalry was dispatched across the creek in order to cut off retreat upon this side, and a band of Cherokee Indians were posted upon a branch below. The Mexicans believed that they would have an easy time of it, but they little thought with what kind of men they had to deal. Before them were expert riflemen: allkeen shots and frontier fighters. They made a good account of themselves.

The bugles sounded the charge and the Mexicans came on in fine style. They were massed together densely, and, for a time, it looked as if the Rangers would be annihilated by mere force of numbers. But the Texans lay down behind the creek bank, and poured such a volley of death and destruction into the ranks of the oncoming foe that their formation was broken up and they retreated in confusion and disorder to their batteries, posted upon elevated ground. A company of their cavalry also charged, but the horses would not come on before the sheet of lead which the Rangers pumped into them. Many lost their riders and ran among the infantrymen, knocking them down as they galloped wildly about. The Rangers cheered loudly, and Captain Jack Hays grinned from ear to ear.

As the Mexicans gathered behind their cannon, about fifty Texans, under Captain Nicholas Dawson, came up on the right flank. They heard the sound of firing and hurried towards it, only to find that they had run into Wall’s entire army. The Mexicans surrounded them immediately, and poured a destructive fire into their ranks. What could fifty do against one thousand? Two Texans made their escape. About twelve were captured. The rest fell before the bullets of the invaders. Dawson, himself, was one of the last to go down.

After this, the Mexicans seemed to think that they had had sufficient fighting. They retired towardsSan Antonio, followed by the exultant Texans. Captain Jack Hays with his Rangers fought the rear-guard near Hondo, but the pursuit was soon abandoned and the frontiersmen returned to their homes. They had lost less than one hundred in killed and wounded.

The Rangers retreated to a place called Somervell, and, not long afterwards, were ordered out to look for Indians, which were then pretty thick in the neighborhood, and were doing considerable damage. There were between thirty and forty men in this expedition, some of whom had just returned from Mexico, where they had participated in the battle of Mier. They moved off towards the northwest, struck the Medina River, and kept on up the stream towards the place where now stands the town of Bandera. Here they made camp, and next morning turned north towards the Bandera Pass, which they entered at about ten o’clock in the morning.

The Comanches were waiting for them. They had discovered the approach of the Rangers as they came through the open country, and laid an ambush for them in the Pass. The famous Bandera Pass is some five hundred yards in length by one hundred and twenty-five in breadth. The red men were concealed among the rocks and gullies on both sides of the gorge, and they allowed Captain Jack Hays with his Texan Rangers to get about one-third of the way through before they commenced firing from both sides at once. The Rangers were riding three abreast, and, when this fusillade commenced, were thrown intomomentary confusion, because of the frightened and wounded horses, which endeavored to wheel and run back.

“Steady, boys, steady!” exclaimed Captain Jack Hays. “Get down from your horses and tie them to the brush. We can whip these infernal redskins if you will only keep cool.”

The Comanches greatly outnumbered the Rangers. They were armed with rifles and with bows and arrows. Many came down the Pass and rode up to close quarters with the Rangers. Pistols were freely used and many hand-to-hand conflicts took place. The Comanche chief was struck down by a ball from the rifle of “Kit” Ackland, who, himself, was wounded a moment later. It was a furious affair,—one of the most desperate Indian battles of the frontier.

One of the scouts—a fellow named Galbreath—was wounded by an arrow which struck him above the pistol-belt, on the left side. It penetrated as far as the hip bone. The hardy frontiersman made no complaint, but drew the missile out at once, loaded his gun, and continued to fight on as if nothing had happened. No one knew that he had been wounded until the worst part of the battle was over.

The Indians fought with great fury, but they soon saw that they could not drive the Rangers back, and so withdrew to the north end of the Pass. Here they buried their dead chieftain; killed all of their crippled horses, and held a scalp dance over the remains of their fallen comrades. Five Rangers had been killed and six had been wounded. The men underJack Hays retreated to the south end of the Pass, where they buried those who had met their end, and attended to the wounded. Next morning they jogged along to San Antonio. The Indians did not pursue.

The battle of Bandera Pass had taught the red men that the Rangers were not to be trifled with. Captain Jack was continually on the lookout for them, and soon had another experience which he had no occasion to forget. It happened about a year after the famous battle at the Pass.

Fourteen Rangers—under Captain Jack—went upon a scout up the Neuces Canyon, with the expectation of meeting the Indians, who were then upon the war-path. After a long trip to the head of the river, without seeing any fresh Indian sign, Hays turned back down the canyon and camped. Next day the little party travelled onward, and—about noon—some one discovered a bee tree.

“Hold on, Captain!” said a Ranger. “Just wait a minute and I’ll chop all the honey out of that tree-top.”

“All right,” replied Hays. “Sail in and let’s see what you can do. Pull your bridles off, men. Let your ropes down and allow your horses to graze. We will rest here awhile and get some honey.”

The Ranger secured a small axe that was in the luggage on a pack-mule, and ascended the tree, for the purpose of chopping into the honey without cutting down this stout piece of timber.

About this time a large band of Comanches were coming down the canyon on a raid, and, seeing thetrail of the Rangers, they followed it. The fellow in the tree had a good view of the valley, and, to his startled vision appeared a great body of redskins.

“Jerusalem, the Golden, Captain!” he sang out. “Yonder come a thousand Indians! Jerusalem!”

The Comanches were riding rapidly down the trail and made a good deal of dust. Hays sprang to his feet, as quick as a cat, and sang out his orders promptly, and to the point.

“Come out of that tree, there! Men, put on your bridles! Take up your ropes! Be ready for them! Be ready for them!”

All sprang to their horses, and were soon prepared to meet the onrush of the red men.

The Rangers were armed with Colt’s five-shooters, besides their rifles and a brace of holster single-shot pistols. Thus each man could fire nine shots. The Indians had never before come in conflict with scouts armed with the five-shooter, and they rode on exultingly, for they greatly outnumbered the whites. Jack Hays never ran from Indians, and had never yet been defeated by them.

The Comanches came forward, yelling loudly. They thought that it would be an easy matter to ride over the small squad of white men, who were drawn up around the old bee tree. Some of the scouts began to raise their guns, but Captain Jack cried out:

“Now, boys, do not shoot too quickly. Let the redskins come closer. Hit something when you do shoot. Stand your ground. We can whip them when we shoot. There is no doubt about that.”

The redskins thundered down upon the Rangers. When they were quite close, Captain Jack called:

“Fire, and let every shot tell!”

A sheet of flame burst from the rifles of the scouts, and so many ponies went down that the redskins divided to the right and left, discharging their arrows as they swept by.

At this moment Captain Jack sprang into his saddle.

“After them, men,” he cried. “Give them no chance to turn on us! Crowd them! Powder-burn them!”

Never was a band of redskins more surprised; for they expected the Rangers to remain near the tree, and upon the defensive. With a wild whoop, the followers of Jack Hays galloped after the running braves, keeping up a perfect fusillade with their pistols. The Comanches were thunderstruck at this turn of affairs. Some tried in vain to turn their horses and make a stand, but such was the wild confusion of running horses, popping pistols, and yelling Rangers, that they abandoned the idea of a rally, and sought safety in furious flight. In endeavoring to dodge the terrible five-shooters, some dropped their bows and round shields. Some kept off the Rangers by thrusting at them with their long lances.

The Indians ran for three miles before they could get away. The Rangers now rode back, well satisfied with the day’s work, and were surprised to see the result of their charge. The ground was fairly black with dead redskins. Many years afterwards afriendly Delaware Indian, called “Bob,” met the Comanche chieftain who led his warriors in this fight.

“Who did you battle with upon this occasion?” he asked.

“Ugh! Jack Hays and his Rangers,” gloomily replied the Comanche chief, shaking his head. “I never want to fight him again. Ugh! Ugh! His soldiers had a shot for every finger on their hands. I lost half of all my warriors. Ugh! Me never fight with him again.”

The Rangers soon afterwards had another tough little scrimmage with the Comanches. Fifteen of the Rangers were together at this time and they met an almost equal number of Indians, who were discovered at the foot of the mountains near the Frio River. The Indians were riding very tired horses, and the scouts thus gained upon them rapidly. The red men kept under cover, as much as possible, riding in ravines which had brushes and prickly pears around them, wherever they could do so.

Captain Jack and his men arrived at a little dried-up creek called Ci Bolo (buffalo creek) where they came close to the Indians, who were travelling in a ravine which hid them from view. The Rangers heard their leggings scraping against the brush, so, for some distance, they rode parallel with the savages, waiting for a chance to make a charge. The redskins could be heard talking to each other.

Suddenly the Comanches left the ravine and rode out in open view, not more than thirty yards away.They apparently were not aware of the presence of the scouts until a sharp crack warned them of their danger. At the first discharge, a redskin fell from his horse. The others attempted to run back to cover, yelling and shooting at the Rangers as they did so. But the scouts were too speedy for them and cut them off. One, however, seemed determined to get into the ravine. He disappeared into a thicket, at the edge of the gully, but a Ranger called Tom Galbraith dismounted, and, running to the edge of the thicket after the Indian had reached it, fired, and killed him.

