CHAPTER II
About the middle of September the Indians became very troublesome on
the line of the stage along the Sweetwater, between Split Rock and
Three Crossings. A stage had been robbed and two passengers killed
outright. Lem Flowers, the driver, was badly wounded. The thievish
redskins also drove stock repeatedly from the stations. They were
continually lying in wait for passing stages and Pony Express riders.
It was useless to keep the Express going until these depredations could
be stopped. A lay-off of six weeks was ordered, and our time was our
own.
While we were thus idle a party was organized to carry the war into the
Indians' own country, and teach them that the white man's property must
be let alone. This party I joined.
Stage-drivers, express-riders, stock-tenders and ranchmen, forty in
number, composed this party. All were well armed; all were good shots,
and brave, determined men. "Wild Bill" Hickock, another of the Western
gunmen of whom I shall have something to tell later, was captain of the
expedition. He had come recently to our division as a stage-driver and
had the experience and courage necessary to that kind of leadership.
Twenty miles out from Sweetwater Bridge, at the head of Horse Creek, we
found an Indian trail running north toward Powder River. We could see
that the horses had been recently shod, conclusive proof that they were
our stolen stock. We pushed on as fast as we could along the trail to
the Powder, thence down this stream to within forty miles of where old
Fort Reno now stands. Farther on, at Crazy Woman's Fork, we saw
evidence that another party had joined our quarry. The trail was newly
made. The Indians could be hardly more than twenty-four hours ahead of
us. And plainly there was a lot of them.
When we reached Clear Creek, another tributary of the Powder, we saw
horses grazing on the opposite bank. Horses meant Indians. Never before
had the redskins been followed so far into their own country. Not
dreaming that they would be pursued they had failed to put out scouts.
We quickly got the "lay" of their camp, and held a council to decide on
how to attack them. We knew that they outnumbered us three to
one--perhaps more. Without strategy, all we would get for our long
chase would be the loss of our scalps.
"Wild Bill," who did not know the meaning of fear, made our plan for
us. We were to wait till nightfall, and then, after creeping up as
close as possible on the camp, make a grand ride right through it, open
a general fire upon them, and stampede their horses.
It was a plan that called for nerve, but we were full of spirit, and
the more danger there was in an enterprise the more we relished it. At
our captain's signal we rushed pell-mell through their camp. Had we
dropped from the clouds the Indians could not have been more
astonished. At the sound of our shots they scattered in every
direction, yelling warnings to each other as they fled.
Once clear of the camp we circled to the south and came back to make
sure that we had done a thorough job. A few parting shots stampeded the
stragglers. Then, with one hundred captured ponies--most, if not all of
them, stolen from the Express and State stations--we rode back to
Sweetwater Bridge.
The recovered horses were placed on the road again, and the Express was
resumed. Slade, who was greatly pleased with our exploit, now assigned
me as special or supernumerary rider. Thereafter while I was with him I
had a comparatively easy time of it, riding only now and then, and
having plenty of opportunity for seeking after the new adventures in
which I delighted.
Alf Slade, stage-line superintendent, frontiersman, and dare-devil
fighting man, was one of the far-famed gunmen of the Plains. These were
a race of men bred by the perils and hard conditions of Western life.
They became man-killers first from stern necessity. In that day the man
who was not quick on the trigger had little chance with the outlaws
among whom he had to live. Slade and "Wild Bill," with both of whom I
became closely associated, were men of nerve and courage. But both,
having earned the reputation of gun-fighters, became too eager to live
up to it. Eventually both became outlaws.
Slade, though always a dangerous man, and extremely rough in his
manner, never failed to treat me with kindness. Sober, he was cool and
self-possessed, but never a man to be trifled with. Drunk, he was a
living fury. His services to the company for which he worked were of
high value. He was easily the best superintendent on the line. But his
habit of man-killing at last resulted in his execution.
Another man who gained even greater notoriety than Slade was "Wild
Bill" Hickock, a tall, yellow-haired giant who had done splendid
service as a scout in the western sector of the Civil War.
"Wild Bill" I had known since 1857. He and I shared the pleasure of
walking a thousand miles to the Missouri River, after the bull-train in
which we both were employed had been burned by Lot Smith, the Mormon
raider. Afterward we rode the Pony Express together.
While an express rider, Bill had the fight with the McCandless gang
which will always form an interesting chapter in the history of the
West.
Coming into his swing station at Rock Creek one day, Bill failed to
arouse any one with his shouts for a fresh mount. This was a certain
indication of trouble. It was the stock-tender's business to be on hand
with a relief pony the instant the rider came in. The Pony Express did
not tolerate delays.
