CHAPTER III
At the close of the war, General William Tecumseh Sherman was placed at
the head of the Peace Commission which had been sent to the border to
take counsel with the Indians. It had become necessary to put an end to
the hostility of the red man immediately either by treaty or by force.
His raids on the settlers could be endured no longer.
The purpose of the party which Sherman headed was to confer with the
greatest of the hostile chiefs. Treaties were to be agreed upon if
possible. If negotiations for peace failed, the council would at least
act as a stay of hostilities. The army was rapidly reorganizing, and it
would soon be possible to mobilize enough troops to put down the
Indians in case they refused to come to terms peaceably.
The camp of the Kiowas and Comanches--the first Indians with whom
Sherman meant to deal--was about three hundred miles southwest of
Leavenworth, in the great buffalo range, and in the midst of the
trackless Plains.
By ambulance and on horseback, with wagons to carry the supplies, the
party set out for its first objective--Council Springs on the Arkansas
River, about sixty miles beyond old Fort Zarrah.
I was chosen as one of the scouts or dispatch carriers to accompany the
party. The guide was Dick Curtis, a plainsman of wide experience among
the Indians.
When we arrived at Fort Zarrah we found that no road lay beyond, and
learned that there was no water on the way. It was determined,
therefore, to make a start at two o'clock in the morning. Curtis said
this would enable us to reach our destination, sixty-five miles further
on, by two o'clock the next afternoon.
The outfit consisted of two ambulances and one Government wagon, which
carried the tents and supplies. Each officer had a horse to ride if he
chose. If he preferred to ride in the ambulance his orderly was on hand
to lead his horse for him.
We traveled steadily till ten o'clock in the morning, through herds of
buffalo whose numbers were past counting. I remember that General
Sherman estimated that the number of buffalo on the Plains at that time
must have been more than eleven million. It required all the energy of
the soldiers and scouts to keep a road cleared through the herds so
that the ambulance might pass.
We breakfasted during the morning stop and rested the horses. For the
men there was plenty of water, which we had brought along in canteens
and camp kettles. There was also a little for the animals, enough to
keep them from suffering on the way.
Two o'clock found us still making our way through the buffalo herds,
but with no Council Springs in sight. Curtis was on ahead, and one of
the lieutenants, feeling a little nervous, rode up to another of the
scouts.
"How far are we from the Springs?" he inquired.
"I don't know," said the guide uneasily. "I never was over here before,
but if any one knows where the Springs are that young fellow over there
does." He pointed to me.
"When will we get to the Springs?" asked the officer, turning in my
direction.
"Never--if we keep on going the way we are now," I said.
"Why don't you tell the General that?" he demanded.
I said that Curtis was the guide, not I; whereupon he dropped back
alongside the ambulance in which Sherman was riding and reported what
had happened.
The General instantly called a halt and sent for the scouts. When all
of us, including Curtis, had gathered round him he got out of the
ambulance, and, pulling out a map, directed Curtis to locate the
Springs on it.
"There has never been a survey made of this country, General," said
Curtis. "None of these maps are correct."
"I know that myself," said Sherman. "How far are we from the Springs?"
The guide hesitated. "I have never been there but once," he said, "and
then I was with a big party of Indians who did the guiding." He added
that on a perfectly flat country, dotted with buffalo, he could not
positively locate our destination. Unless we were sighted and guided by
Indians we would have to chance it.
Sherman swung round on the rest of us. "Do any of you know where the
Springs are?" he asked, looking directly at me.
"Yes, sir," I said, "I do."
"How do you know, Billy?" asked Curtis.
"I used to come over here with Charley Bath, the Indian trader," I
said.
"Where are we now?" asked Sherman.
"About twelve miles from the Springs. They are due south."
"Due south! And we are traveling due west!"
"Yes, sir," I replied, "but if Mr. Curtis had not turned in a few
minutes I was going to tell you."
So for twelve miles I rode with Sherman, and we became fast friends. He
asked me all manner of questions on the way, and I found that he knew
my father well, and remembered his tragic death in Salt Creek Valley.
He asked what had become of the rest of the family and all about my
career. By the end of the ride I had told him my life history.
