A son of the plains

Chapter I. On The Teail

A BEOWX line of sandy track six hundred miles long, and fifteen to fifty yards broad, beaten out of the prairie by the hoofs of countless oxen, sheep, and horses, and the feet of men, — such is that great emigrants' thoroughfare from East to West knoyrn as the Santa Fe trail.

The source of the trail is at Van Buren City, Arkansas ; it ends at Santa Fe, the capital of New Mexico, and so yast has been the traffic oyer it that eyen the tough prairie grass has yielded up its life, and not a blade is left upon the track for fully four hundred miles.

A grim record has the Santa Fe trail. All kinds of men pass oyer it, but it kno\ys the emigrant best, — aiTvI niajiiy. ve-ry many, iiaye never gone further. Thirst killed themV'one by ot'e, as they wearily tramped on and on, expecting the summer rains, which were late that year; or they died, a score at a time, round their blazing wagons, massacred in a night by the Arapahoe Indians.

Nowadays, the journey is comparatively safe ; but the observant traveller finds many a memento of the good old times, and when turning over the bones of cattle, horses and sheep by the wayside, will stumble not unfrequently upon the skull of a man.

Twenty years ago, before the trail's deadliest foe, the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway, began to cut it to pieces and extinguish part of it altogether, a man who embarked on a journey across the plains carried his life in his hands. Yet there Avere men who did it constantly. Stockmen these, bred in the country beyond the trail, whose business it was to bring their produce to the Eastern markets, and who counted such risks as it had to offer them the merest child's play. Every summer, in the months of June and July, when rain may be expected, — though it does not always come, — men with wild-eyed sheep, gaunt long-horned cattle, or wiry broncho ponies, wended their way by easy stages from the mountains and the plains of New

Mexico and Colorado to the toAvns of Kansas, sometimes as far as Kansas City itself, marking by day the waterholes and creeks, at night watching by their lonely camp-fires for the prowling Indian. The Indians, to do them justice, seldom interfered wantonly with such travellers, finding them more trouble than their possessions were worth.

In the summer of 1873, a camp of two thousand sheep, four horses, a dog, and a wagon, all in the charge of two men, leisurely wended its way in an easterly direction, bound for Seckersburg, a town in Eastern Kansas. The sheep were "Mexican," but well-graded with Merino blood, and while retaining the physical strength and hardiness of their original ancestry, had gained a crop of tliick, long-stapled, silk}' wool, which would give them a good market value anywhere. JMoreover, they were in excellent condition, in which respect they were in striking contrast to the rest of the live-stock, including their owner and his man.

Food on a sheep-ranche is of the simplest description. In winter every one eats mutton. Bread is used sparingly and as a luxury; molasses (coarse treacle) is occasionally indulged in. For drink, there is coffee, innocent of milk or sugar. In summer.

owing to the absence of refrigerators, fresh meat is impossible, and the sheep-man retires upon dried or salted bacon. To this beans are added, and the two together form the whole of the diet available on a sheep-ranche while the warm weather lasts. In summer, therefore, sheep-men are the thinnest of any known race on earth.

The men in charge of these sheep on the trail were in their usual summer condition. Their dog, whose share of the food Avas the bread crusts and bacon rinds, was thinner still ; while the horses, though independent of meat, were worked so hard, by reason of the sandy nature of the track, that to an inexperienced eye they would have appeared mere living skeletons. Those who knew the Western pony, however, would have pronounced them to be in good working trim.

The camp, when we become acquainted with it, was beginning its first preparations for settling down for the night, on the Two Butte Creek, a small watercourse twenty miles west of the Kansas frontier. It was a good camping-ground. The creek, with the aid of a shower the day before, had deserved its name by providing at this point three large holes of water, or, to speak more correctly, liquid of the colour and consistency of thick pea-soup, which when boiled in the

ON THE TEATL. b

coffee-pot produced a certain quantity of water. A strip of fresh, succulent grass bordered the creek for nearly half a mile, the trail crossing a hundred yards below and bearing away slantwise to the northeast, ascendingf a "roll" or undulation of ijrairie, on the side of which the camp was pitched. In a few minutes the fire was lighted, the horses picketed out for the night, and cooking-utensils (/.f. two tin plates and cups, a frying-pan, battered coffee-pot and mill, and pan of black Mexican beans) were produced from the wagon, and in less time than any civilised person would consider possible, the camp-master stood up and whistled a signal to his companion that supper was ready.

This man meanwhile, the herder, had gently set the two thousand faces of his sheep camp-wards, and, leavino' them to their own devices, made a wide detour to the left, approached his supper — that best and most grateful of meals — with long eao-er strides.