Galloping into the yard, Bill dismounted and hurried to the stable. In
the door he saw the stock-tender lying dead, and at the same instant a
woman's screams rang from the cabin near by. Turning about, Bill found
himself face to face with a ruffian who was rushing from the house,
brandishing a six-shooter. He asked no questions, but pulled one of the
two guns he carried and fired. No sooner had the man fallen, however,
than a second, also armed, came out of the house. Hickock disposed of
this fellow also, and then entered the place, where four others opened
a fusillade on him.
Although the room was thick with smoke, and Bill had to use extreme
care to avoid hitting the woman, who was screaming in the corner, he
managed to kill two of his assailants with his revolvers and to ward
off a blow with a rifle a third had leveled at him.
The blow knocked the weapon from his hand, but his knife was still left
him, and with it he put the man with the rifle out of the way. His
troubles were not at an end, however. Another man came climbing in the
window to avenge his fellow gangsters. Bill reached for a rifle which
lay on the floor and shot first.
When he took count a few minutes later he discovered that he had killed
five men and wounded a sixth, who escaped in the thick of the fight.
The woman, who had been knocked unconscious by one of the desperadoes,
was soon revived. She was the stock-tender's wife, and had been
attacked the by gang as soon as they had slain her husband.
The passengers of the Overland stage, which rolled in as Bill was
reviving the terrified woman, were given a view of Western life which
none of them ever forgot.
Bill was the hero of the occasion, and a real hero he was, for probably
never has a man won such a victory against such terrific odds in all
the history of the war against the ruffians of the West.
It was at Springfield, Missouri, that Bill had his celebrated fight
with Dave Tutt. The fight put an end to Tutt's career. I was a personal
witness to another of his gun exploits, in which, though the chances
were all against him, he protected his own life and incidentally his
money. An inveterate poker player, he got into a game in Springfield
with big players and for high stakes. Sitting by the table, I noticed
that he seemed sleepy and inattentive. So I kept a close watch on the
other fellows. Presently I observed that one of his opponents was
occasionally dropping a card in his hat, which he held in his lap,
until a number of cards had been laid away for future use in the game.
The pot had gone around several times and was steadily raised by some
of the players, Bill staying right along, though he still seemed to be
drowsy.
The bets kept rising. At last the man with the hatful of cards picked a
hand out of his reserves, put the hat on his head and raised Bill two
hundred dollars. Bill came back with a raise of two hundred, and as the
other covered it he quietly shoved a pistol into his face and observed:
"I am calling the hand that is in your hat!"
[Illustration: HE SHOVED A PISTOL IN THE MAN'S FACE AND SAID "I'M
CALLING THE HAND THAT'S IN YOUR HAT"]
Gathering in the pot with his left hand, he held the pistol with his
right and inquired if any of the players had any objections to offer.
They hastened to reply that they had no objections whatever and we went
away from there.
"Bill," I said, when we were well outside the place, "I had been
noticing that fellow's play right along, but I thought you hadn't. I
was going to get into the game myself if he beat you out of that
money."
"Billy," replied Hickock, "I don't want you ever to learn it, but that
is one of my favorite poker tricks. It always wins against crooked
players."
Not all of the gunmen of the West began straight. Some of them--many,
in fact--were thieves and murderers from the beginning. Such were the
members of the McCandless gang, which Hickock disposed of so
thoroughly. All along the stage route were robbers and man-killers far
more vicious than the Indians. Very early in my career as a
frontiersman I had an encounter with a party of these from which I was
extremely fortunate to escape with my life.
I employed the leisure afforded me by my assignment as an extra rider
in hunting excursions, in which I took a keen delight. I was returning
home empty-handed from a bear hunt, when night overtook me in a lonely
spot near a mountain stream. I had killed two sage-hens and built a
little fire over which to broil them before my night's rest.
Suddenly I heard a horse whinny farther up the stream. Thinking
instantly of Indians, I ran quickly to my own horse to prevent him from
answering the call, and thus revealing my presence.
Filled with uneasiness as to who and what my human neighbors might be,
I resaddled my horse, and, leaving him tied where I could reach him in
a hurry if need be, made my way up-stream to reconnoiter. As I came
around a bend I received an unpleasant shock. Not one horse, but
fifteen horses, were grazing just ahead of me.