As we were riding along together, with the outfit following on, I
noticed pony tracks from time to time, and knew that we were nearing
the Springs. Presently I said:
"General, we are going to find Indians at the Springs when we reach
there."
"How do you know?"
"We have been riding where ponies have been grazing for the last mile."
"I haven't seen any tracks," said the General in surprise. "Show me
one."
I jumped off my horse, and, thrusting the buffalo grass aside, I
pointed out many tracks of barefooted ponies. "When we rise that
ridge," I told him, "we shall see the village, and thousands of ponies
and Indian lodges."
In a very few minutes this prophecy came true. Curtis and the other
scouts with the officers rode up quickly behind us, and we all had a
fine view of this wonderful sight of the desert--a great Indian camp.
As we stood gazing at the spectacle we observed great excitement in the
village. Warriors by the dozens were leaping on their horses and riding
toward us, till at least a thousand of them were in the "receiving
line."
"It looks to me as if we had better fall into position," said Sherman.
"It is not necessary," I said. "They have given us the peace sign. They
are coming toward us without arms."
So Sherman, with General Harney, General Sanborn, and the other
officers rode slowly forward to meet the oncoming braves.
"This is where you need Curtis," I told the General as he advanced. "He
is the best Kiowa and Comanche interpreter on the Plains and he knows
every one of these Indians personally."
Curtis was accordingly summoned and made interpreter, while I was
assigned to remain about the commander's tent and given charge of the
scouts.
As the Indians drew near with signs of friendliness, Curtis introduced
the chiefs, Satanta, Lone Wolf, Kicking Bird, and others to General
Sherman as the head of the Peace Commission.
The Indians, having been notified in advance of the coming of the
Commission, had already selected a special spring for our camp and had
prepared a great feast in honor of the meeting. To this feast, which
was spread in the center of the village, the Commissioners were
conducted, while the scouts and the escort went into camp.
The Indians had erected a great canopy of tanned buffalo skins on tepee
poles. Underneath were robes for seats for the General and his staff,
and thither they were led with great ceremony. Near by was a great fire
on which, buffalo, antelope, and other animals were roasting. Even
coffee and sugar had been provided, and the feast was served with tin
plates for the meat and tin cups for the coffee. Another tribute to the
customs of the guests was a complete outfit of knives and forks.
Napkins, however, appeared to be lacking.
Indian girls, dressed in elaborate costumes, served the repast, the
elder women preparing the food. Looking on, it seemed to me to be the
most beautiful sight I had ever seen--the grim old generals, who for
the last four and a half years had been fighting a great war sitting
serenely and contentedly down to meat and drink with the chiefs of a
wild, and, till lately, a hostile race.
After all had eaten, the great chief, Satanta, loaded the big
peace-pipe, whose bowl was hewn from red stone, with a beautifully
carved stem eighteen inches long. The pipe was passed from mouth to
mouth around the circle. After the smoke was ended Satanta raised his
towering bulk above the banqueters. He drew his red blanket around his
broad shoulders, leaving his naked right arm free, for without his
right arm an Indian is deprived of his real powers of oratory. Making
signs to illustrate his every sentence, he spoke:
"My great white brothers, I welcome you to my camp and to my people.
You can rest in safety, without a thought of fear, because our hearts
are now good to you--because we hope that the words you are going to
speak to us will make us glad that you have come. We know that you have
come a long way to see us. We feel that you are going to give us or
send us presents which will gladden the hearts of all my people.
"I know that you must be very tired, and as I see that your tents are
pitched it would make our hearts glad to walk over to your village with
you, where you can rest and sleep well, and we hope that you will dream
of the many good things are going to send us and tell us when you
rested.
"I have sent to your tents the choicest of young buffalo, deer, and
antelope, and if there is anything else in my camp which will make your
hearts glad I will be pleased to send it to you. If any of your horses
should stray away, my young men will bring them back to you."
As the old chief concluded, General Sherman, rising, shook his hand and
said:
"My red brother, your beautiful and romantic reception has deeply
touched the hearts of my friends and myself. We most heartily thank you
for it. When we are rested, and after we have slept in your wild
prairie city, we should like to hold a council with the chiefs and
warriors congregated here."