It was a peaceful scene, growing more so as, the sun having set, the night gathered fast from the east and the evening stillness crept over all living thino-s. There was no wind, and the skv was free of cloud. To the west the lurid light in the wake of the sun made the brown prairie, stretching like tlie sea without a bush to relieve its monotony, browner still, and cast a faint reflection of orange on the white backs of the sheep, as they greedily cropped the fresh grass, and approached by slow degrees their bedding place on the hill. The most restful moment this in all the herder's day. Sheep, properly handled, have an unfailing instinct of what to do with themselves when night is near. The light of the fire they know means protection, and as long as it is on the slope of a hill — for sheep hate flat ground to sleep on — they draw toward it of their own accord, and as the last gleams of daylight die away settle contentedly down in one great mass of baaing drowsiness.

Very soon there was no sound in camp but the occasional stamp of the tired horses and their busy munching of the meadow grass. The sheep were asleep, the dog was dozing, and the men, their supper done, smoked in silence before the dying embers of the fire.

They had not spoken a word since the meal began, and but for a few curt remarks about the route to-morrow they would not address one another, probably, for twenty-four hours more. Yet they were not stupid, nor sulky, nor sad, nor oppressed with uneasy consciences. They were simply men who had been Lred in the great silent land of the ' far West, where s^^eech becomes a very minor quantity in life. How can we bring home such a condition to our readers, dwellers in cities and towns, whose fathers dwelt in cities and towns, and to whose experience the customs, thoughts, and actions of such men as we have before us to-night are stranger, and more puzzling, than those of the wildest beasts of forest or field ?

Sheep-rearing had been the business of these men for years ; and sheep-camp in tlie summer Avhere a man lives for months together miles from the settlement in a hut of his own making, and sheep-ranche in winter where he is by himself every day for twelve hours out of the twenty-four, is the loneliest life in the world. And when this goes on from year's end to year's end — one unchanging round of monotonous work, no society to enliven it, no holiday to break it — what happens ?

In the examples we have here, two things have happened. We will take the herder first. He is a tall, powerfully built man of fifty-five, who in spite of his elastic step and a wiry frame, looks ten years more than that. Drink has laid a heavy hand upon him. Just now he is free from his enemy, for he has not seen a saloon for two months, but in the trembling hands, bleary eyes, and bloated features, the demon has left indelible claw-marks, and when the long tramp is over will claim Sebastian Bean body and soul while he has a cent in his pocket. Five years ago Bean was as sober a man as need be, but he lost his wife that year, and before twelve months were gone every stick he possessed had been sold over his head, and he was a wanderer without a friend.

The other man, camp-master and OAvner of the two thousand sheep, is a very different person. At first sight he looks little more than a boy, for he is of slender build, and has not a hair on his face. Take a second glance into that face, and you feel he may be any age up to forty. As a matter of fact, he is just twenty-two, but so hardly have the circumstances of his life dealt with him, that no Eastern man would believe he was less than five and thirty.

There is no sign of drink, however, here. His features are regular and sharply cut, his complexion a clear brown, albeit so burnt and deeply tanned by exposure that one would be half inclined to wonder whether he were of white blood but for his light blue eyes. He is the pictiu-e of health, and gaunt though he be, unlike most sheep-men he holds himself well, carrying his head Ayith a certain dignity which makes him appear taller than he is. Yet he looks haggard and worn. His cheeks are as hollow as thouo-h he were recoyering from illness, his lips, untouched as yet by the merest suggestion of a moustache, are thin and tightly drawn. Western life has left its mark on him. There has been no pleasure in his life since he can remember. He has worked hard and successfully, for these sheep are all his own, but there has been some shadow across his path which has robbed him of his youth. If we look closely into his face, we see something more than weariness caused by a monotonous life. In his eyes there is that listeninsf, watchful expression, to be found in the eyes of sayages, or of men who haye had to liye for years in the midst of constant danger, yet the cast of his features is curiously immobile, and seldom expresses the least emotion or interest in anything liying or dead. Nat Worsley began life on his own account at eleyen years old. His mother died when he was six, and for fiye years afterwards he was the companion of his father — a sheep-man of some wealth. This was in the old frontier days before the Civil War, about wliicli life people nowadays know little. Frontiersmen are always silent and uncommunicative folk, and so liard was the life and rough the fare then, that travellers in search of information went elsewhere to find it. In Nat's eleventh year the Comanches came down, and far and wide rose the smoke of burning homesteads and the shrieks of tortured men. One day Worsley's ranche was attacked, and after a sharp struggle — the boy behaving under fire like a veteran of ten campaigns— the place was taken, and within twenty-four hours Nat became the adopted son of the chief by whose hand his father died.