On the opposite side of the creek a light shone high up the mountain
bank--a light from the window of a dugout. I drew near very cautiously
till I came within, sound of voices within the place, and discovered
that its occupants were conversing in my own language. That relieved
me. I knew the strangers to be white men. I supposed them to be
trappers, and, walking boldly to the door, I knocked.
Instantly the voices ceased. There ensued absolute silence for a space,
and then came-whisperings, and sounds of men quietly moving about the
dirt floor.
"Who's there?" called someone.
"A friend and a white man," I replied.
The door opened, and a big, ugly-looking fellow stood before me.
"Come in," he ordered.
I accepted the invitation with hesitation, but there was nothing else
to do. To retreat would have meant pursuit and probably death.
Eight of the most villainous-appearing ruffians I have ever set eyes
upon sat about the dugout as I entered. Two of them I recognized at
once as teamsters who had been employed by Simpson a few months before.
Both had been charged with murdering a ranchman and stealing his
horses. Simpson had promptly discharged them, and it was supposed that
they had left the country.
I gave them no sign of recognition. I was laying my plans to get out of
there as speedily as possible. I was now practically certain that I had
uncovered the hiding-place of a gang of horse-thieves who could have no
possible reason to feel anything but hostility toward an honest man.
The leader of the gang swaggered toward me and inquired menacingly:
"Where are you going, young man, and who's with you?"
"I am entirely alone," I returned. "I left Horseshoe Station this
morning for a bear hunt. Not finding any bears, I was going to camp out
till morning. I heard one of your horses whinnying, and came up to your
camp."
"Where is your horse?"
"I left him down the creek."
They proposed going for the horse, which was my only means of getting
rid of their unwelcome society. I tried strategy to forestall them.
"I'll go and get him," I said. "I'll leave my gun here."
This, I fancied, would convince them that I intended to return, but it
didn't.
"Jim and I will go with you," said one of the thieves. "You can leave
your gun here if you want to. You won't need it."
I saw that if I was to get away at all I would have to be extremely
alert. These were old hands, and were not to be easily fooled. I felt
it safer, however, to trust myself with two men than with six, so I
volunteered to show the precious pair where I had left the horse, and
led them to my camp.
The animal was secured, and as one of the men started to lead him up
the stream I picked up the two sage-hens I had intended for my evening
meal. The more closely we approached the dugout the less I liked the
prospect of reentering it. One plan of escape had failed. I was sure
the ruffians had no intention of permitting me to leave them and inform
the stage people of their presence in the country.
One more plan suggested itself to me, and I lost no time in trying it.
Dropping one of the sage-hens, I asked the man behind me to pick it up.
As he was groping for it in the darkness, I pulled one of my Colt's
revolvers, and hit him a terrific blow over the head. He dropped to the
ground, senseless.
Wheeling about, I saw that the other man, hearing the fall, had turned,
his hand upon his revolver. It was no time for argument. I fired and
killed him. Then, leaping on my horse, I dug the spurs into his sides,
and back down the trail we went, over the rocks and rough ground toward
safety.
[Illustration: IT WAS NO TIME FOR ARGUMENT. I FIRED, AND KILLED HIM]
My peril was far from past. At the sound of the shot the six men in the
dugout tumbled forth in hot haste. They stopped an instant at the scene
of the shooting, possibly to revive the man I had stunned and to learn
from him what had happened.
They were too wise to mount their horses, knowing that, afoot, they
could make better time over the rocky country than I could on
horseback. Steadily I heard them gaining, and soon made up my mind that
if I was to evade them at all I must abandon my horse.
Jumping off, I gave him a smart slap with the butt of my revolver which
sent him down the valley. I turned and began to scramble up the
mountainside.
I had climbed hardly forty feet when I heard them pass, following the
sound of my horse's feet. I dodged behind a tree as they went by, and
when I heard them firing farther down the trail I worked my way up the
mountainside.
It was twenty-five miles to Horseshoe Station, and very hard traveling
the first part of the way. But I got to the station, just before
daylight, weary and footsore, but exceedingly thankful.
Tired as I was, I woke up the men at the station and told them of my
adventure. Slade himself led the party that set out to capture my
former hosts, and I went along, though nearly beat out.
Twenty of us, after a brisk ride, reached the dugout at ten o'clock in
the morning. But the thieves had gone. We found a newly made grave
where they had buried the man I had to kill, and a trail leading
southwest toward Denver. That was all. But my adventure at least
resulted in clearing the country of horse-thieves. Once the gang had
gone, no more depredations occurred for a long time.