When the officers returned to their own camp they agreed that the feast
was very grand, that the Indian maidens who served it were very pretty
in their gay costumes and beautiful moccasins. Most of them, however,
had observed that the hands of the squaws who did the cooking looked as
if they had not touched water for several months. It stuck in the
memory of some of the guests that, in their efforts to clean the
tinware, the squaws had left more soap in the corners than was
necessary. The coffee had a strong flavor of soap.
"If we are going to have a banquet every day," said one officer, "I
think I'll do my eating in our own camp."
[Illustration: CHIEF SATANTA PASSED THE PEACE-PIPE TO GENERAL SHERMAN
AND SAID: "MY GREAT WHITE BROTHERS"]
General Sherman reminded him that this would be highly impolite to the
hosts, and ordered them, as soldiers, to make the best of the
entertainment and to line up for mess when the Indians made a feast.
At ten o'clock the next morning the first session of the great council
was held. For three days the white chiefs and the red chiefs sat in a
circle under the canopy, and many promises of friendship were made by
the Indians. When the council was concluded, General Sherman sent for
me.
"Billy," he said, "I want you to send two good men to Fort Ellsworth
with dispatches, where they can be forwarded to Fort Riley, the end of
the telegraph line. After your men are rested they can return to Fort
Zarrah and join us." When the two men were instructed by the General
and were on their way, he took me into his tent.
"I want to go to Bent's Fort on the Arkansas River," he said, "then to
Fort St. Barine, on the Platte, and then to Laramie; after that we will
go to Cottonwood Springs, then to Fort Kearney and then to Leavenworth.
Can you guide me on that trip?"
I told him that I could, and was made guide, chief of scouts, and
master of transportation, acting with an army officer as quartermaster.
At Bent's Fort another council of two days was held with the Indians.
The journey homeward was made without difficulty. At Leavenworth I took
leave of one of the noblest and kindest-hearted men I have ever known.
In bidding me good-by, General Sherman said:
"I don't think these councils we have held will amount to much. There
was no sincerity in the Indians' promises. I will see that the promises
we made to them are carried out to the letter, but when the grass grows
in the spring they will be, as usual, on the warpath. As soon as the
regular army is organized it will have to be sent out here on the
border to quell fresh Indian uprisings, because these Indians will give
us no peace till they are thoroughly thrashed."
The General thanked me for my services, and told me he was very lucky
to find me. "It is not possible that I will be with the troops when
they come," he said. "They will be commanded by General Philip
Sheridan. You will like Sheridan. He is your kind of a man. I will tell
him about you when I see him. I expect to hear great reports of you
when you are guiding the United States army over the Plains, as you
have so faithfully guided me. The quartermaster has instructions to pay
you at the rate of $150 a month, and as a special reward I have ordered
that you be paid $2000 extra. Good-by! I know you will have good luck,
for you know your business."
After the departure of General Sherman I made a brief visit to my
sisters in Salt Creek Valley, and for a time, there being no scouting
work to do, drove stage between Plum Creek and Fort Kearney.
I was still corresponding with Miss Frederici, the girl I had left
behind me in St. Louis. My future seemed now secure, so I decided that
it was high time I married and settled down, if a scout can ever settle
down. So, surrendering my stage job, I returned to Leavenworth and
embarked for St. Louis by boat. After a week's visit at the home of my
fiancee we were quietly married at her home. I made, I suppose, rather
a wild-looking groom. My brown hair hung down over my shoulders, and I
had just started a little mustache and goatee. I was dressed in the
Western fashion, and my appearance was, to say the least, unusual. We
were married at eleven o'clock in the morning, and took the steamer
_Morning Star_ at two in the afternoon for our honeymoon journey home.
As we left our carriages and entered the steamer, my wife's father and
mother and a number of friends accompanying us, I noticed that I was
attracting considerable excited attention. A number of people, men and
women, were on the deck. As we passed I heard them whispering:
"There he is! That's him! I'd know him in the dark!"
It was very plain to me that these observations were not particularly
friendly. The glares cast at me were openly hostile. While we were
disposing our baggage in our stateroom--I had hired the bridal
chamber--I heard some of my wife's friends asking her father if he knew
who I was, and whether I had any credentials. He replied that he had
left the matter of credentials to his daughter.
