Tales of the Trail: Short Stories of Western Life

by Henry Inman

MEDICINE BLUFF.

LITTLE BEAVER.

Unknown, perhaps, to the reader, in the very heart of the Wichita range, in the Indian Territory, there is an immense hill, which, by triangulation effected during the winter campaign of 1868-69 by the engineer officer attached to General Sheridan's headquarters, is three hundred and ten feet high. At its base there is a clear, running river, or properly a creek—for it is only about seventy feet wide. The shape which the stream assumes at the immediate foot of the mountain is that of a crescent, forming quite a large pool or basin.

Under the shadow which the great mass of disrupted rock throws over the water at certain hours, the pool looks as black as ink. The moment the water emerges into the sunlight again, it sparkles and scintillates until it is painful for the eyes to rest upon its rapidly flowing ripple. That the great elevation of this detached portion of the range was caused by some extraordinary convulsion, which moved it from its normal position, is apparent, and curiosity is excited to assign a reason for the limited area of the upheaval.

The stream which flows so picturesquely at the base of the isolated mountain is called by the Indians Medicine Bluff Creek; the hill above it, Medicine Bluff. From the time when the memory of the various tribes "runneth not to the contrary," Medicine Bluff has been a prominent and sacred spot in the traditions and legitimate history of the many nations of savages, but especially in that of the Comanches and Wichitas. It was a sort of "Our Lady of Lourdes" place, where the sick were cured in the most miraculous manner after they had been given up by the celebrated doctors of the tribe. If the party afflicted had never seriously grieved the Great Spirit, the cure was as sudden as marvelous; if the sick, who were carried to the top of the bluff by their friends, had at any time offended the Great Spirit, they died at once, the wolves devoured their flesh, and their bones were transported to the "Land of Terrors." Sometimes, when the individual taken up to invoke the aid of the Indian god had lived an exemplary life, instead of being cured of his fleshly ills he or she was translated, like Elisha of old, to the happy hunting-grounds.

The Comanches declared that at night the Great Spirit frequently rested on the top of the mountain, and when that occurred the whole region to the verge of the horizon was lighted up with a strange glow, resembling that emanating from an immense prairie fire reflected upon the clouds. The Indians also claimed that no dew or rain ever fell upon the extreme summit of the bluff, where the sick were to lie and wait for the manifestation of the Manitou; nor did the wind blow there—so that it was a calm spot, comprising all the essentials to a speedy recovery.

One among the many traditions connected with the charming but weird place was told by an aged warrior of the Comanches one evening, around the camp-fire, in 1868, after white-winged Peace had spread her wings once more over the prairies, and we were pulling vigorously at our "brier-woods" filled with fragrant "Lone Jack." The old fellow, wrinkled and black with the smoke of the tepee in which he had lived for nearly eighty years, and now wrapped in that of his stone pipe, which he sucked as industriously as an infant, told this story:

There was once, ages before the white man had invaded the country of the Indian, a very old warrior, who, sick and despondent, went to the top of Medicine Bluff to be cured. He for many years had ceased to hunt the buffalo, lived with the women of the tribe, and settled himself down to a peaceful calm, awaiting the time when he should be called to join his fathers. One day he struggled to the top of the bluff in the hope that he might die and be carried bodily to the happy hunting-grounds, as he knew from the traditions of his tribe others had been before him.

He had been absent from his lodge and the village for three nights. During all that time the frightened people down below, who had been diligently watching, observed a great blaze on the top of the mountain, as if it were a signal-fire to warn them of some impending danger to the tribe.

On the third morning a young warrior was seen descending the trail from the heights of the bluff, drawing near to the village. When he entered its streets he looked about him in evident surprise. He approached the chief's lodge and sat down by the fire.

The warriors of the tribe gazed at him with awe and that curiosity which a stranger ever evokes. No one seemed to recognize him. All remained silent, waiting for him to speak. Lighting his pipe with a coal, he took a pull at it himself, Indian fashion, then passed it around the circle. The warriors noticed that his pipe-stem was decorated with the feathers of the gray eagle, denoting him to be a great warrior, one who had captured a large number of scalps, so they regarded him with still greater wonder. After every one in the circle around the chief's fire had taken a whiff, the stranger commenced his story:

"After I arrived at the top of the Medicine Bluff, I looked off at the vast expanse which surrounded me. I saw the village of my people; I could hear the dogs bark and the children laugh; I could hear my own family mourning, as if some one had been taken from them; I saw the buffalo covering the prairie, and the cunning wolf lying in wait to pounce upon his prey. When I again looked all around me, and beheld the young warriors in their pride and strength, I asked myself: 'Why do I live any longer? My fires have gone out. I must follow my fathers. The world is beautiful to the young, but to the old it has no pleasure. I will go there!'

"With this upon my mind, I continued: 'Far away toward the setting sun are the hunting-grounds of my people.' Then I gathered all my strength and leaped from the giddy height before me. I knew no more of the woes of this life. I was caught up in mid-air and suddenly transported to a country where game was countless; where there was no wind, no rain, no sickness; where all the great chiefs of the Comanches who had ever died were assembled; where they were all young again, and chased the buffalo and feasted as when on earth. There was no darkness. The people were continually happy. Beautiful birds sang on the trees. The war-whoop was never more heard."

The old chief had been rejuvenated, and now came back to his people with all his youthful vigor, to live again with his own tribe. The story of the strange warrior captivated the Indians.

He at once became an oracle and great medicine-man in his tribe; his power to cure the sick was wonderful, and his counsel was implicitly obeyed ever afterward.