The rest of the savages endeavored to make their escape across the open country, which was filled with scattered bunches of the prickly pear, cactus, and cat-claw bushes. Some were on mules, and others on jaded horses. The Rangers rode hard after them and fired with deadly effect. The Indians had no guns—only bows and arrows—so they did but little damage.

As the chase continued, one young Ranger called Stoke Holmes, who rode a fast little pony, singled out an Indian and cried out:

“Watch me, Boys! I’m going to rope him!”

While he was running along and was swinging his lariat, the pony attempted to jump a large bunch of prickly pears. He reared so high that his rider lost his seat in the saddle and fell backwards into the terrible cactus. Some of his comrades saw the mishap. They quickly shot the redskin and then came rapidly to his rescue, as he was unable to get up. The valiantscout was in a sad plight. His body had thousands of pear thorns in it, and his clothing was pinned to him on all sides. He was in agonies of pain. Pulling him away from the grip of the cactus, the Rangers stripped off all of his clothing, extracted all of the large thorns, and endeavored to pull out the small ones. But this was an impossibility, as there were thousands of small needle-like prickers in his flesh. With a sharp knife the Ranger shaved them close to the skin so that his clothing would not irritate his body by rubbing against them. The bold young fellow was hardly able to ride for several days thereafter. As for the rest of the redskins,—only three escaped.

Not many months later Captain Hays and his men were close upon a band of Indians, who had been located by his scouts in a bunch of cedars. The Rangers had not eaten all day, because they had been hot in pursuit.

“Dismount, men,” cried the captain. “Stay here a few minutes and partake of the cold bread and beef in your saddle-bags. But, boys, by no means raise any smoke, or the redskins will surely see it, and will know that the Rangers are upon their trail.”

“You’re right, Captain!” cried many. “We are half famished.”

Captain Hays always had a few Mexicans with him, as they were good guides and trailers, but, upon this occasion, they lighted their cigarettes after eating and dropped the hot ashes into a pile of leaves. Smoke was soon curling above the tree-tops.

“Curse it, boys!” cried Captain Hays. “Did I not tell you not to set fire to anything. Put that out, immediately!”

Some of the Rangers began to stamp upon the glowing fire. Hays was so angry that he struck the Mexicans with his quirt.

“Mount! Mount!” cried he. “We must go quickly after the redskins, as I fear that they have seen the tell-tale fire and have decamped.”

A furious run was now made for the tepees of the hostiles, which were a mile away. It was as the knowing Captain had anticipated. The Indians saw the smoke and knew that the Rangers were on their trail. They had fled, leaving many things in their camp, which were seized by the troopers. The Comanches had gotten safely away.

In 1844 Captain Hays and his men had a hard fight,—one of his hardest, in fact. It was near the Pedernales River. Upon this occasion he had gone out with fourteen men, about eighty miles northwest from San Antonio, for the purpose of finding out the position of the redskins and the probable location of their camp.

As the river came in view, about fifteen Indians were discovered. They soon saw the Rangers. Riding towards them, they shook their clenched fists and seemed to be desirous of having a fight. As the Rangers rode forward they retreated and endeavored to lead them towards a ridge which was covered with thick underbrush.

“Oh, no,” said Captain Hays, “I am too wellacquainted with your wiles to move on. I know that you have an ambush laid for me and my men.”

It was hard to keep the Rangers from advancing to the attack.

“Go around the redskins to the second ridge,” cried the knowing Captain. “We can thus get the Indians in the rear.”

The Rangers were posted upon a long hillock, separated from the Indian position by a deep ravine. They were not here long before the redskins discovered who was before them, and, as they knew Captain Jack full well, decided to give up trying to catch him by stratagem. They now showed themselves to the number of seventy-five and cried out, in pigeon English:

“Come on, white men! Ugh! Come on! We get your scalps soon!”

“I’ll meet you right away!” answered Captain Hays.

He started down the hill immediately, followed by his entire command. He moved slowly, and, when the bottom of the ravine had been reached, turned—raced ahead at full speed—and came up in the rear of the Indians. While they had their eyes glued to the front, eagerly awaiting the advance from that direction, they were charged in the rear by the Rangers. The first fire threw them into instant confusion.

Yells, war-whoops, and shrill screams rent the air. The redskins scattered like quail, but, seeing the superiority of their own force, soon rallied.

“Draw your five-shooters, men,” cried the Captain of the Rangers. “We must meet the charge of the Comanches as we have always met them.”

The redskins were surrounding the Texans, so the Rangers were formed in a circle, fronting outwards. They were still mounted on their horses, and, for several minutes maintained that position without firing a shot. The Indians came on, yelping, and were soon near enough to throw their lances at the Texan frontiersmen.

Crash!

A spitting volley came from the five-shooters of the scouts and many a red man fell to the sod. Again a volley rang out and the Comanches ceased to advance, for the fire of the Rangers was fearfully accurate. The redskins fell back, but they were not defeated, and—in a few moments—again came on to the attack. The fight continued for an hour. Twice the Rangers charged and retreated to their first position. Their loads were now exhausted. The Comanche chief was rallying his henchmen for one more assault. Twenty-five of his painted warriors were prostrate upon the prairie.

The situation was critical for the Rangers, as many were badly wounded. Several had been killed.

Captain Hays, who was in the centre of the circle, now saw that their only chance was to kill the Indian chief.

“Have any of you men a loaded rifle?” he asked.

“I have,” answered a scout called Gillespie.

“Then dismount, my boy,” said the Ranger Captain, “and make sure work of that chief.”

Gillespie was a brave man. He had been badly wounded by an Indian spear which had gone clean through his body. He was hardly able to sit his horse, but, slipping to the ground, took careful aim and fired. As his rifle cracked, the chief fell head-long from his horse.

It is a strange thing, but Indians always lose heart when their leader is slain. Wailing loudly, the Comanches now left the field, pursued by a portion of the Texans. They carried their chieftain safely away, in spite of the fact that they were pressed very closely by the Rangers. Thirty Indians lay dead upon the battle-ground, while only two of the Texan frontiersmen had been killed. Five, however, were badly wounded; chief among whom was Gillespie, who had really ended the fight.

Captain Hays and his men went back to San Antonio well satisfied with the day’s work. A month later he had another desperate encounter with the Comanches.

With twenty of his men the gallant Ranger was on a scout near the “Enchanted Rock.” This was a depression in a hill, which was conical in shape, and was doubtless the crater of an extinct volcano. A dozen or more men could hide in this place and put up a stout defense against a great number of enemies, as the ascent was steep and rugged. Not far from the bottom of this curious hillock the Rangers were attacked by a large force of Comanches.

When the first shot was fired, Captain Hays was some distance from his men, looking about in order to see whether or not he could discover the whereabouts of the Indians. As he turned to run towards the “Enchanted Rock,” he was cut off and was closely pursued by a number of red warriors.

The nervy Captain Jack dashed madly up the side of the hill and entrenched himself in the extinct crater. He was determined to make the best fight that he could, and to “sell out” as dearly as possible. The redskins arrived upon the summit shortly after he had entrenched, and, after surrounding the famous Captain of Rangers, set up a most hideous howling.

“There, Captain Jack,” said one. “Ugh! We get Big Smoky Stick this time. Ugh! We get scalp this time! Ugh! Ugh!”

But Captain Jack was game. Each time that the muzzle of his rifle would appear over the rim of the crater the warriors would dodge backwards, knowing that to face his unerring aim was sure death.

The Indians grew bolder and made a charge. Hays fired his rifle, killing a redskin at the discharge,—then shot his five-shooter at the yelping braves. Each bullet found a victim, so the redskins withdrew, which gave the gallant Captain a chance to reload. Again they came on, but again they were met with the same cool bravery. Howling dismally, they again drew away and made ready for another attack.

Suddenly wild cheering sounded from below the Ranger Captain. Shots came thick and fast. Wild yells arose. His comrades were coming to his rescue.

The Rangers had heard the rifle-fire upon the top of the hill and knew that their Captain was surrounded. So they were fighting their way up to him, in spite of the odds. Soon they came cheering and yelling to the edge of the crater, itself, to be greeted by the cool remark:

“Boys, I’m sure glad to see you! I was nearly all in!”

When the Comanches saw that the Big Chief had been rescued they retreated down the steep sides of the “Enchanted Rock.” They met their comrades, who had been badly cut up, and, deciding that the Rangers were too good for them, withdrew. Wild cheers welled from the crater of “Enchanted Rock,” and loud were the hurrahs for Texas Jack, the gallant and intrepid Ranger.