"Well," said one of the party, "these people on board are excursionists
from Independence, and they say this son-in-law of yours is the most
desperate outlaw, bandit, and house-burner on the frontier!"
The old gentleman was considerably disturbed at this report. He made up
his mind to get a little first-hand information, and he took the most
direct means of getting it.
"Who are you?" he asked, walking over to me. "The people on board don't
give you a very good recommendation."
"Kindly remember," I replied, "that we have had a little war for the
past five years on the border. These people were on one side and I on
the other, and it is natural that they shouldn't think very highly of
me."
My argument was not convincing. "I am going to take my daughter home
again," said my father-in-law, and started toward the stateroom.
I besought him to leave the decision to her, and for the next ten
minutes I pleaded my case with all the eloquence I could command. I was
talking against odds, for my wife, as well as her parents' friends,
were all ardent Southerners, and I am proud to say that after fifty
years of married life, she is still as strongly "Secesh" as ever. But
when I put the case to her she said gamely that she had taken me for
better or for worse and intended to stick to me.
She was in tears when she said good-by to her parents and friends, and
still in tears after they had left. I tried to comfort her with
assurances that when we came among Northern people I would not be
regarded as such a desperate character, but my consolation was of
little avail. At dinner the hostile stares that were bent on me from
our neighbors at table did not serve to reassure her. It was some
comfort to me afterward when the captain sent for me and told me that
he knew me, that my Uncle Elijah was his old-time friend, and one of
the most extensive shippers on the steamboat line. "It is shameful the
way these people are treating you," he said, "but let it pass, and when
we get to Independence everything will be all right."
But everything was not all right. In the evening, when I led my wife
out on the floor of the cabin, where the passengers were dancing, every
dancer immediately walked off the floor, the men scowling and the women
with their noses in the air. All that night my wife wept while I walked
the floor.
At daybreak, when we stopped for wood, I heard shots and shouting.
Walking out on deck, I saw the freed negroes who composed the crew
scrambling back on board. The steamboat was backing out in the stream.
Later I learned that my fellow passengers had wired up the river that I
was on board, and an armed party had ridden down to "get" me.
I quickly returned to the stateroom, and, diving into my trunk, took
out and buckled on a brace of revolvers which had done excellent
service in times past. This action promptly confirmed my wife's
suspicions. She was now certain that I was the bandit I had been
accused of being. I had no time to reason with her now. Throwing my
coat back, so that I rested my hands on the butts of my revolvers, I
strolled out through the crowd.
One or two men who had been doing a great deal of loud talking a few
minutes past backed away, as I walked past and looked them squarely in
the eyes. Nothing more was said, and soon I reached the steward's
office, unmolested. Here I found a number of men dressed in blue
uniforms. They told me they were discharged members of the Eighth
Indiana Volunteers. They were traveling to Kansas, steerage, saving
their money so they might have it to invest in homes when they reached
their destination. They had all heard of me, and now proposed to arm
and defend me should there be any further hostile demonstrations. I
gladly welcomed their support, more for my wife's sake than for my own.
"My wife," I said, "firmly believes that I am an outlaw."
"You can't blame her," said the spokesman of the party, "after what has
happened. But wait till she gets among Union people and she will learn
her mistake. We know your history, and of your recent services to
General Sherman. We know that old 'Pap' Sherman wouldn't have an
outlaw in his service. If you had seen some of the interviews he has
given out about your wife's father and his friends there would have
been trouble at the start."
My new-found friends did not do things by halves. In order to be able
to give a ball in the cabin they exchanged their steerage tickets for
first-class passage. That night the ball was given, with my wife and
myself as the guests of honor.
The Independence crowd, observing the preparations for the ball,
demanded that the captain stop at the first town and let them off. They
saw that the tide had turned, and were apprehensive of reprisals. The
captain told them that if they should behave like ladies and gentlemen
all would be well.
That night they stood outside looking in while my wife, now quite
reassured, was introduced to the ladies and gentlemen from Indiana, and
danced till she was weary.
We looked for trouble when we reached Independence the next day. There
was a bigger crowd than usual on the levee, but when it was seen that
my Yankee friends had their Spencer carbines with them all was quiet.
As we pulled out the old captain called me outside.