After a year's absence from home I began to long to see my mother and
sisters again. In June, 1861, I got a pass over the stage-line, and
returned to Leavenworth. The first rumblings of the great struggle that
was soon to be known as the Civil War were already reverberating
throughout the North; Sumter had been fired upon in April of that year.
Kansas, as every schoolboy knows, was previously the bloody scene of
some of the earliest conflicts.
My mother's sympathies were strongly with the Union. She knew that war
was bound to come, but so confident was she in the strength of the
Federal Government that she devoutly believed that the struggle could
not last longer than six months at the utmost.
Fort Leavenworth and the town of Leavenworth were still important
outfitting posts for the soldiers in the West and Southwest. The fort
was strongly garrisoned by regular troops. Volunteers were undergoing
training. Many of my boyhood friends were enlisting. I was eager to
join them.
But I was still the breadwinner of the family, the sole support of my
sisters and my invalid mother. Not because of this, but because of her
love for me, my mother exacted from me a promise that I would not
enlist for the war while she lived.
But during the summer of 1861 a purely local company, know as the
Red-Legged Scouts, and commanded by Captain Bill Tuff, was organized.
This I felt I could join without breaking my promise not to enlist for
the war, and join it I did. The Red-Legged Scouts, while they
cooeperated with the regular army along the borders of Missouri, had for
their specific duty the protection of Kansas against raiders like
Quantrell, and such bandits as the James Boys, the Younger Brothers,
and other desperadoes who conducted a guerrilla warfare against Union
settlers.
We had plenty to do. The guerrillas were daring fellows and kept us
busy. They robbed banks, raided villages, burned buildings, and looted
and plundered wherever there was loot or plunder to be had.
But Tuff was the same kind of a fighting man as they, and working in a
better cause. With his scouts he put the fear of the law into the
hearts of the guerrillas, and they notably decreased their depredations
in consequence.
Whenever and wherever we found that the scattered bands were getting
together for a general raid we would at once notify the regulars at
Fort Scott or Fort Leavenworth to be ready for them. Quantrell once
managed to collect a thousand men in a hurry, and to raid and sack
Lawrence before the troops could head them off. But when we got on
their trail they were driven speedily back into Missouri.
In the meantime we took care that little mischief was done by the gangs
headed by the James Boys and the Youngers, who operated in Quantrell's
wake and in small bands.
In the spring of '63 I left the Red-Legged Scouts to serve the Federal
Government as guide and scout with the Ninth Kansas Cavalry. The Kiowas
and Comanches were giving trouble along the old Santa Fe trail and
among the settlements of western Kansas. The Ninth Kansas were sent to
tame them and to protect immigrants and settlers.
This was work that I well understood. We had a lively summer, for the
Indians kept things stirring, but after a summer of hard fighting we
made them understand that the Great White Chief was a power that the
Indians had better not irritate. November, '63, I returned with the
command to Leavenworth. I had money in my pockets, for my pay had been
$150 a month, and I was able to lay in an abundant supply of provisions
for my family.
On the twenty-third day of December my mother passed away. Her life had
been an extremely hard one, but she had borne up bravely under poverty
and privation, supplying with her own teaching the education that the
frontier schools could not give her children, and by her Christian
example setting them all on a straight road through life.
Border ruffians killed her husband, almost within sight of her home.
She passed months in terror and distress and, until I became old enough
to provide for her, often suffered from direst poverty. Yet she never
complained for herself; her only thoughts being for her children and
the sufferings that were visited upon them because of their necessary
upbringing in a rough and wild country.
My sister Julia was now married to Al Goodman, a fine and capable young
man, and I was free to follow the promptings of an adventurous nature
and go where my companions were fighting. In January, 1864, the Seventh
Kansas Volunteers came to Leavenworth from the South, where they had
been fighting since the early years of the war. Among them I found many
of my old friends and schoolmates. I was no longer under promise not to
take part in the war and I enlisted as a private.
In March of that year the regiment was embarked on steamboats and sent
to Memphis, Tennessee, where we joined the command of General A.J.
Smith. General Smith was organizing an army to fight the illiterate but
brilliant Confederate General Forrest, who was then making a great deal
of trouble in southern Tennessee.
While we were mobilizing near Memphis, Colonel Herrick of our regiment
recommended me to General Smith for membership in a picked corps to be
used for duty as scouts, messengers, and dispatch carriers. Colonel
Herrick recounted my history as a plainsman, which convinced the
commander that I would be useful in this special line of duty.
When I reported to General Smith, he invited me into his tent and
inquired minutely into my life as a scout.
"You ought to be able to render me valuable service," he said.