The war with Mexico found Captain Jack Hays ready and willing to march against the hated “Greasers.” He and his famous Rangers fought in nearly all of the desperate battles of the campaign. Many of his faithful friends and companions fell before the leaden missiles of the foe. But Captain Jack had a charmed life: he came through unscathed, returned to his beloved Texas, and then moved to California, where he was elected Sheriff of San Francisco County. He was very efficient as an officer and left an excellent record behind him.

In 1860 he had his last Indian fight. The Piute Indians in the state of Nevada declared war upon the whites, in that year, and committed many depredations. They massacred Major Ormsby and his menand spread terror broadcast. At this time there were rich mines in Virginia City, and among the many men who were employed there was an old Texan Ranger, Captain Edward Storey, a man of great personal courage. He was also very popular among the people.

“This Indian fighting has to stop, immediately,” said the old fellow, his fighting blood again boiling.

At once a company was raised, called the Virginia Rifles. Colonel Jack Hays heard of it, and immediately came over from California in order to enlist. With him were several other bold spirits who were eager for the excitement of a brush with the redskins. They marched to Pyramid Lake, not far from the present town of Reno, and there met the exultant braves,—about one thousand strong. They were flushed with their recent victory over Major Ormsby and his men, and thought that they could easily defeat the whites.

In this they were mistaken. The red men were in the hills and had the advantage of position, but the scouts attacked with vigor and a fierce battle ensued. Colonel Jack Hays was in the thick of the fight and conducted himself in a manner quite worthy of his name and fame. A complete victory was won by the Virginia Rangers, but at a fearful loss. Among those slain was brave Captain Storey, whose body was rolled up in a blanket and conveyed to Virginia City on the back of a pack-horse. Colonel Hays rode with the remains of his old friend of the wild days on the Texan plains, then returned to California.

Here the famous Indian fighter died in 1883. Inhis later years he became very wealthy and owned a beautiful home near Piedmont, California. He never lived in Texas again, but occasionally went there, in order to visit old friends and relatives. He was buried with a simple ceremony, and thus ended the career of one of the most deadly shots and courageous men who ever rode a mustang upon the plains of the West. His spirit still lives in the hearts of the Texans.

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From “My Sixty Years on the Plains”—Courtesy of the Forest and StreamPublishing Co.“UNCLE BILL” HAMILTON.

From “My Sixty Years on the Plains”—Courtesy of the Forest and StreamPublishing Co.

“UNCLE BILL” HAMILTON.

“UNCLE BILL” HAMILTON.