"Cody, it is all over now," he said. "But don't you think you were the
only restless man on board. When I backed out into the river the other
night I had to leave four of my best deckhands either dead or wounded
on the bank. I will never forget the way you walked out through the
crowd with that pair of guns in your hand. I have heard of the
execution these weapons can do when they get in action."
When we stopped at Kansas City I telegraphed to Leavenworth that we
were coming. As the boat approached the Leavenworth levee my soldier
friends were out on deck in their dress uniforms, and I stood on the
deck, my bride on my arm. Soon we heard the music of the Fort
Leavenworth band and the town band, and crowds of citizens were on the
wharf as the boat tied up.
The commandant of the fort, D.R. Anthony, the Mayor of Leavenworth, my
sisters, and hundreds of my friends came rushing aboard the boat to
greet us. That night we were given a big banquet to which my soldier
chums and their wives were invited. My wife had a glorious time. After
it was all over, she put her arms about my neck and cried:
"Willy, I don't believe you are an outlaw at all!"
I had reluctantly promised my wife that I would abandon the Plains. It
was necessary to make a living, so I rented a hotel in Salt Creek
Valley, the same hotel my mother had formerly conducted, and set up as
a landlord.
It was a typical frontier hotel, patronized by people going to and from
the Plains, and it took considerable tact and diplomacy to conduct it
successfully. I called the place "The Golden-Rule House," and tried to
conduct it on that principle. I seemed to have the qualifications
necessary, but for a man who had lived my kind of life it proved a tame
employment. I found myself sighing once more for the freedom of the
Plains. Incidentally I felt sure I could make money as a plainsman,
and, now that I had a wife to support, money had become a very
important consideration.
I sold out the Golden-Rule House and set out alone for Saline, Kansas,
which was then at the end of construction of the Kansas Pacific
Railway. On my way I stopped at Junction City, were I again met my old
friend, Wild Bill, who was scouting for the Government, with
headquarters at Fort Ellsworth, afterward called Fort Harker. He told
me more scouts were needed at the Post, and I accompanied him to the
fort, where I had no difficulty in securing employment.
During the winter of 1866-67 I scouted between Fort Ellsworth and Fort
Fletcher. I was at Fort Fletcher in the spring of 1867 when General
Custer came out to accompany General Hancock on an Indian expedition. I
remained here till the post was flooded by a great rise of Big Creek,
on which it was located. The water overflowed the fortifications,
rendering the place unfit for further occupancy, and it was abandoned
by the Government. The troops were removed to Fort Hays, a new post,
located farther west, on the south fork of Big Creek. It was while I
was at Fort Hays that I had my first ride with the dashing Custer. He
had come up from Ellsworth with an escort of only ten men, and wanted a
guide to pilot him to Fort Larned, sixty-five miles distant.
When Custer learned that I was at the Post he asked that I be assigned
to duty with him. I reported to him at daylight the next day--none too
early, as Custer, with his staff and orderlies, was already in the
saddle. When I was introduced to Custer he glanced disapprovingly at
the mule I was riding.
"I am glad to meet you, Cody," he said. "General Sherman has told me
about you. But I am in a hurry, and I am sorry to see you riding that
mule."
"General," I returned, "that is one of the best horses at the fort."
"It isn't a horse at all," he said, "but if it's the best you've got we
shall have to start."
We rode side by side as we left the fort. My mule had a fast walk,
which kept the general's horse most of the time in a half-trot.
His animal was a fine Kentucky thoroughbred, but for the kind of work
at hand I had full confidence in my mount. Whenever Custer was not
looking I slyly spurred the mule ahead, and when he would start forward
I would rein him in and pat him by way of restraint, bidding him not to
be too fractious, as we hadn't yet reached the sandhills. In this way I
set a good lively pace--something like nine miles an hour--all morning.
At Smoky Hill River we rested our animals. Then the general, who was
impatient to be off, ordered a fresh start. I told him we had still
forty miles of sandhills to cross, and advised an easier gait.
"I have no time to waste on the road," he said. "I want to push right
ahead."
Push right ahead we did. I continued quietly spurring my mule and then
counseling the brute to take it easy. Presently I noticed that the
escort was stringing out far behind, as their horses became winded with
the hard pace through the sand. Custer, looking back, noticed the same
thing.