When I replied that I should be only too glad to do so, he got out a
map of Tennessee, and on it showed me where he believed General
Forrest's command to be located. His best information was that the
Confederate commander was then in the neighborhood of Okolona,
Mississippi, about two hundred miles south, of Memphis.
He instructed me to disguise myself as a Tennessee boy, to provide
myself with a farm horse from the stock in the camp, and to try to
locate Forrest's main command. Having accomplished this, I was to
gather all the information possible concerning the enemy's strength in
men and equipment and defenses, and to make my way back as speedily as
possible.
General Smith expected to start south the following morning, and he
showed me on the map the wagon road he planned to follow, so that I
might know where to find him on my return. He told me before we parted
that the mission on which he was sending me was exceedingly dangerous.
"If you are captured," he said, "you will be shot as a spy."
To this I replied that my Indian scouting trips had been equally
dangerous, as capture meant torture and death, yet I had always
willingly undertaken them.
"Do you think you can find Forrest's army?" he said. "Well, if you
can't find an army as big as that you're a mighty poor scout," he said
grimly.
General Smith then turned me over to the man who was in charge of what
was called "the refuge herd," from which I found a mount built on the
lines of the average Tennessee farm horse. This man also provided me
with a suit of farmer's clothing, for which I exchanged my new soldier
uniform, and a bag of provisions. Leading me about a mile from camp, he
left me with the warning:
"Look out, young fellow. You're taking a dangerous trip." Then we shook
hands and I began my journey.
I had studied carefully the map General Smith had shown me, and had a
fairly accurate idea of the direction I was supposed to take. Following
a wagon road that led to the south, I made nearly sixty miles the first
night. The mare I had chosen proved a good traveler.
When morning came I saw a big plantation, with the owner's and negroes'
houses, just ahead of me. I was anxious to learn how my disguise was
going to work, and therefore rode boldly up to the house of the
overseer and asked if I could get rest and some sort of breakfast.
In response to his inquiries I said I was a Tennesseean and on my way
to Holly Springs. I used my best imitation of the Southern dialect,
which I can still use on occasion, and it was perfectly successful. I
was given breakfast, my mare was fed, and I slept most of the day in a
haystack, taking up my journey again immediately after dinner.
Thereafter I had confidence in my disguise, and, while making no effort
to fall into conversation with people, I did not put myself out to
evade anyone whom I met. None of those with whom I talked suspected me
of being a Northern spy.
At the end of a few days I saw that I was near a large body of troops.
It was in the morning after a hard day-and-night ride. Fearing to
approach the outposts looking weary and fagged out, I rested for an
hour, and then rode up and accosted one of them. To his challenge I
said I was a country boy, and had come in to see the soldiers. My
father and brother, I said, were fighting with Forrest, and I was
almost persuaded to enlist myself.
My story satisfied the guard and I was passed. A little farther on I
obtained permission to pasture my horse with a herd of animals
belonging to the Confederates and, afoot, I proceeded to the camp of
the soldiers. By acting the part of the rural Tennesseean, making
little purchases from the negro food-stands, and staring open-mouthed
at all the camp life, I picked up a great deal of information without
once falling under suspicion.
The question now uppermost in my mind was how I was going to get away.
Toward evening I returned to the pasture, saddled my mare and rode to
the picket line where I had entered. Here, to my dismay, I discovered
that the outposts had been recently changed.
But I used the same story that had gained admission for me. In a sack
tied to my saddle were the food supplies I had bought from the negroes
during the day. These, I explained to the outposts, were intended as
presents for my mother and sisters back on the farm. They examined the
sack, and, finding nothing contraband in it, allowed me to pass.
I now made all possible speed northward, keeping out of sight of houses
and of strangers. On the second day I passed several detachments of
Forrest's troops, but my training as a scout enabled me to keep them
from seeing me.
Though my mare had proven herself an animal of splendid endurance, I
had to stop and rest her occasionally. At such times I kept closely
hidden. It was on the second morning after leaving Forrest's command
that I sighted the advance guard of Smith's army. They halted me when I
rode up, and for a time I had more trouble with them than I had had
with any of Forrest's men. I was not alarmed, however, and when the
captain told me that he would have to send me to the rear, I surprised
him by asking to see General Smith.
"Are you anxious to see a big, fighting general?" he asked in
amazement.
"Yes," I said. "I hear that General Smith can whip Forrest, and I would
like to see any man who can do that."
Without any promises I was sent to the rear, and presently I noticed
General Smith, who, however, failed to recognize me.