BILL HAMILTON:FAMOUS TRAPPER, TRADER, AND INDIAN FIGHTERTHE mountaineers were pushing, adventurous and fearless men who thought nothing of laying down their lives in the service of a friend. They usually carried very little with them. A few ponies transported their meagre supplies, and, with only enough provisions to last them a few days, they often set out to journey through a vast wilderness. Naturally they were very self-reliant. With only a gun or two they took desperate risks in a country filled with their red enemies. They overcame every difficulty with a dash and courage that is amazing. “Uncle Bill” Hamilton was a typical example of one of these men.From the time that he was twenty years of age this famous old fellow spent his life on the plains. He became a sign-talker and was able to converse with all the Indian tribes which were met with. Sign-talking will soon be a lost art, but in the old days all of the red men used the same signs, although they spoke different languages. He was also a trapper, trader, and pathfinder. He blazed many a trail which was to lead the frontiersmen to rich agricultural regions. Heset an example of courage and perseverance that will leave a bright memory in the hearts of all.In the spring of 1842, when twenty years of age, young Bill was living in St. Louis, Missouri; but chills and fever were gradually undermining his constitution, so his doctor ordered a change of climate. Consequently his father made arrangements with a party of hunters and trappers, who were in St. Louis for a few days, to let his son accompany them on their next trip, which would last a year. The party consisted of eight “free” traders, with “Bill” Williams and a man named Perkins, as leaders. These two scouts had had fifteen years’ experience on the plains among Indians, and had a wide reputation for fearless courage and daring exploits.The trappers soon reached Independence, Missouri,—where they sold their wagons and rigged up a complete pack outfit, as the expedition would go through a country in which wagons could not travel. Young Bill Hamilton still had on city clothes, and when the old fur traders saw this, they began to laugh and poke fun at him.“What be you going to do with that city cuss in th’ mountains?” said one. “Why, he’ll lose himself in a hour’s time and walk down the throat of some grizzly bear.”Young Bill did not like this remark at all, and hurrying to a frontier store he traded his “store clothes” for two suits of the finest buckskin. When he appeared in camp with these fine togs on one of the mountaineers said:“Williams, that boy o’ yourn will make a fine old pioneer and mountaineer, if he catches on at this rate.”The youthful plainsman heard it and smiled, for he had felt very badly before.The party pushed onward and reached Salt Creek. Camp had just been made when a small herd of buffalo appeared in the distance and made directly for the little band. Williams gave orders to corral all the stock, for he feared that this was the game of some plains Indians, and he was not far from being correct. The stock had barely been secured when the buffalo thundered by, followed by thirty painted Kiowa warriors. They were wild and savage.The trappers had placed their packs in a triangle, and crouched behind them. This made an excellent breastwork. Each man was armed with a rifle, two pistols, a tomahawk, and a large knife, called a “tooth-picker.” Two of the men had bows and arrows with which they were experts.The redskins rode up insolently; examined the outfit, and demanded pay for passing through their country.“You can neither touch our traps nor will we give you pay for riding through your country,” said Williams. “This is Pawnee country and you are Kiowas.”The Indians seemed to be ill pleased and looked vindictively at the sturdy men of the plains. The leader was given some tobacco. He was not a chief, but a young brave with two feathers stuck in his scalp-lock. After receiving this gift the savages withdrew, saying: “Ugh! Ugh! We come again!”The trapper kept close watch during the night, expecting that the Indians would attempt to steal some of the stock and attack the camp. But nothing occurred. Many outfits have come to grief by putting confidence in the red man, who always covets the belongings of the paleface. Old and experienced mountain men like these left nothing to chance.Pretty soon the trappers reached the camp of some Cheyennes and there unpacked their goods in order to trade. Young Bill accompanied the chief’s son, Swift Runner, through the village, who introduced him to all the leading men.“There will be a large hunting party starting out to-morrow after buffalo,” said he, “and if you wish to go along I will furnish you with a good hunting horse.”“I shall be delighted to go,” cried young Bill, so next morning found him riding across the prairie with about fifty Indians and twenty squaws.After travelling for nearly ten miles the scouts discovered a herd and reported its location to the hunting chief. This leader was thoroughly acquainted with the topography of the country and led the redskins upon a long détour, so as to get on the leeward side of the herd. As soon as a favorable position had been reached the Indians stripped to their breech-clouts and advanced, leading their running horses as they did so.i323AN INDIAN BUFFALO HUNT.The chief now divided the hunters into two divisions, in order to get the buffalo into a small area. They rode to within a quarter of a mile of the herd and then the word was given to “Sail in!”In an instant the wild array of naked Indians started for the herd, sending forth yell after yell, and riding like demons in their eagerness to bring down the first buffalo. For this is quite a feat and is commented upon by the whole village.Swift Runner, himself, had the fastest horse in the party and brought down the first buffalo, much to the chagrin of many a young brave—who coveted the honor—for it would bring him smiles from his lady love. Young Bill’s pony loped along with willingness, and Swift Runner pointed out a fat cow for him to dispose of. In a few jumps he was alongside of the great lumbering brute, and fired into her side. As luck would have it, he broke her back and she dropped to the sod. Swift Runner yelled hilariously at this success, but it was a very careless shot, and, had he missed, the cow might have made things ugly for him.There was a great yelling and shooting upon every hand and several riderless ponies were mixed in with the buffalo. Many prairie-dog holes were the cause of this, for when the ponies stepped into them their riders were, of course, thrown over their heads. Ponies are usually sure-footed beasts, but when in a chase like this, where over a thousand buffalo are tearing over the prairie and kicking up a big lot of dust, it makes it impossible for the animals to see the holes.Young Bill brought down four of the huge brown bison and received great praise from the Indians forhis skill. They used arrows in their killing and shot behind the shoulder, bringing the buffalo to his knees. Another arrow would be sent deep enough to penetrate the lungs of the beast and it would then be soon over with him.For three-quarters of a mile the prairie was dotted with the dead buffalo. They were soon butchered; the ponies were packed with three hundred pounds of the choicest meat, and the caravan started for home. Several Indians who had been thrown limped quite badly, but no one was seriously injured. At sundown the village was reached, a feast was prepared, and all joined in the affair with the greatest good will and friendship. Young Bill was warmly congratulated upon his success, and this was well, for if a white man fails to acquit himself creditably with the redskins it casts a reflection upon all the whites.The Indians made pemmican and “dupuyer” from the buffalo. The first is manufactured in the following manner: the choicest portions of the buffalo meat are selected, sliced, and cut into flakes. They are then dried. All of the marrow, from the centre of the bones, is put into one pile with the sweetest of the tallow. These ingredients are mixed together and stirred around in a pot which is hung over a slow fire. The combination is then cooled. Some red men put berries into the mixture, which harden and give a sweetish taste. The mountaineers and trappers—when sugar was scarce—always made their pemmican in this manner. The Indian squaws pulverized the meat by beating it upon a flat rock, and then placed it in skinbagsfor future use. It is estimated that one pound of pemmican is equal to about five pounds of beef.A fat substance which lies along the buffalo’s backbone, next to the hide, is known as “dupuyer.” It is about as thick as the hand of a trapper and runs from the shoulder-blade to the last rib. In breadth it measures between seven to eleven inches. The Indians and mountaineers would strip away this substance—dip it in hot grease for thirty seconds—and then hang it to the inside poles of a lodge. A fire would be lighted beneath it and it would be allowed to dry and smoke for ten or twelve hours. “Dupuyer” was considered to be a great delicacy, for it was very nourishing. Besides this it was tender and sweet. The trappers loved this food and would pay a dollar a pound for it, while the Indians always took dried meat and “dupuyer” along with them upon their expeditions.When Williams and his party moved on, Swift Runner presented young Bill with a pony which he had ridden in the hunt, and the squaws gave him a half a dozen pairs of beautifully embroidered moccasins.A few days later the party reached the South Platte River and there found a Sioux village. Big Thunder was the chief, and he requested the trappers to camp there, as his people wanted to trade with them. The Sioux were then a friendly tribe and treated the white men in a cordial manner.Just before dawn—upon the day following—a wild yelping awoke the entire village. The warriors ran out only to find that the Pawnees—themortal enemies of the Sioux—had run off about one hundred head of ponies which had been turned out to graze only a short distance from camp. Among this number were two mules and three ponies belonging to the white men.As soon as this news was received there was a great yelling and shouting, while fifty young warriors hastened to saddle their best ponies. Young Bill Hamilton was with them, and, under the leadership of Young Thunder, they started after the redskins. The trail of the fugitives was soon struck and followed at a brisk gallop, and, after going about eight miles, it was evident that the Pawnees were but a short distance in advance. Passing over a divide, a cloud of dust could be plainly seen about two miles in advance.The Pawnees rode hard, but they were soon in view. There were twelve in the party. As Young Thunder gave a war-whoop, the ponies bounded forward and carried their owners towards the fugitives as if shot out of the mouth of a cannon. The Pawnees heard the chief’s yell, and, leaving the herd of stolen stock, made for a neighboring cottonwood grove. While Bill Hamilton rode onward, a bullet whistled by his ear. The savages fired several more shots but their lead all went wide of its mark.“Don’t you intend to charge the grove and endeavor to capture the Pawnee warriors?” said Bill to the Sioux chief.Young Thunder smiled and shook his head.“No, no,” he answered. “’Nough to get back our ponies.”The young scout thought that the Indians were not such terrible fighters as some writers would have them appear, and this impression never changed, although he occasionally met a few that knew no fear.Two of the Pawnee braves had been killed in this little skirmish, and the warriors rode back to their village carrying the fresh scalps tied on the end of long sticks. The whole village turned out to greet them, yelling like furies. Pandemonium reigned all night, but when old trapper Williams heard that young Bill had ridden in so close to the timber, he said:“I shall have to keep you at home next time, if I expect to return you to your parents. You are a young fool to approach close to timber where hostile Indians are concealed.”“Three of our ponies were in the bunch of captured horses,” answered the young scout. “I did not wish to return without them. As for the Sioux, I consider them a lot of cowards.”The Pawnees had not acted with good judgment in trying to drive off fully one hundred head of horses, so near daylight. For they should have known that the Sioux warriors would be after them, mounted upon their best war-ponies.The trappers soon bade good-by to their kind hosts and continued on towards the Little Wind River, crossing a rugged and romantic country, where lofty, sky-piercing peaks ascended into the banks of drifting clouds. To the northwest were the Wind River Mountains; to the eastward was the Big Horn Range,—the home of the buffalo, elk, antelope, deer, andgrizzly bear. It was a hunter’s paradise, where many different tribes of Indians met on their annual hunt, and often battled for the right to the soil. Hostile war-parties were even now quite numerous in the mountains. At Little Wind River, Evans and Russell picked up a moccasin, showing that the redskins were quite near.Beaver and otter seemed to be plentiful, so the men set their traps. At night they slept with arms at their sides, ready for instant action, and a close guard was stationed beyond camp, as it was almost certain that the Indians would discover them and would run off with their stock. This was the most dangerous country on the plains and was constantly invaded by war-parties of Blackfeet, Bloods, Piegans, and Crows. All had to be constantly upon the alert to avoid losing their horses and their scalps.About four o’clock one morning two rifle reports brought every man to his feet. Yell after yell sounded from the darkness, and shot after shot came whistling into the camp. In an instant the trappers were up and about—their rifles replying to this fusillade. Evans and Russell (two of the most experienced scouts) killed a couple of the Indians with their first shots, for dawn was just coming, and two black bodies were seen to leap into the air and then roll down a hill upon which they had been crouching. The savages were shooting arrows and old Hudson Bay flintlocks which made a big flash when discharged. As the scouts aimed at these flaming jets, they must have done considerable damage, for the Indians fell back.They continued to send shots into camp until day dawned.“Let’s charge the critters!” shouted young Bill Hamilton.“Not on your life, boy!” shouted trapper Williams. “It’s most dangerous to run into such a number of unknown redskins at night.”So the young man desisted.Just before daylight the Indians attempted to recover their slain comrades, by crawling up to them in the grass. The scouts, however, were up to such tactics and added one more to keep company with two of the red men already sent to the Happy Hunting Grounds. At this, the redskins gave a yell of deep despair. Then they filed slowly away, sending a few parting shots at the trappers, just to show that they were still in good fighting order.Five of the trappers’ ponies had been badly wounded, and Williams was so enraged at the injury which had been done that he was determined to punish the Indians still further. Leaving two men in camp, he ordered the rest to follow him on the fresh trail of the early morning marauders, which led up a small stream. The scouts galloped eagerly forward, and, coming to a rise, were soon within plain view of the red men, who were hurrying along, trying to get two of their wounded comrades to the protection of a grove.