"I think we are setting too fast a pace for them, Cody," he said, but
when I replied that I thought this was merely the usual pace for my
mule and that I supposed he was in a hurry he made no further comment.
Several times during the next forty miles we had to stop to wait for
the escort to close up. Their horses, sweating and panting, had reached
almost the limit of their endurance. I continued patting my animal and
ordering him to quiet down, and Custer at length said:
"You seem to be putting it over me a little today."
When we reached a high ridge overlooking Pawnee Fork we again waited
for our lagging escort. As we waited I said:
"If you want to send a dispatch to the officer in command at Fort
Larned, I will be pleased to take it down for you. You can follow this
ridge till you come to the creek and then follow the valley right down
to the fort."
Custer swung around to the captain, who had just ridden up, and
repeated to him my instructions as to how to reach the fort. "I shall
ride ahead with Cody," he added. "Now, Cody, I am ready for you and
that mouse-colored mule."
The pace I set for General Custer from that time forward was "some
going." When we rode up to the quarters of Captain Daingerfield Parker,
commandant of the post, General Custer dismounted, and his horse was
led off to the stables by an orderly, while I went to the scouts'
quarters. I was personally sure that my mule was well cared for, and he
was fresh as a daisy the next morning.
After an early breakfast I groomed and saddled my mule, and, riding
down to the general's quarters, waited for him to appear. I saluted as
he came out, and said that if he had any further orders I was ready to
carry them out.
"I am not feeling very pleasant this morning, Cody," he said. "My horse
died during the night."
I said I was very sorry his animal got into too fast a class the day
before.
"Well," he replied, "hereafter I will have nothing to say against a
mule. We will meet again on the Plains. I shall try to have you
detailed as my guide, and then we will have time to talk over that
race."
A few days after my return to Fort Hays the Indians made a raid on the
Kansas Pacific Railroad, killing five or six men and running off a
hundred or more horses and mules. The news was brought to the
commanding officer, who immediately ordered Major Arms, of the Tenth
Cavalry, to go in pursuit of the raiders. The Tenth Cavalry was a negro
regiment. Arms took a company, with one mountain howitzer, and I was
sent along as scout.
On the second day out we discovered a large party of Indians on the
opposite side of the Saline River, and about a mile distant. The party
was charging down on us and there was no time to lose. Arms placed his
howitzer on a little knoll, limbered it up, and left twenty men to
guard it. Then, with the rest of the command, he crossed the river to
meet the redskins.
Just as he had got his men across the stream we heard a terrific
shouting. Looking back toward the knoll where the gun had been left, we
saw our negro gun-guard flying toward us, pursued by more than a
hundred Indians. More Indians were dancing about the gun, although they
had not the slightest notion what to do with it.
Arms turned back with his command and drove the redskins from their
useless prize. The men dismounted and took up a position there.
A very lively fight followed. Five or six men, including Major Arms,
were wounded, and a number of the horses were shot. As the fight
proceeded, the enemy seemed to become steadily more numerous. It was
apparent that reinforcements were arriving from some large party in the
rear.
The negro troops, who had been boasting of what they would do to the
Indians, were now singing a different tune.
"We'll jes' blow 'em off'm de fahm," they had said, before there was an
enemy in sight. Now, every time the foe would charge us, some of the
darkies would cry:
"Heah dey come! De whole country is alive wif 'em. Dere must be ten
thousand ob dem. Massa Bill, does you-all reckon we is ebber gwine to
get out o' heah?"
The major, who had been lying under the cannon since receiving his
wound, asked me if I thought there was a chance to get back to the
fort. I replied that there was, and orders were given for a retreat,
the cannon being left behind.
During the movement a number of our men were killed by the deadly fire
of the Indians. But night fell, and in the darkness we made fairly good
headway, arriving at Fort Hays just at daybreak. During our absence
cholera had broken out at the post. Five or six men were dying daily.
For the men there was a choice of dangers--going out to fight the
Indians on the prairie, or remaining in camp to be stricken with
cholera. To most of us the former was decidedly the more inviting.
"The Rise and Fall of Modern Rome"--was the chapter of frontier history
in which I next figured. For a time I was part owner of a town, and on
my way to fortune. And then one of those quick changes that mark
Western history in the making occurred and I was left--but I will tell
you the story.