I managed, however, to draw near to him and ask him if I might speak to
him for a moment.
Believing me to be a Confederate prisoner, he assented, and when I had
saluted I said:
"General, I am Billy Cody, the man you sent out to the Confederate
lines."
"Report back to your charge," said the general to the officer who had
me in custody. "I will take care of this man."
My commander was much pleased with my report, which proved to be
extremely accurate and valuable. The disguise he had failed to
penetrate did not deceive my comrades of the Ninth Kansas, and when I
passed them they all called me by name and asked me where I had been.
But my news was for my superior officers, and I did not need the
warning Colonel Herrick gave me to keep my mouth shut while among the
soldiers.
General Smith, to whom I later made a full detailed report, had spoken
highly of my work to Colonel Herrick, who was gratified to know that
his choice of a scout had been justified by results.
It was not long before the whole command knew of my return, but beyond
the fact that I had been on a scouting expedition, and had brought back
information much desired by the commander, they knew nothing of my
journey. The next morning, still riding the same mare and still wearing
my Tennessee clothes, I rode out with the entire command in the
direction of Forrest's army.
Before I had traveled five miles I had been pointed out to the entire
command, and cheers greeted me on every side. As soon as an opportunity
offered I got word with the general and asked if he had any further
special orders for me.
"Just keep around," he said; "I may need you later on."
"But I am a scout," I told him, "and the place for a scout is ahead of
the army, getting information."
"Go ahead," he replied, "and if you see anything that I ought to know
about come back and tell me."
Delighted to be a scout once more, I made my way forward. The general
had given orders that I was to be allowed to pass in and out the lines
at will, so that I was no longer hampered by the activities of my own
friends. I had hardly got beyond the sound of the troops when I saw a
beautiful plantation house, on the porch of which was a handsome old
lady and her two attractive daughters.
They were greatly alarmed when I came up, and asked if I didn't know
that the Yankee army would be along in a few minutes and that my life
was in peril. All their own men folks, they said, were in hiding in the
timber.
"Don't you sit here," begged the old lady, when I had seated myself on
the porch to sip a glass of milk for which I had asked her. "The Yankee
troops will go right through this house. They will break up the piano
and every stick of furniture, and leave the place in ruins. You are
sure to be killed or taken prisoner."
By this time the advance guard was coming up the road. General Smith
passed as I was standing on the porch. I saw that he had noticed me,
though he gave no sign of having done so. As more troops passed, men
began leaving their companies and rushing toward the house. I walked
out and ordered them away in the name of the general. They all knew who
I was, and obeyed, much to the astonishment of the old lady and her
daughter.
Turning to my hostess, I said:
"Madam, I can't keep them out of your chicken-house or your smoke-house
or your storerooms, but I can keep them out of your home, and I will."
I remained on the porch till the entire command had passed. Nothing was
molested. Much pleased, but still puzzled, the old lady was now
convinced that I was no Tennessee lad, but a sure-enough Yankee, and
one with a remarkable amount of influence. When I asked for a little
something to eat in return for what I had done, the best there was in
the house was spread before me.
My hostess urged me to eat as speedily as possible, and be on my way.
Her men folks, she said, would soon return from the timber, and if they
learned that I was a Yank would shoot me on the spot. As she was
speaking the back door was pushed open and three men rushed in. The old
lady leaped between them and me.
"Don't shoot him!" she cried. "He has protected our property and our
lives." But the men had no murderous intentions.
"Give him all he wants to eat," said the eldest, "and we will see that
he gets back to the Yankee lines in safety. We saw him from the
treetops turn away the Yanks as he stood on the porch."
While I finished my meal they put all manner of questions to me, being
specially impressed that a boy so young could have kept a great army
from foraging so richly stocked a plantation. I told them that I was a
Union scout, and that I had saved their property on my own
responsibility.
"I knew you would be back here," I said. "But I was sure you wouldn't
shoot me when you learned what I had done."
"You bet your life we won't!" they said heartily.
After dinner I was stocked Tip with all the provisions I wanted, and
given a fine bottle of peach brandy, the product of the plantation.
Then the men of the place escorted me to the rear-guard of the command,
which I lost no time in joining. When I overtook the general and
presented him with the peach brandy, he said gruffly:
"I hear you kept all the men from foraging on that plantation back
yonder."
"Yes, sir," I said. "An old lady and her two daughters were alone
there. My mother had suffered from raids of hostile soldiers in Kansas.
I tried to protect that old lady, as I would have liked another man to
protect my mother in her distress. I am sorry if I have disobeyed your
orders and I am ready for any punishment you wish to inflict on me."