“Dash on to the right!” shouted Williams. “Head the redskins off from that bunch of trees!”The red men saw in a moment that they wouldbe cut off from the grove, and they made for a patch of willows and stunted box-elders just below them. There were eleven of them in all and the trappers certainly had them cornered.It was about a hundred yards to the Indians, and a scout named Dockett tried a shot at them. The red men returned fire, wounding him in the thigh. There were a quantity of boulders near by, and Williams ordered his men to roll them up to the brow of the hill, in order to form breastworks. Four of the trappers were left behind this, while Williams told Noble and young Bill Hamilton to follow him to the grove without letting the Indians notice that they had decamped.In the grove the trappers concealed themselves, and the wisdom of their move was quite clear. The Indians realized that they would all be shot down if they remained in their present position, for the men behind the brow of the hill now had their range. Six of them made a dash for the cluster of trees.When the scurrying red men were within one hundred yards of the timber, Williams gave orders to shoot. The trappers took careful aim, and, at the flash of their rifles, three of the red men fell face down. The other three gave a yell of despair and ran up the hill. The trappers dashed after them, and the Indians became panic-stricken when they saw the mounted white men debouch from the thick woodland.Williams raced onward, dashed right at the Indians, and, although shot at, managed to bring both of theredskins to the ground. Now all three had been slain, and the revenge which the trappers had wished for had been fully satisfied. The redskins were Blackfeet, the most thieving class of wild riders of the plains.There were still five Indians in the willows. Many men would have let them go. But not so with Williams. He was considered the hardest man on the plains to down in a fight with the Indians, for he was never known to quit when once started. It was to be a battle to the bitter end.“There are five Indians down there who shot at and insulted us,” said he. “They shall have what they would have given us had they been successful in their attack.” Here he turned to young Hamilton. “Boy,” said he, “never let an Indian escape who has once attacked you! I want you to go with me. We will walk to the gulch and approach from below.”But the trappers held their leader in too high estimation to allow him to thus recklessly expose himself.“Your orders are going to be disobeyed for once in your life,” said they. “We cannot afford to lose you.”Williams smiled.“Evans and I will undertake the job,” cried scout Russell. “You cover us with your fire.”In a second—and before Williams could answer—they bounded into the gulch below. Both were quick of foot and had been in so many desperate battles that they understood the danger of approachingprostrate redskins; for a wounded Indian is an uncertain animal.The rest of the scouts kept up a steady fire until Evans and Russell were seen to be close to the willows. Then they ceased, as the two scouts bounded forward, yelling like Indians. The other trappers also rushed down, and although one of the braves had his arrow in his bow—all ready to shoot—he never pulled it. In a very short time it was all over.The Indians had now been annihilated, and among their effects were found two fine bridles, ammunition, knives, and other articles belonging to trappers. It was evident that some small body of white traders had been surprised by these Blackfeet and put out of the way forever. So ended this stiff little skirmish.The trappers now kept on their way, set many beaver traps, caught a great many of these animals; and traded with several bands of friendly redskins. The men were all fine shots and often received praise from people for their expertness in fire-arms, but no more than they merited, for an American mountaineer had no equal on the globe. It was necessary that the trappers should be very expert, for they carried their lives in their hands, and were liable to come in contact with roving war-parties at any moment. To be taken prisoner meant torture and death, and it was therefore impossible for an Indian to capture either a scout or a trapper. They knew what would follow.Young Hamilton thoroughly enjoyed the life and soon became one of the most proficient talkers in signlanguage on the plains. The trappers reached Fort Bridger, where were many Shoshones, who asked the youthful scout many questions by signs, all of which he answered correctly. This astonished even the older trappers, many of whom thought that he had been raised by some tribe.Williams now left the men of the plains in order to go to Santa Fé on business, but promised to be back in the spring and organize a new party for a two-year expedition. Before he left he took young Hamilton aside and gave him advice in many matters. He looked upon him as a son, and few fathers ever gave their children better counsel. The trappers decided to trap near Salt Lake, and the Bear and Malade Rivers, during the fall.When they had proceeded for some distance they were met by a party of Indians, who spoke the Shoshone tongue, and who informed them that they had to pay for going through their country. Perkins—who was now leader of the trappers—tried to make peace with them, but without success. He made the Indians keep away, but they continued to make signs, meaning “dogs,”—which the white men well understood. The trappers held their rifles ready for any emergency.Perkins cautioned his men to have patience, and, filling his pipe, offered it to the chief, who refused it with contempt, saying: “Big chief never smokes with white dogs.”The head trapper’s patience was now almost exhausted and he told the chief in plain language to“get out.” His men prepared for action, as he spoke, so the redskins mounted their ponies and departed towards the South. As they rode off, they cast all kinds of insults at the white men, both with signs and in spoken language. It was certain that they would soon follow the trappers and then there would be a big fight.That night every precaution was taken to guard against a surprise. Two guards were put on duty, to be relieved at midnight, and a well fortified position was chosen for camp. Perkins said that it was customary for the Utahs to attack just before daylight, for this is the time that the redskins expect to find the whites fast asleep. This is what occurred in the present instance.A little before daylight two or three wolf howls were heard by the guards, who immediately notified Perkins. Soon all the men were up, their packs being placed in a semi-circle as a breastwork. Twenty of the best horses were saddled and tied in a thicket, to protect them from Indian bullets and arrows. Defeat meant death, so the trappers looked stolidly before them, fully prepared for the worst, if it were to come.The first wolf howls were soon followed by others, coming from nearer points and in a semi-circle. Indians are experts in imitating the cries of owls, wolves and coyotes. So adept are they in the art that it is difficult to distinguish them from the calls of real birds and beasts. Few trappers can successfully imitate these animals, although many endeavor to do so.It was not long before the attack commenced. Justas day began to dawn the wolf howls ceased and the trappers knew that the crisis was at hand. The Indians had crept to within one hundred yards of camp before they gave the war-whoop. Then they came on—fully one hundred strong—yelping wildly. The trappers were all ready with their rifles and pistols. Three were armed with double-barrelled shot-guns, loaded with half-ounce balls and fine buck-shot.The Indians raced to within fifty yards before a single trapper fired,—then all began to shoot. The redskins halted. At this the plainsmen began with their six-shooters, one in each hand, for—as a result of long continued practice—they could shoot equally well with either arm. These mountaineers had to be experts in the use of both rifle and pistol, for inability to fire with accuracy meant instant death upon many an occasion.The red men were much surprised to receive so many shots from but twenty men. They became panic-stricken, for they had not supposed that the trappers possessed two pistols each—twelve shots apiece after their rifles had been discharged. They had expected to rush right over the breastworks, before the rifles could be reloaded. They retreated—assisting many of their wounded. An arrow went through young Bill Hamilton’s cap.The redskins had received a repulse which they had not expected, and retreated to their villages, taking their dead and wounded with them. The chief, Old Bear, had been slain, as well as many of their bravest warriors. This tribe had frequently robbed smallparties of trappers, killing them many times and always treating them with great cruelty. After this fight they usually gave well-organized bodies of trappers the “go by.”The plainsmen finished their work without being further molested, and then moved on to Bear River. In the spring, trapper Williams returned from Santa Fé, and made a proposition to the men that he should form a company of forty-three and make a two-years’ trip. This was agreed upon, and the expedition soon started, on the 25th of March, 1843. The trappers were divided into four parties, which collected furs in common; that is, each man had an equal share in all furs caught by his own party. For mutual protection they always pitched their tents and lodges together.They soon passed through the country inhabited by the Bannock Indians. These were troublesome and had many a brush with the stout men of the plains. But the trappers came through every escapade without much loss. The region in which they soon found themselves was rich with beaver and otter; large quantities of which were caught. It was a grandly beautiful country—a paradise for all kinds of game. Bear were particularly plentiful, and many a grizzly and cinnamon fell before the accurate aim of the men in buckskin.“Young Bill” Hamilton could not be called “Young Bill” any more, because he was a seasoned trapper, and his many experiences with wild men and wild beasts had made it possible for him to hold hisown with the most experienced men of the party. The trappers made a wide détour, first going far North, then travelling South to the Carson River in Nevada, where they lost one of their best and most skilled men,—a fellow named Crawford. They were in the Pah Ute country and could tell very readily that the Indians were most unfriendly. In spite of this they set their beaver traps, for they saw that these animals were thick.As Crawford did not return to camp one evening it was decided to make a search for him. Dockett, who was an outside trapper (or one who had his traps furthest from camp), had seen the missing man setting his traps at a bend in the river, at some distance away. To this point the trappers hurried, and, scouting in some cottonwood groves, in order to make sure that there was no ambush, they went in and soon discovered where one of their number had been at work. Indian tracks were thick near by.They saw where a horse had stood, and, going to a thick bunch of willows, found the ground saturated with blood. The Indians had lain hidden in this willow patch, knowing that the trapper would come in the morning to look after his traps. They had thrown Crawford into the river, which was four feet deep. He could be easily seen and was soon pulled to dry land. Crawford was a handsome Texan, six feet tall, brave, kind, generous, and well-educated. Five of his traps were found, and four dead beaver. The Indians had stolen what was left, including his rifle, two pistols, and a horse. The trappers were soon backin camp with the body of their comrade, and, when the men saw Crawford, it was plain that death would be the penalty to any of the redskins who had waylaid him. A grave was dug—the trapper was laid to rest in his blankets—and no monument was placed above to mark the spot, for fear that some wandering redskin would dig up the remains of this fearless man of the plains.The Pah Utes were soon to be encountered, for at two in the afternoon the pickets signalled: “Indians coming on horseback.” The stock was corralled and the scouts stood ready for action. The pickets now rode in and reported sixty Indians, who made their appearance upon a ridge, about three hundred yards from camp.“Come out and fight! Come out and fight!” yelled the redskins.Crawford’s death had cut the scouts down to thirty-eight, but that did not worry these hardy souls. It was impossible to keep the men back, so eager were they to avenge the death of their comrade. Leaving three trappers to take care of camp, the others mounted and started away in the direction of the Indians.When the redskins saw them coming they gave yell after yell, thinking, no doubt, that this would paralyze the white men with fear. Then they divided and charged from two sides. The trappers let them get to within one hundred yards, when they halted and brought their rifles into play. Dropping these upon the ground, they charged with pistols in hand. Fully twenty-five Indians fell before their accurate shots.This bewildered the savages, and, before they could recover, the scouts were in their midst.One tall redskin was mounted on Crawford’s horse. He tried to get away, but delayed entirely too long. He was caught, knocked prostrate to the ground, and the horse, rifle, and pistols of the dead scout were recovered. Forty-three ponies were captured. Very few of the Pah Utes made their escape. Poor Crawford, you see, was thus revenged in full.Two horses which the trappers rode were killed. A few of the scouts received arrow wounds, but none were serious. The secret of the frontiersmen’s success was in making every shot count in the first volley. This bewildered the Indians, and, before they could collect their thoughts, the plainsmen were among them. The scouts were an effective body, and were as well drilled in the use of both rifle and pistol as the soldiers of any nation. Their horses, too, were trained to stand fire and to be quick in evolutions. The war-whoops and yells of the Indians simply made them prick up their ears and look unconcerned.After this affair the little party received little molestation from the red men. At a council it was decided to move, as it was not known how many warriors these Indians could muster, and it was not safe for one or two men to go any distance from camp after furs. The hardy adventurers travelled to the Laramie River, where twenty-five of them determined to go back to St. Louis and to take their furs with them. The original thirteen all returned to the Far West; Williams going to Santa Fé, accompanied byPerkins and six others. It was a sad parting for all, particularly for Bill Hamilton, who had grown to love his comrades like brothers.Bill was now a seasoned trapper, and the rest of his career on the plains was marked by many hazardous adventures with the redskins. He went to California, during the gold excitement, was in the famous Modoc war of 1856, where he belonged to the “Buckskin Rangers,” and was employed as a scout in the uprising of the Sioux in 1876, which was so disastrous to General Custer and his command. He was among those who followed Crazy Horse to his end, and finally resigned from the service of the Government to resume the free and independent life of a trapper. At eighty-two years of age he was living a peaceful and contented life at Columbus, Montana, where—as he says in his biography—“I am thankful that I can still enjoy and appreciate the wonderful beauties of nature.”A true plainsman, a great shot, a nervy fighter,—such was “Uncle Bill” Hamilton. At the present time there is no wild and adventurous West to create such characters as this, for bad Indians have passed away forever.