Five years passed. The boy lived, even thrived, under the training of his foster-father, who loved him and taught him everything he knew. All this time Nat never saw a white face nor heard a word of English spoken. But he never forgot the night his father died ; and as he grew older the determination to make his escape grew also. At sixteen he contrived to realise his ambition, and falling into the hands of Texan horse-breeders, worked his way back to the place of his birth in Southern New Mexico, picking up his own language, which he had forgotten, on the way. Here he took service as herder with one John Denayer, who had known his father, and worked so well that in five years more his master took him into partnership. A year later Denayer died, leaving Xat part of his property.

All this time the boy had been gradually emerging from the half-savage condition to which his training in the Indian camp had reduced him. John Denayer taught him to read and Avrite, and Mrs. Denayer, a native of St. Louis, told him a great deal about tOAvn life and the world in the East beyond the plains, and lent him books, which he had eagerly devoured. The outcome of all this was that when Mrs. Denayer, after her husband's death, returned to her relations in the East, Xat decided to follow her ; see something of the world that men had made, and complete his education. So, in the good oldfashioned way, he had packed his worldly possessions into a wagon, and hiring one man to help him, set his face eastward and started upon the longjourney over the Santa Ye trail.

His plans were to sell his stock when he could find a good market for them, and tlien hasten on by train to A'isit Mrs. Denayer in St. Louis.

He was now more than half-wav across. Another month, and Seckersburg, where he hoped to sell the sheep, would be reached. Most young men under such circumstances would have been eager and hopeful. Not so Nat. So deeply had the weariness of his many hardships and long years of toil entered into his being, that he liad no mental buoyancy left to hope for anything. He dreaded, with the shrinking of a wild creature, the plunge into a new Avorld, and only took this plunge because he felt instinctively that without a break in this unnatural life of loneliness and monotony he would go mad, or, like the man beside him, take to drink.

The fire burnt lower and lower, the pipes were done, it was time to turn in. The campers rose together without speaking, and laid their blankets on the grass. They did not go to sleep at once. Bean had a blistered foot to attend to, and Nat, with the mechanical action of one who is performing a daily task, knocked out, examined, and reinserted, the cartridges of a revolver and repeating rifle, which were never out of his reach day or night. He had just completed this when he heard a strange sound, and without moving a muscle of face or body sat listening. Bean dropped the foot he was examining and looked up. He did not attempt to listen himself.

ON THE TRAIL. 13

After a minute Nat took his rifle and pistol and laid tliem across the blankets at his feet, drawing his knees up to his chin and clasping them with his hands.

" I wonder," he said musingly, as if speaking to himself, " who this will be ? "

" What ? "

" The horseman on the trail from the east. There's only one. I guess his horse is tired, by the steady way his foot-ta2:)S strike. Can't you hear it now ? "

Bean shrugged his shoulders. His worst enemy could not accuse him of dulness of hearing, but this was beyond his poAver. He drew on his boots again, however, and stood u^^.

"Ah ! now I dew catch it. He ain't goin' so fast neither. Yet he's lopin'. Tell us what it means."

"A man who has ridden far. We must stop him. Come with me, and keep to the right of the track. Lie down when you o-et there. We will bead him together, but don't let go unless my shot fails. Keep your aim well on the horse. A man doesn't lope over the trail alone at night for nothing."

This was the last word spoken. With quick steps the men vanished out of range of the firelight.

and not a sound betrayed tlieir whereabouts until on the brow of the hill, faintly outlined against the starlit sky, there came the figure of a man on horse, riding hard.

u Pull in, _ Halt ! "

The words rang out like a pistol shot, and made the horses near the wagon jump, wdiile the dog, left to guard the camp, gave a deep growl of sympathy. As for the person to Avhom they were addressed, he Avas so much astonished that he nearly fell off his horse in reining him in.

"Get down !"

The traveller hesitated, and settled himself in the saddle.

'' Who are ye ?"

^'Get down!''

An emj)hasis was placed on the last word which served its purpose well. The horseman instinctively ducked his head as if to avoid a threatened bullet and slid from his saddle.

"Well — here I am," he drawled, — "and there's nothing to me, or on me, or in me — for I'm hungrier than three bears."

" Come to our camp then, and we'll fill you up with a square meal."

ON THE TKAIL. 15

The man gave a prodigious sigli of relief.