"My boy," said the general, "you may be too good-hearted for a soldier,
but you have done just what I would have done. My orders were to
destroy all Southern property. But we will forget your violation, of
them."
General Smith kept straight on toward Forrest's stronghold. Ten miles
from the spot where the enemy was encamped, he wheeled to the left and
headed for Tupedo, Mississippi, reaching there at dark. Forrest
speedily discovered that Smith did not intend to attack him on his own
ground. So he broke camp, and, coming up to the rear, continued a hot
fire through the next afternoon.
Arriving near Tupedo, General Smith selected, as a battleground, the
crest of a ridge commanding the position Forrest had taken up. Between
the two armies lay a plantation of four or five thousand acres. The
next morning Forrest dismounted some four thousand cavalry, and with
cavalry and artillery on his left and right advanced upon our position.
Straight across the plantation they came, while Smith rode back and
forth behind the long breastworks that protected his men, cautioning
them to reserve their fire till it could be made to tell. All our men
were fighting with single shotguns. The first shot, in a close action,
had to count, or a second one might never be fired.
I had been detailed to follow Smith as he rode to and fro. With an eye
to coming out of the battle with a whole skin I had picked out a number
of trees, behind which I proposed to drop my horse when the fighting
got to close quarters. This was the fashion I had always employed in
Indian fighting. As the Confederates got within good range, the order
"Fire!" rang out.
At that instant I wheeled my horse behind a big oak tree. Unhappily for
me the general was looking directly at me as this maneuver was
executed. When we had driven back and defeated Forrest's men I was
ordered to report at General Smith's tent.
"Young man," said the General, when I stood before him, "you were
recommended to me as an Indian fighter. What were you doing behind that
tree!"
"That is the way we have to fight Indians, sir," I said. "We get behind
anything that offers protection." It was twelve years later that I
convinced General Smith that my theory of Indian fighting was pretty
correct.
After the consolidation of the regular army, following the war, Smith
was sent to the Plains as Colonel of the Seventh Cavalry. This was
afterward known as Custer's regiment, and we engaged in the battle of
the Little Big Horn, in which that gallant commander was slain. Smith's
cavalry command was moving southward on an expedition against the
Kiowas and Comanches in the Canadian River country, when I joined it as
a scout.
Dick Curtis, acting as guide for Smith, had been sent on ahead across
the river, while the main command stopped to water their horses.
Curtis's orders were to proceed straight ahead for five miles, where
the troops would camp. He was followed immediately by the advance
guard, Smith and his staff following on. We had proceeded about three
miles when three or four hundred Indians attacked us, jumping out of
gullies and ravines, where they had been securely hidden. General Smith
at once ordered the orderlies to sound the recall and retreat,
intending to fall back quickly on the main command.
He was standing close beside a deep ravine as he gave the order.
Knowing that the plan he proposed meant the complete annihilation of
our force, I pushed my horse close to him.
"General," I said, "order your men into the ravine, dismount, and let
number fours hold horses. Then you will be able to stand off the
Indians. If you try to retreat to the main command you and every man
under you will be killed before you have retreated a mile."
He immediately saw the sense of my advice. Issuing orders to enter the
ravine, he dismounted with his men behind the bank. There we stood off
the Indians till the soldiers in the rear, hearing the shots, came
charging to the rescue and drove the Indians away. The rapidity with
which we got into the ravine, and the protection its banks afforded us,
enabled us to get away without losing a man. Had the general's original
plan been carried out none of us would have come away to tell the
story. I was summoned to the general's tent that evening.
"That was a brilliant suggestion of yours, young man," he said. "This
Indian fighting is a new business to me. I realize that if I had
carried out my first order not a man of us would ever have reached the
command alive."
I said: "General, do you remember the battle of Tupedo?"
"I do," he said, with his chest expanding a little. "I was in command
at that battle." The whipping of Forrest had been a particularly
difficult and unusual feat, and General Smith never failed to show his
pride in the achievement whenever the battle of Tupedo was mentioned.
"Do you remember," I continued, "the young fellow you caught behind a
tree, and sent for him afterward to ask him why he did so?"
"Is it possible you are the man who found Forrest's command!" he asked
in amazement. "I had often wondered what became of you," he said, when
I told him I was the same man. "What have you been doing since the
war!"
I told him I had come West as a scout for General Sherman in 1865 and
had been scouting ever since. He was highly delighted to see me again,
and from that time forward, as long as he remained on the Plains, I
resumed my old position as his chief scout.