FAMOUS TRAPPER, TRADER, AND INDIAN FIGHTER

THE mountaineers were pushing, adventurous and fearless men who thought nothing of laying down their lives in the service of a friend. They usually carried very little with them. A few ponies transported their meagre supplies, and, with only enough provisions to last them a few days, they often set out to journey through a vast wilderness. Naturally they were very self-reliant. With only a gun or two they took desperate risks in a country filled with their red enemies. They overcame every difficulty with a dash and courage that is amazing. “Uncle Bill” Hamilton was a typical example of one of these men.

From the time that he was twenty years of age this famous old fellow spent his life on the plains. He became a sign-talker and was able to converse with all the Indian tribes which were met with. Sign-talking will soon be a lost art, but in the old days all of the red men used the same signs, although they spoke different languages. He was also a trapper, trader, and pathfinder. He blazed many a trail which was to lead the frontiersmen to rich agricultural regions. Heset an example of courage and perseverance that will leave a bright memory in the hearts of all.

In the spring of 1842, when twenty years of age, young Bill was living in St. Louis, Missouri; but chills and fever were gradually undermining his constitution, so his doctor ordered a change of climate. Consequently his father made arrangements with a party of hunters and trappers, who were in St. Louis for a few days, to let his son accompany them on their next trip, which would last a year. The party consisted of eight “free” traders, with “Bill” Williams and a man named Perkins, as leaders. These two scouts had had fifteen years’ experience on the plains among Indians, and had a wide reputation for fearless courage and daring exploits.

The trappers soon reached Independence, Missouri,—where they sold their wagons and rigged up a complete pack outfit, as the expedition would go through a country in which wagons could not travel. Young Bill Hamilton still had on city clothes, and when the old fur traders saw this, they began to laugh and poke fun at him.

“What be you going to do with that city cuss in th’ mountains?” said one. “Why, he’ll lose himself in a hour’s time and walk down the throat of some grizzly bear.”

Young Bill did not like this remark at all, and hurrying to a frontier store he traded his “store clothes” for two suits of the finest buckskin. When he appeared in camp with these fine togs on one of the mountaineers said:

“Williams, that boy o’ yourn will make a fine old pioneer and mountaineer, if he catches on at this rate.”

The youthful plainsman heard it and smiled, for he had felt very badly before.

The party pushed onward and reached Salt Creek. Camp had just been made when a small herd of buffalo appeared in the distance and made directly for the little band. Williams gave orders to corral all the stock, for he feared that this was the game of some plains Indians, and he was not far from being correct. The stock had barely been secured when the buffalo thundered by, followed by thirty painted Kiowa warriors. They were wild and savage.

The trappers had placed their packs in a triangle, and crouched behind them. This made an excellent breastwork. Each man was armed with a rifle, two pistols, a tomahawk, and a large knife, called a “tooth-picker.” Two of the men had bows and arrows with which they were experts.

The redskins rode up insolently; examined the outfit, and demanded pay for passing through their country.

“You can neither touch our traps nor will we give you pay for riding through your country,” said Williams. “This is Pawnee country and you are Kiowas.”

The Indians seemed to be ill pleased and looked vindictively at the sturdy men of the plains. The leader was given some tobacco. He was not a chief, but a young brave with two feathers stuck in his scalp-lock. After receiving this gift the savages withdrew, saying: “Ugh! Ugh! We come again!”

The trapper kept close watch during the night, expecting that the Indians would attempt to steal some of the stock and attack the camp. But nothing occurred. Many outfits have come to grief by putting confidence in the red man, who always covets the belongings of the paleface. Old and experienced mountain men like these left nothing to chance.

Pretty soon the trappers reached the camp of some Cheyennes and there unpacked their goods in order to trade. Young Bill accompanied the chief’s son, Swift Runner, through the village, who introduced him to all the leading men.

“There will be a large hunting party starting out to-morrow after buffalo,” said he, “and if you wish to go along I will furnish you with a good hunting horse.”

“I shall be delighted to go,” cried young Bill, so next morning found him riding across the prairie with about fifty Indians and twenty squaws.

After travelling for nearly ten miles the scouts discovered a herd and reported its location to the hunting chief. This leader was thoroughly acquainted with the topography of the country and led the redskins upon a long détour, so as to get on the leeward side of the herd. As soon as a favorable position had been reached the Indians stripped to their breech-clouts and advanced, leading their running horses as they did so.

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AN INDIAN BUFFALO HUNT.

AN INDIAN BUFFALO HUNT.

AN INDIAN BUFFALO HUNT.

The chief now divided the hunters into two divisions, in order to get the buffalo into a small area. They rode to within a quarter of a mile of the herd and then the word was given to “Sail in!”

In an instant the wild array of naked Indians started for the herd, sending forth yell after yell, and riding like demons in their eagerness to bring down the first buffalo. For this is quite a feat and is commented upon by the whole village.

Swift Runner, himself, had the fastest horse in the party and brought down the first buffalo, much to the chagrin of many a young brave—who coveted the honor—for it would bring him smiles from his lady love. Young Bill’s pony loped along with willingness, and Swift Runner pointed out a fat cow for him to dispose of. In a few jumps he was alongside of the great lumbering brute, and fired into her side. As luck would have it, he broke her back and she dropped to the sod. Swift Runner yelled hilariously at this success, but it was a very careless shot, and, had he missed, the cow might have made things ugly for him.

There was a great yelling and shooting upon every hand and several riderless ponies were mixed in with the buffalo. Many prairie-dog holes were the cause of this, for when the ponies stepped into them their riders were, of course, thrown over their heads. Ponies are usually sure-footed beasts, but when in a chase like this, where over a thousand buffalo are tearing over the prairie and kicking up a big lot of dust, it makes it impossible for the animals to see the holes.

Young Bill brought down four of the huge brown bison and received great praise from the Indians forhis skill. They used arrows in their killing and shot behind the shoulder, bringing the buffalo to his knees. Another arrow would be sent deep enough to penetrate the lungs of the beast and it would then be soon over with him.

For three-quarters of a mile the prairie was dotted with the dead buffalo. They were soon butchered; the ponies were packed with three hundred pounds of the choicest meat, and the caravan started for home. Several Indians who had been thrown limped quite badly, but no one was seriously injured. At sundown the village was reached, a feast was prepared, and all joined in the affair with the greatest good will and friendship. Young Bill was warmly congratulated upon his success, and this was well, for if a white man fails to acquit himself creditably with the redskins it casts a reflection upon all the whites.

The Indians made pemmican and “dupuyer” from the buffalo. The first is manufactured in the following manner: the choicest portions of the buffalo meat are selected, sliced, and cut into flakes. They are then dried. All of the marrow, from the centre of the bones, is put into one pile with the sweetest of the tallow. These ingredients are mixed together and stirred around in a pot which is hung over a slow fire. The combination is then cooled. Some red men put berries into the mixture, which harden and give a sweetish taste. The mountaineers and trappers—when sugar was scarce—always made their pemmican in this manner. The Indian squaws pulverized the meat by beating it upon a flat rock, and then placed it in skinbagsfor future use. It is estimated that one pound of pemmican is equal to about five pounds of beef.

A fat substance which lies along the buffalo’s backbone, next to the hide, is known as “dupuyer.” It is about as thick as the hand of a trapper and runs from the shoulder-blade to the last rib. In breadth it measures between seven to eleven inches. The Indians and mountaineers would strip away this substance—dip it in hot grease for thirty seconds—and then hang it to the inside poles of a lodge. A fire would be lighted beneath it and it would be allowed to dry and smoke for ten or twelve hours. “Dupuyer” was considered to be a great delicacy, for it was very nourishing. Besides this it was tender and sweet. The trappers loved this food and would pay a dollar a pound for it, while the Indians always took dried meat and “dupuyer” along with them upon their expeditions.