" That's g-ood news. ^Iv head's nioii turned sillv with hunger, and I'm choked with thirst. Let me eat a sup. and then you shall hear all I know. And T have news, yes — ^ly Lord ! *'

He said the last words to himself in a lower tone, and, the camp being reached, he slipped the saddle off liis horse, begged some corn for him, and then threw himself by the fire as if tired out.

In a few minutes he was devouring beans and bacon in a way that did credit to his teeth and appetite. Xat and Bean watched him and speculated.

He was a cowboy — that was C[uite evident. His Ijroad felt hat with its whip-cord band, a shirt gaudily embroidered with beads, leather riding-overalls, highheeled boots, in which no one could walk a mile without danger of being lamed for life, and spurs with rowels three inches in diameter, — proved that. But his carriage and bearing were far from expressing the easy assurance generally characteristic of men of his profession. His hands, they noticed, were shaking as if he were recovering from a debauch ; his face Avas a dtiU yellow, and he shuddered at intervals as if he were suffering from ague. But according to Western etiquette no c[uestions might

16 A SON OF THli PLAINS.

be asked until he had eaten and drunk his fill. AVhen he had emptied his fourth cup of coffee, Nat handed him a corn-cob pipe and a light.

"If you're through — we're ready."

The man nodded, and eagerly seized the pipe, his fingers shaking so much that he dropped the burning wood upon his clothes and nearly set himself on fire. He laughed at this, a feeble, forced sort of chuckle.

"I'll be doggoned, friends, if ever I were like this before. I'm just scared right through, 'tain't to be denied. My nerve — why, I have no nei*ve, now. No more'n a tenderfoot bucked on his head for the first time. I'm clean turned, as you may say. But then I've seen — How can I tell ye ? See here now. One hour before sundown twenty-six boys, myself among 'em, camped in a creek fifteen miles east of here, and 'bout half a mile off the trail. We was travelling partly to convoy some fine stock ; and part to escort two gells — daughters of old man Shelford, sheep-man, Alberquerque way — to New Mexico. This was an hour before sundown, three, or maybe four, hour ago. Now — " he paused, and then went on in a hoarse whisper : —

" It Avas a pretty camp. Good water, and cotton-

ON THE TRAIL. 17

wood — quite a lot of timber. The gells was that pleased they began walkin' down the creek, tired of ridm' so long. We boys went to the tail wagon, where there Avere a whiskey bar'l kept, to take a nip 'fore settlin' in for the night. We were all dry, for the day had been dusty and hot, and so, somehoAY, we took two nips — or some of us did — and we were all hangin' around anyhow — when on a sudden there came a woman's shriek ; another, louder, and two more sraothered-like, and then the boss, who was on the other side of the wagon and could see further than any, yelled out : —

"'It's a raid — Arapahoes ! Fight, ye devils, fight. If those gells are lost, and one of you lives, I'll plug him myself.'

" It was his last word — poor old Jeph ! A bullet whizzed from the timber, and he fell all of a heap. Then Ave started, every boy of us — madder than hares. But not one had any sense after the whiskey, and we went for 'em bald-headed in the open. And the Arapahoes, who'd planted themselves in that timber, cunning as death, had the easiest time you can think of. We fought — aye — and all lie there dead, scalped. All but me and the gells. I happened on my pony, and when I saw it were no good, c

I lit out, and liere I am, and — that's the end, captain."

The man stopped abruptly and covered his face with his hands, twitching all over.

No one spoke for nearly a minute. Seb Bean's teeth were clenched, and he Avas breathing heavily. Nat, without any change of countenance, was looking at the cowboy.

" You did not bring the women along ? " he said at last.

The man started as if he had been bitten.

"Women? The devils attacked us for them and our horses. The gells, I told ye, were snapped up first pop. I were only one.''

There was another silence, broken at length by Seb Bean, who was unable to contain his feelings any longer, and let fly a volley of hard oaths, whether at the Indians or at the cowboy for his desertion, or at both, was not quite clear. The stranger turned pale.

" You can call me what you like, boss. But 'tain't fair. What could you, or any one, ha' done ? "

He made the appeal to Nat. But Nat seemed to hear nothing. He was staring into the fire.

"They weren't Comanches?" he said at last.

" No — no, Arapahoes. "

ON THE TRAIL. 19

" "What sized crowd '! "*

" A himdred — mebbe less ; but enough on the surprise."

Xat nodded, and fell into his reverie until a hand grasped his knee.

"Nat, boy," growled Bean's voice, trembling and husky, "you've been with Injuns, and you hioiv. Can't you see any way we might pick them girls out ? I'd o-o anvwhere and chance all for the littlest bit of a show at it if you could tell me how to start."

Xat laid his hand on the old man's and held it fast.

"AVait, I'm thinking."