At the town of Ellsworth, which I visited one day while carrying
dispatches to Fort Harker, I met William Rose, who had a contract for
trading on the right-of-way of the Kansas Pacific near Fort Hays. His
stock had been stolen by the Indians, and he had come to Ellsworth to
buy more.
Rose was enthusiastic about a project for laying out a town site on the
west side of Big Creek, a mile from the fort, where the railroad was to
cross. When, in response to a request for my opinion, I told him I
thought the scheme a big one, he invited me to come in as a partner. He
suggested that after the town was laid out and opened to the public we
establish a store and saloon.
I thought it would be a grand thing to become half owner of a town, and
at once accepted the proposition. We hired a railroad engineer to
survey the town site and stake it into lots. Also we ordered a big
stock of the goods usually kept in a general merchandise store on the
frontier. This done, we gave the town the ancient and historical name
of Rome. As a starter we donated lots to anyone who would build on
them, reserving for ourselves the corner lots and others which were
best located. These reserved lots we valued at two hundred and fifty
dollars each.
When the town was laid out I wrote my wife that I was worth $250,000,
and told her I wanted her to get ready to come to Ellsworth by rail.
She was then visiting her parents at St. Louis, with our baby daughter
whom we had named Arta.
I was at Ellsworth to meet her when she arrived, bringing the baby.
Besides three or four wagons, in which the supplies for the new general
store and furniture for the little house I had built were loaded, I had
a carriage for her and the baby. The new town of Rome was a hundred
miles west. I knew that it would be a dangerous trip, as the Indians
had long been troublesome along the railroad, and I realized the danger
more fully because of the presence of my wife and little daughter.
A number of immigrants bound for the new town accompanied us.
The first night out I formed the men into a company, one squad to stand
watch while the others slept. All the early part of the evening I went
the rounds of the camp, much to my wife's annoyance.
"Why are you away so much?" she kept asking. "It is lonesome here, and
I need you."
Rather than let her know of my uneasiness about the Indians, I told her
I was trying to sell lots to the men while they were en route. As the
night wore on and everything seemed quiet I prepared to get a little
rest. I did not take my clothes off, and, much to my wife's surprise,
slept with my rifle and revolvers close by me. I had just dropped off
to sleep when I heard shots, and knew they could mean nothing but
Indians.
The attacking party was small and we were fully prepared. When they
discovered this they fired a few shots and galloped away.
The second night was almost a repetition of the first. After another
party had been repulsed, Mrs. Cody asked me if I had brought her and
the baby out on the Plains to be killed.
"This is the kind of a life I lead every day and get fat on it," I
said. But she did not seem to think it especially congenial.
Everybody turned out to greet us when we arrived in Rome. Even the
gambling-hall houses and the dance-halls closed in our honor. The next
day we moved into our little house. That night there was a veritable
fusillade of revolver shots outside the window.
"What is that?" asked Mrs. Cody.
"Just a serenade," I said.
"Are yon firing blank cartridges?"
"No. If it became known that revolvers were loaded with blank
cartridges around here we would soon lose some of our most valued
citizens. Everybody in town, from the police judge to dishwashers,
carries a pistol."
"Why?"
"To keep law and order."
That puzzled my wife. She said that in St. Louis policemen kept law and
order, and wanted to know why we didn't have them to do it out here. I
informed her that a policeman would not last very long in a town like
this, which was perfectly true.
On my return from a hunting trip a few days later I met a man who had
come into town on the stage-coach, and whom Mrs. Cody had seen looking
over the town site from every possible angle. He told me he thought I
had selected a good town site--and I agreed with him. He asked me to go
for a ride around the surrounding country with him the next day. I told
him I was going on a buffalo hunt. He had never killed a buffalo, he
said. He wanted to get a fine head to take back with him, and would be
grateful if I would take him with me. I promised to see that he got a
nice head if he came along, and early the next morning rode down to his
hotel. He was dressed in a smart hunting costume and had his rifle. We
started for the plains, my wagons following to gather up the meat we
should kill.