When Williams and his party moved on, Swift Runner presented young Bill with a pony which he had ridden in the hunt, and the squaws gave him a half a dozen pairs of beautifully embroidered moccasins.

A few days later the party reached the South Platte River and there found a Sioux village. Big Thunder was the chief, and he requested the trappers to camp there, as his people wanted to trade with them. The Sioux were then a friendly tribe and treated the white men in a cordial manner.

Just before dawn—upon the day following—a wild yelping awoke the entire village. The warriors ran out only to find that the Pawnees—themortal enemies of the Sioux—had run off about one hundred head of ponies which had been turned out to graze only a short distance from camp. Among this number were two mules and three ponies belonging to the white men.

As soon as this news was received there was a great yelling and shouting, while fifty young warriors hastened to saddle their best ponies. Young Bill Hamilton was with them, and, under the leadership of Young Thunder, they started after the redskins. The trail of the fugitives was soon struck and followed at a brisk gallop, and, after going about eight miles, it was evident that the Pawnees were but a short distance in advance. Passing over a divide, a cloud of dust could be plainly seen about two miles in advance.

The Pawnees rode hard, but they were soon in view. There were twelve in the party. As Young Thunder gave a war-whoop, the ponies bounded forward and carried their owners towards the fugitives as if shot out of the mouth of a cannon. The Pawnees heard the chief’s yell, and, leaving the herd of stolen stock, made for a neighboring cottonwood grove. While Bill Hamilton rode onward, a bullet whistled by his ear. The savages fired several more shots but their lead all went wide of its mark.

“Don’t you intend to charge the grove and endeavor to capture the Pawnee warriors?” said Bill to the Sioux chief.

Young Thunder smiled and shook his head.

“No, no,” he answered. “’Nough to get back our ponies.”

The young scout thought that the Indians were not such terrible fighters as some writers would have them appear, and this impression never changed, although he occasionally met a few that knew no fear.

Two of the Pawnee braves had been killed in this little skirmish, and the warriors rode back to their village carrying the fresh scalps tied on the end of long sticks. The whole village turned out to greet them, yelling like furies. Pandemonium reigned all night, but when old trapper Williams heard that young Bill had ridden in so close to the timber, he said:

“I shall have to keep you at home next time, if I expect to return you to your parents. You are a young fool to approach close to timber where hostile Indians are concealed.”

“Three of our ponies were in the bunch of captured horses,” answered the young scout. “I did not wish to return without them. As for the Sioux, I consider them a lot of cowards.”

The Pawnees had not acted with good judgment in trying to drive off fully one hundred head of horses, so near daylight. For they should have known that the Sioux warriors would be after them, mounted upon their best war-ponies.

The trappers soon bade good-by to their kind hosts and continued on towards the Little Wind River, crossing a rugged and romantic country, where lofty, sky-piercing peaks ascended into the banks of drifting clouds. To the northwest were the Wind River Mountains; to the eastward was the Big Horn Range,—the home of the buffalo, elk, antelope, deer, andgrizzly bear. It was a hunter’s paradise, where many different tribes of Indians met on their annual hunt, and often battled for the right to the soil. Hostile war-parties were even now quite numerous in the mountains. At Little Wind River, Evans and Russell picked up a moccasin, showing that the redskins were quite near.

Beaver and otter seemed to be plentiful, so the men set their traps. At night they slept with arms at their sides, ready for instant action, and a close guard was stationed beyond camp, as it was almost certain that the Indians would discover them and would run off with their stock. This was the most dangerous country on the plains and was constantly invaded by war-parties of Blackfeet, Bloods, Piegans, and Crows. All had to be constantly upon the alert to avoid losing their horses and their scalps.

About four o’clock one morning two rifle reports brought every man to his feet. Yell after yell sounded from the darkness, and shot after shot came whistling into the camp. In an instant the trappers were up and about—their rifles replying to this fusillade. Evans and Russell (two of the most experienced scouts) killed a couple of the Indians with their first shots, for dawn was just coming, and two black bodies were seen to leap into the air and then roll down a hill upon which they had been crouching. The savages were shooting arrows and old Hudson Bay flintlocks which made a big flash when discharged. As the scouts aimed at these flaming jets, they must have done considerable damage, for the Indians fell back.They continued to send shots into camp until day dawned.

“Let’s charge the critters!” shouted young Bill Hamilton.

“Not on your life, boy!” shouted trapper Williams. “It’s most dangerous to run into such a number of unknown redskins at night.”

So the young man desisted.

Just before daylight the Indians attempted to recover their slain comrades, by crawling up to them in the grass. The scouts, however, were up to such tactics and added one more to keep company with two of the red men already sent to the Happy Hunting Grounds. At this, the redskins gave a yell of deep despair. Then they filed slowly away, sending a few parting shots at the trappers, just to show that they were still in good fighting order.

Five of the trappers’ ponies had been badly wounded, and Williams was so enraged at the injury which had been done that he was determined to punish the Indians still further. Leaving two men in camp, he ordered the rest to follow him on the fresh trail of the early morning marauders, which led up a small stream. The scouts galloped eagerly forward, and, coming to a rise, were soon within plain view of the red men, who were hurrying along, trying to get two of their wounded comrades to the protection of a grove.

“Dash on to the right!” shouted Williams. “Head the redskins off from that bunch of trees!”

The red men saw in a moment that they wouldbe cut off from the grove, and they made for a patch of willows and stunted box-elders just below them. There were eleven of them in all and the trappers certainly had them cornered.

It was about a hundred yards to the Indians, and a scout named Dockett tried a shot at them. The red men returned fire, wounding him in the thigh. There were a quantity of boulders near by, and Williams ordered his men to roll them up to the brow of the hill, in order to form breastworks. Four of the trappers were left behind this, while Williams told Noble and young Bill Hamilton to follow him to the grove without letting the Indians notice that they had decamped.

In the grove the trappers concealed themselves, and the wisdom of their move was quite clear. The Indians realized that they would all be shot down if they remained in their present position, for the men behind the brow of the hill now had their range. Six of them made a dash for the cluster of trees.

When the scurrying red men were within one hundred yards of the timber, Williams gave orders to shoot. The trappers took careful aim, and, at the flash of their rifles, three of the red men fell face down. The other three gave a yell of despair and ran up the hill. The trappers dashed after them, and the Indians became panic-stricken when they saw the mounted white men debouch from the thick woodland.

Williams raced onward, dashed right at the Indians, and, although shot at, managed to bring both of theredskins to the ground. Now all three had been slain, and the revenge which the trappers had wished for had been fully satisfied. The redskins were Blackfeet, the most thieving class of wild riders of the plains.

There were still five Indians in the willows. Many men would have let them go. But not so with Williams. He was considered the hardest man on the plains to down in a fight with the Indians, for he was never known to quit when once started. It was to be a battle to the bitter end.

“There are five Indians down there who shot at and insulted us,” said he. “They shall have what they would have given us had they been successful in their attack.” Here he turned to young Hamilton. “Boy,” said he, “never let an Indian escape who has once attacked you! I want you to go with me. We will walk to the gulch and approach from below.”

But the trappers held their leader in too high estimation to allow him to thus recklessly expose himself.

“Your orders are going to be disobeyed for once in your life,” said they. “We cannot afford to lose you.”

Williams smiled.

“Evans and I will undertake the job,” cried scout Russell. “You cover us with your fire.”

In a second—and before Williams could answer—they bounded into the gulch below. Both were quick of foot and had been in so many desperate battles that they understood the danger of approachingprostrate redskins; for a wounded Indian is an uncertain animal.

The rest of the scouts kept up a steady fire until Evans and Russell were seen to be close to the willows. Then they ceased, as the two scouts bounded forward, yelling like Indians. The other trappers also rushed down, and although one of the braves had his arrow in his bow—all ready to shoot—he never pulled it. In a very short time it was all over.

The Indians had now been annihilated, and among their effects were found two fine bridles, ammunition, knives, and other articles belonging to trappers. It was evident that some small body of white traders had been surprised by these Blackfeet and put out of the way forever. So ended this stiff little skirmish.

The trappers now kept on their way, set many beaver traps, caught a great many of these animals; and traded with several bands of friendly redskins. The men were all fine shots and often received praise from people for their expertness in fire-arms, but no more than they merited, for an American mountaineer had no equal on the globe. It was necessary that the trappers should be very expert, for they carried their lives in their hands, and were liable to come in contact with roving war-parties at any moment. To be taken prisoner meant torture and death, and it was therefore impossible for an Indian to capture either a scout or a trapper. They knew what would follow.

Young Hamilton thoroughly enjoyed the life and soon became one of the most proficient talkers in signlanguage on the plains. The trappers reached Fort Bridger, where were many Shoshones, who asked the youthful scout many questions by signs, all of which he answered correctly. This astonished even the older trappers, many of whom thought that he had been raised by some tribe.