After the battle of Tupedo, Smith's command was ordered to Memphis, and
from there sent by boat up the Mississippi. We of the cavalry
disembarked at Cape Jardo, Smith remaining behind with the infantry,
which came on later. General Sterling Price, of the Confederate army,
was at this time coming out of Arkansas into southern Missouri with a
large army. His purpose was to invade Kansas.
Federal troops were not then plentiful in the West. Smith's army from
Tennessee, Blunt's troops from Kansas, what few regulars there were in
Missouri, and some detachments of Kansas volunteers were all being
moved forward to head off Price. Being still a member of the Ninth
Kansas Cavalry, I now found myself back in my old country--just ahead
of Price's army, which had now reached the fertile northwestern
Missouri.
In carrying dispatches from General McNeil to General Blunt or General
Pleasanton I passed around and through Price's army many times. I
always wore the disguise of a Confederate soldier, and always escaped
detection. Price fought hard and successfully, gaining ground steadily,
till at Westport, Missouri, and other battlefields near the Kansas
line, the Federal troops checked his advance.
At the Little Blue, a stream that runs through what is now Kansas City,
he was finally turned south, and took up a course through southern
Kansas.
Near Mound City a scouting party of which I was a member surprised a
small detachment of Price's army. Our advantage was such that they
surrendered, and while we were rounding them up I heard one of them say
that we Yanks had captured a bigger prize than we suspected. When he
was asked what this prize consisted of, the soldier said:
"That big man over yonder is General Marmaduke of the Southern army."
I had heard much of Marmaduke and greatly admired his dash and ability
as a fighting man. Going over to him, I asked if there was anything I
could do to make him comfortable. He said that I could. He hadn't had a
bite to eat, and he wanted some food and wanted it right away.
He was surrounding a good lunch I had in my saddle-bag, while I was
ransacking the saddle-bag of a comrade for a bottle of whisky which I
knew to be there.
When we turned our prisoners over to the main command I was put in
charge of General Marmaduke and accompanied him as his custodian to
Fort Leavenworth. The general and I became fast friends, and our
friendship lasted long after the war. Years after he had finished his
term as Governor of Missouri he visited me in London, where I was
giving my Wild West Show. He was talking with me in my tent one day
when the Earl of Lonsdale and Lord Harrington rode up, dismounted, and
came over to where we were sitting.
I presented Marmaduke to them as the governor of one of America's
greatest States and a famous Confederate general. Lonsdale, approaching
and extending his hand, smiled and said:
"Ah, Colonel Cody, another one of your Yankee friends, eh?"
Marmaduke, who had risen, scowled. But he held out his hand. "Look
here," he said, "I am much pleased to meet you, sir, but I want you
first to understand distinctly that I am no Yank."
When I left General Marmaduke at Leavenworth and returned to my
command, Price was already in retreat. After driving him across the
Arkansas River I returned with my troop to Springfield, Missouri. From
there I went, under General McNeil, to Fort Smith and other places on
the Arkansas border, where he had several lively skirmishes, and one
big and serious engagement before the war was ended.
The spring of 1865 found us again in Springfield, where we remained
about two months, recuperating and replenishing our stock. I now got a
furlough of thirty days and went to St. Louis, where I invested part of
a thousand dollars I had saved in fashionable clothes and in rooms at
one of the best hotels. It was while there that I met a young lady of a
Southern family, to whom I paid a great deal of attention, and from
whom I finally extracted a promise that if I would come back to St.
Louis at the end of the war she would marry me.
On my return to Springfield I found an expedition in process of fitting
out for a scouting trip through New Mexico and into the Arkansas River
country, to look after the Indians. With this party I took part in a
number of Indian fights and helped to save a number of immigrant trains
from destruction. On our return to Fort Leavenworth we found General
Sanborn and a number of others of the former Union leaders who had come
to the border to make peace with the Indians.
The various tribes that roamed the Plains had heard of the great war,
and, believing that it had so exhausted the white man that he would
fall an easy prey to Indian aggression, had begun to arm themselves and
make ready for great conquests. They had obtained great stores of arms
and ammunition. During the last two years of the war they had been
making repeated raids and inflicting vast damage on the settlers.
At the close of the war, when the volunteers were discharged, I was
left free to return to my old calling. The regular army was in course
of consolidation. Men who had been generals were compelled to serve as
colonels and majors. The consolidated army's chief business was in the
West, where the Indians formed a real menace, and to the West came the
famous fighting men under whose command I was destined to spend many of
the eventful years to come.
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