As we rode out I explained to him how I hunted. "I kill as many buffalo
as I want," I said. "This I call a 'run.' The wagons come along
afterward and the butchers cut the meat and load it." When I went out
on my "run" I told him where to shoot to kill. But when my work was
done I met him coming back crestfallen. He had failed to get his
buffalo down, although he had shot him three times.
"Come along with me," I said. "I see another herd over there. I am
going to change saddles with you and let you ride the best buffalo
horse on the Plains."
He was astonished and delighted to think I would let him ride Brigham,
the most famous buffalo horse in the West. When we drew near the herd I
pointed out a fine four-year-old bull with a splendid head. I galloped
alongside. Brigham spotted the buffalo I wanted, and after my
companion's third shot the brute fell. My pupil was overjoyed with his
success, and appeared to be so grateful to me that I felt sure I should
be able to sell him three or four blocks of Rome real estate at least.
I invited him to take dinner, and served as part of the repast the meat
of the buffalo he had shot. The next morning he looked me up and told
me he wanted to make a proposition to me.
"What is it?" I asked. I had thought I was the one who was going to
make a proposition.
"I will give you one-eighth of this town site," he said.
The nerve of this proposal took me off my feet. Here was a total
stranger offering me one-eighth of my own town site as a reward for
what I had done for him.
I told him that if he killed another buffalo I would have to hog-hobble
him and send him out of town; then rode off and left him.
This magnanimous offer occurred right in front of my own house. My wife
overheard it, and also my reply.
As I rode away, he called out that he wanted to explain, but I was
thoroughly disgusted.
"I have no time to listen to you," I shouted over my shoulder.
I was bound out on a buffalo hunt to get meat for the graders twenty
miles away on the railroad, and I kept right on going. Three days
afterward I rode back over the ridge above the town of Rome and looked
down on it.
I took several more looks. The town was being torn down and carted
away. The balloon-frame buildings were coming apart section by section.
I could see at least a hundred teams and wagons carting lumber,
furniture, and everything that made up the town over the prairies to
the eastward.
My pupil at buffalo hunting was Dr. Webb, president of the town-site
company of the Kansas Pacific. After I had ridden away without
listening to his explanations he had invited the citizens of Rome to
come over and see where the new railroad division town of Hays City was
to be built. He supplied them with wagons for the journey from a number
of rock wagons that had been lent him by the Government to assist him
in the location of a new town. The distance was only a mile, and he got
a crowd. At the town site of Hays City he made a speech, telling the
people who he was and what he proposed to do. He said the railroad
would build its repair-shops at the new town, and there would be
employment for many men, and that Hays City was destined soon to be the
most important place on the Plains. He had already put surveyors to
work on the site. Lots, he said, were then on the market, and could be
had far more reasonably than the lots in Rome.
My fellow-citizens straightway began to pick out their lots in the new
town. Webb loaned them the six-mule Government wagons to bring over
their goods and chattels, together with the timbers of their houses.
When I galloped into Rome that day there was hardly a house left
standing save my little home, our general store, and a few sod-houses
and dugouts.
Mrs. Cody and the baby were sitting on a drygoods box when I rode up to
the store. My partner, Rose, stood near by, whistling and whittling.
"My word, Rose! What has become of our town!" I cried. Rose could make
no answer. Mrs. Cody said:
"You wrote me you were worth $250,000."
"We've got no time to talk about that now," I said. "What made this
town move away?"
"You ought to have taken Mr. Webb's offer," was her answer.
"Who the dickens is Webb?" I stormed. Rose looked up from his
whittling. "Bill," he said, "that little flapper-jack was the president
of the town-site company for the K.P. Railroad, and he's run such a
bluff on our citizens about a new town site that is going to be a
division-point that they've all moved over there."
"Yes," commented Mrs. Cody, "and where is your $250,000?"
"Well, I've got to make it yet," I said, and then to Rose: "How did the
fall hit you?"
"What fall?"
"From millionaire to pauper."
"It hasn't got through hitting me yet," he said solemnly.
Rose went back to his grading contract, and I resumed my work as a
buffalo hunter. When the Perry House, the Rome hotel, was moved to Hays
City and rebuilt there, I took my wife and daughter and installed them
there.
It was hard to descend from the rank of millionaires to that of graders
and buffalo hunters, but we had to do it. The rise and fall of modern
Rome had made us, and it broke us!
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