Williams now left the men of the plains in order to go to Santa Fé on business, but promised to be back in the spring and organize a new party for a two-year expedition. Before he left he took young Hamilton aside and gave him advice in many matters. He looked upon him as a son, and few fathers ever gave their children better counsel. The trappers decided to trap near Salt Lake, and the Bear and Malade Rivers, during the fall.

When they had proceeded for some distance they were met by a party of Indians, who spoke the Shoshone tongue, and who informed them that they had to pay for going through their country. Perkins—who was now leader of the trappers—tried to make peace with them, but without success. He made the Indians keep away, but they continued to make signs, meaning “dogs,”—which the white men well understood. The trappers held their rifles ready for any emergency.

Perkins cautioned his men to have patience, and, filling his pipe, offered it to the chief, who refused it with contempt, saying: “Big chief never smokes with white dogs.”

The head trapper’s patience was now almost exhausted and he told the chief in plain language to“get out.” His men prepared for action, as he spoke, so the redskins mounted their ponies and departed towards the South. As they rode off, they cast all kinds of insults at the white men, both with signs and in spoken language. It was certain that they would soon follow the trappers and then there would be a big fight.

That night every precaution was taken to guard against a surprise. Two guards were put on duty, to be relieved at midnight, and a well fortified position was chosen for camp. Perkins said that it was customary for the Utahs to attack just before daylight, for this is the time that the redskins expect to find the whites fast asleep. This is what occurred in the present instance.

A little before daylight two or three wolf howls were heard by the guards, who immediately notified Perkins. Soon all the men were up, their packs being placed in a semi-circle as a breastwork. Twenty of the best horses were saddled and tied in a thicket, to protect them from Indian bullets and arrows. Defeat meant death, so the trappers looked stolidly before them, fully prepared for the worst, if it were to come.

The first wolf howls were soon followed by others, coming from nearer points and in a semi-circle. Indians are experts in imitating the cries of owls, wolves and coyotes. So adept are they in the art that it is difficult to distinguish them from the calls of real birds and beasts. Few trappers can successfully imitate these animals, although many endeavor to do so.

It was not long before the attack commenced. Justas day began to dawn the wolf howls ceased and the trappers knew that the crisis was at hand. The Indians had crept to within one hundred yards of camp before they gave the war-whoop. Then they came on—fully one hundred strong—yelping wildly. The trappers were all ready with their rifles and pistols. Three were armed with double-barrelled shot-guns, loaded with half-ounce balls and fine buck-shot.

The Indians raced to within fifty yards before a single trapper fired,—then all began to shoot. The redskins halted. At this the plainsmen began with their six-shooters, one in each hand, for—as a result of long continued practice—they could shoot equally well with either arm. These mountaineers had to be experts in the use of both rifle and pistol, for inability to fire with accuracy meant instant death upon many an occasion.

The red men were much surprised to receive so many shots from but twenty men. They became panic-stricken, for they had not supposed that the trappers possessed two pistols each—twelve shots apiece after their rifles had been discharged. They had expected to rush right over the breastworks, before the rifles could be reloaded. They retreated—assisting many of their wounded. An arrow went through young Bill Hamilton’s cap.

The redskins had received a repulse which they had not expected, and retreated to their villages, taking their dead and wounded with them. The chief, Old Bear, had been slain, as well as many of their bravest warriors. This tribe had frequently robbed smallparties of trappers, killing them many times and always treating them with great cruelty. After this fight they usually gave well-organized bodies of trappers the “go by.”

The plainsmen finished their work without being further molested, and then moved on to Bear River. In the spring, trapper Williams returned from Santa Fé, and made a proposition to the men that he should form a company of forty-three and make a two-years’ trip. This was agreed upon, and the expedition soon started, on the 25th of March, 1843. The trappers were divided into four parties, which collected furs in common; that is, each man had an equal share in all furs caught by his own party. For mutual protection they always pitched their tents and lodges together.

They soon passed through the country inhabited by the Bannock Indians. These were troublesome and had many a brush with the stout men of the plains. But the trappers came through every escapade without much loss. The region in which they soon found themselves was rich with beaver and otter; large quantities of which were caught. It was a grandly beautiful country—a paradise for all kinds of game. Bear were particularly plentiful, and many a grizzly and cinnamon fell before the accurate aim of the men in buckskin.

“Young Bill” Hamilton could not be called “Young Bill” any more, because he was a seasoned trapper, and his many experiences with wild men and wild beasts had made it possible for him to hold hisown with the most experienced men of the party. The trappers made a wide détour, first going far North, then travelling South to the Carson River in Nevada, where they lost one of their best and most skilled men,—a fellow named Crawford. They were in the Pah Ute country and could tell very readily that the Indians were most unfriendly. In spite of this they set their beaver traps, for they saw that these animals were thick.

As Crawford did not return to camp one evening it was decided to make a search for him. Dockett, who was an outside trapper (or one who had his traps furthest from camp), had seen the missing man setting his traps at a bend in the river, at some distance away. To this point the trappers hurried, and, scouting in some cottonwood groves, in order to make sure that there was no ambush, they went in and soon discovered where one of their number had been at work. Indian tracks were thick near by.

They saw where a horse had stood, and, going to a thick bunch of willows, found the ground saturated with blood. The Indians had lain hidden in this willow patch, knowing that the trapper would come in the morning to look after his traps. They had thrown Crawford into the river, which was four feet deep. He could be easily seen and was soon pulled to dry land. Crawford was a handsome Texan, six feet tall, brave, kind, generous, and well-educated. Five of his traps were found, and four dead beaver. The Indians had stolen what was left, including his rifle, two pistols, and a horse. The trappers were soon backin camp with the body of their comrade, and, when the men saw Crawford, it was plain that death would be the penalty to any of the redskins who had waylaid him. A grave was dug—the trapper was laid to rest in his blankets—and no monument was placed above to mark the spot, for fear that some wandering redskin would dig up the remains of this fearless man of the plains.

The Pah Utes were soon to be encountered, for at two in the afternoon the pickets signalled: “Indians coming on horseback.” The stock was corralled and the scouts stood ready for action. The pickets now rode in and reported sixty Indians, who made their appearance upon a ridge, about three hundred yards from camp.

“Come out and fight! Come out and fight!” yelled the redskins.

Crawford’s death had cut the scouts down to thirty-eight, but that did not worry these hardy souls. It was impossible to keep the men back, so eager were they to avenge the death of their comrade. Leaving three trappers to take care of camp, the others mounted and started away in the direction of the Indians.

When the redskins saw them coming they gave yell after yell, thinking, no doubt, that this would paralyze the white men with fear. Then they divided and charged from two sides. The trappers let them get to within one hundred yards, when they halted and brought their rifles into play. Dropping these upon the ground, they charged with pistols in hand. Fully twenty-five Indians fell before their accurate shots.This bewildered the savages, and, before they could recover, the scouts were in their midst.

One tall redskin was mounted on Crawford’s horse. He tried to get away, but delayed entirely too long. He was caught, knocked prostrate to the ground, and the horse, rifle, and pistols of the dead scout were recovered. Forty-three ponies were captured. Very few of the Pah Utes made their escape. Poor Crawford, you see, was thus revenged in full.

Two horses which the trappers rode were killed. A few of the scouts received arrow wounds, but none were serious. The secret of the frontiersmen’s success was in making every shot count in the first volley. This bewildered the Indians, and, before they could collect their thoughts, the plainsmen were among them. The scouts were an effective body, and were as well drilled in the use of both rifle and pistol as the soldiers of any nation. Their horses, too, were trained to stand fire and to be quick in evolutions. The war-whoops and yells of the Indians simply made them prick up their ears and look unconcerned.

After this affair the little party received little molestation from the red men. At a council it was decided to move, as it was not known how many warriors these Indians could muster, and it was not safe for one or two men to go any distance from camp after furs. The hardy adventurers travelled to the Laramie River, where twenty-five of them determined to go back to St. Louis and to take their furs with them. The original thirteen all returned to the Far West; Williams going to Santa Fé, accompanied byPerkins and six others. It was a sad parting for all, particularly for Bill Hamilton, who had grown to love his comrades like brothers.

Bill was now a seasoned trapper, and the rest of his career on the plains was marked by many hazardous adventures with the redskins. He went to California, during the gold excitement, was in the famous Modoc war of 1856, where he belonged to the “Buckskin Rangers,” and was employed as a scout in the uprising of the Sioux in 1876, which was so disastrous to General Custer and his command. He was among those who followed Crazy Horse to his end, and finally resigned from the service of the Government to resume the free and independent life of a trapper. At eighty-two years of age he was living a peaceful and contented life at Columbus, Montana, where—as he says in his biography—“I am thankful that I can still enjoy and appreciate the wonderful beauties of nature.”

A true plainsman, a great shot, a nervy fighter,—such was “Uncle Bill” Hamilton. At the present time there is no wild and adventurous West to create such characters as this, for bad Indians have passed away forever.

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