Another silence — a long one this time. Then Xat raised his eyes slowly and looked at the cowboy again.

"I lived five years in Comanche camp, friend, and I have an idea. It is not for you, Seb," pressing his hand ; ^* I must work it out, and this man must show me the way."

^^ What I " shrieked the cowboy, springing up ; " go back to them demons, whose yeUs are ringing in my ears this minute? No! I say no. You ain't seen what I have. That old man, he knows nothing. If those gells were my own sisters, I would not stir a step. — Hello! what — hold up — I can't breathe."

He had been caught hy the throat and thrown down, his neck gripped so tightly that he dared not struggle for fear of being choked outright.

" Save your breath and listen to me," said Nat, in a tone that trembled a little now. " I have not hurt you and don't wish to. But be careful, for the life of a coward is worth nothing in this country. I don't know the location of those Arapahoes, and you do. I want nothing more from you. Will you refuse? You won't if you have the heart of a cat. Get up and tell us, but no more raving foolishness ; I can't stand that."

The cowboy's throat Avas freed, and he rose to his feet as he was bid, slowly. He still felt the grip of Nat's fingers, and before he spoke rubbed his neck vigorously and groaned. Then he looked long and earnestly at the men. There was no resentment in his face.

" Are you re'elly going ? " he said at last.

"Yes."

''Ah, we-el — I — I'll be with ye. Now that's truth."

He laughed the careless cowboy's laugh, and held out his hand. Nat took it, and looked at the man keenly.

" AYliat does tins mean — are you foolino-? "

'' Foolin' I " He laughed again. " Look here, boss, I ahi't so terrible wise, but I know enough to play a straight game with i/ou, and I stand to my Avord, if I can't always stand fire. I mean business ! Tm glad to go there. After all, you're 'bout right. A coward is worse trash than skunks. See now, I'll swear." he said, becoming enthusiastic, '• to hold to ye in this, and you may plug me through if I fail."

Nat set his teeth.

" Swear, then — with me — repeat every word, and Seb, you be witness to his oath."

They were all on their feet now, and the fire, revived by a kick from the old herder, blazed up for a moment, shining brightly on the earnest faces.

" I swear," said Nat, " that I will go back u23on this trail to save these women, so help me God."

The cowboy repeated the words in a loud voice. He was a different person now. His eyes were steady ; he stood firmly on his feet, the shivering had gone.

There was a moment of deep silence after the oath had been taken, and then Seb Bean, placing a hand on the shoulder of each of the men, added an oath of his own.

"And I swear to you, Nat Worsley, that if this man breaks faith, and deserts you in your time of need, though he go to the end of the world I will find him out and kill him, so Jielj) me G-od.''^

Chapter II. Aeapahoe Ca3ip

i

A COUNCIL of Indian warriors twenty years ago was often an impressive sight. In peace time, when the chiefs assembled in tlieir robes of state — albeit only blankets and feathers and furs — and the ceremony was conducted according to rules of the strictest etiquette and decorum, these councils of savages might be set as examples which the parliaments and congresses of civilisation would do well to study with diligence and respect. In war time, before battle, the sight was grander still in spite of the grotesqueness of the war-paint. But after battle — especially after a victory — everything was changed, and in the place of judicial deliberations of grave men, there was a jabbering crowd of wildly exulting bravos, each man so busy boasting of his own deeds and prowess that the few chiefs anxious to get business done had a hard and thankless task.

23 ^ • •

The Arapahoes, this night, were no exception to the rule. Twenty-five white men had they killed ; and for booty they could count forty good horses, an extensive camp outfit of provisions and whiskey, and, best of all, two white women.

So the gallant redskins made merry. They ate the meat, the bacon, and the bread, and every scrap of food cooked and raw that they could find ; then they drank the whiskey, then they set the wagons on fire and danced until they were nearly mad, and lastly they thronged to the council fire and squatted there to decide in full conclave assembled upon the fate of the captive women.

A tall chief, grey-haired, and yet still upright and full of vigour, rose first to address them. This was Long-tailed Dog, principal war-chief of the nation. He made a long speech which was listened to in respectful silence — a strong proof of his influence, and of the self-control possessed by Indians even when they are drunk, for Long-tailed Dog was not a man of few words.

The last sentences of his harangue were as follows: —

" I have now spoken all my words. Shall the women be made squaAvs of the nation ? Shall they be kept until good money is -paid for them by the whites, or will the young men cbaw lots to-night—"

He got no further. Such a fierce and unanimous hum of assent to tlie last proposition rose on every side that Long-tailed Dog, with the wisdom drawn from experience, sat down there and then without finishing his sentence.