Medicine Bluff has of course lost much of its prestige among the Indians, for the reason that since the extinction of the buffalo and other large game the tribes have been scattered, being generally pretty closely confined to the reservations, with the children taught in schools, and the superstitions, or at least many of them, having passed gradually out of the remembrance of the new generation, known only to the few old warriors left.

The savage, like the white man, in his disappointments and miseries sometimes resorts to suicide as a cure-all for and end-all of life's burdens. Among the powerful Comanches Medicine Bluff was, for an unknown period, one of their famous places, like the Vendome Column in Paris, from which to terminate an unsatisfactory and miserable existence. The bluff was also a rendezvous for the young warriors, who were to go for the first time in battle with the tried soldiers of the tribe, to propitiate the Great Spirit.

The sun in that nation, as in the old tribe of Natchez, symbolized their god. For three consecutive mornings the youthful aspirant for military honors was obliged to go to the highest point of the great hill, where, armed with his buffalo hide, and alone, he was with the utmost reverence to present the front of his shield to the early morning sun as its rays gilded the rocky crags of the mountain, assuming the attitude of a warrior in the heat of battle, on guard against his enemy's spear and shower of arrows. This ceremony on the part of the novitiate, if reverently performed, gave his shield invulnerable power.

A story told to many of us during the campaign referred to, by one of the oldest of the Comanches, the oldest Indian I have ever seen—"Little Beaver," of the Osages—is very interesting, showing to what an art the despised savage of thirty years ago reduced story-telling. The dried-up old warrior prefaced his tale by stating that he was so aged "that he was brother of the highest peak of the Wichita Mountains," at the foot of which we were camped on a cold December night in 1868. Here is the story:

So many years ago that it seemed like a dream even to the narrator, the Comanches were the greatest tribe on earth. Their warriors were as numerous as a herd of buffalo on the Arkansas in the fall. They were more cunning than the coyote. Their herd of ponies contained so many animals—all fine and fat—that no man could count them in a year. All the other Indians of the plains and mountains feared and trembled at the name of Comanche.

In the tribe, as is ever the case, there were two warriors who excelled all the others in their prowess. One was young, and the other middle-aged. They were very jealous of each other, each constantly attempting some deed of daring at which, it was hoped, the rival would balk. One fall, when the Indian summer made the air redolent with the sweet perfume of thousands of flowers and the mountains were bathed in the amber mist of that delicious season, all the great warriors were returning from one of their most famous victories.

They camped under the shadow of Medicine Bluff late one afternoon, where the young brave, who was quietly smoking his pipe as he hovered over the little camp-fire on which he was broiling a piece of antelope steak, happened to fix his gaze on the highest point of the bluff, and in that position continued for several minutes wrapped in a most profound study, while all the rest of the band stopped whatever they were doing and gazed at him as intently.

Suddenly he rose to his full height and cast a defiant look upon the warriors scattered around on the grass, who, excited at his strange manner, sprang up to learn what he meant. Presently he turned his face toward the sun, which was about two hours high, and broke out with this boast:

"No warrior equals me! I am the greatest of all the Comanches! I resemble that mountain!" pointing with his spear to the highest peak of Medicine Bluff. "My actions are as far above yours as that mountain is above the stream at its foot! Is there a warrior here who dare follow me?"

Then he shook his spear and brandished his shield in defiance of any and all. His rival was all the time swelling with rage and pride. He knew the boast was intended for him alone, although he was the elder of the two. He approached the braggart with all the dignity of the savage that he was, and, striking himself on the bosom several times, exclaimed:

"So! You are the greatest warrior of the Comanches? You are the buffalo that leads the herd? I am the old bull to be driven away by the cowardly coyote and die, leaving my bones to whiten? You ask me to follow you? Never! I never follow! I will go with you!"

The remainder of the band gathered around the two celebrated warriors. They wondered what new deed of daring they were going to attempt, as the rivals arrayed themselves in their best buckskin dress and mounted their favorite ponies. With shields held in a defying position, their faces painted, and their bonnets of war-eagle feathers flowing in the breeze, they rode away without another word.

They forded the stream. The younger now started up the difficult trail which led to the sacred summit of the Medicine Bluff, where, stopping his affrighted steed, he pointed to the fearful precipice a few rods off, and exclaimed:

"You have followed me here; follow me farther."

Then shouting the war-whoop, which made the echoes of the mountain awaken, and thumping the flanks of his animal vigorously, he darted toward the awful brink. His rival instantly raised his pony on his hind legs, and with a whoop more piercing followed the young man, who, when he had reached the edge of the precipice, failed in courage and pulled his pony violently back on his haunches. The elder saw his chance. With an awful yell of defiance and triumph, he forced his horse to make the terrible leap in mid-air.

All the warriors on the grassy bottom below watched with eager interest what was going on above them. They heard the whoop of the aged warrior as he jumped into the awful abyss. They saw him sit as calmly as if in his "lodge" as he descended, seated as upright on his pony as if his animal were walking the prairie, and, above all, they heard his clear voice as it rung out in the clouds: "Greatest of all the Comanches!"

Sadly they wended their way to the foot of the bluff, where both horse and brave rider lay a mangled mass on the rocks, the old warrior with a smile on his wrinkled face of unmistakable triumph.

The boasting rival became a wanderer among the tribes. His name was accursed of all Indians. The very dogs of the camps snapped at him as he passed. At last, overcome with remorse at his cowardice and treachery, he killed himself. One day he was found dead on the grave of his rival at the foot of the bluff. His body was eaten by the coyotes; his shield and spear, by which he had been identified, were lying on the ground at his feet.

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A RACE FOR LIFE.
An Incident of the Indian War of 1864.

KICKING BIRD.

In 1864 the magnificent valley of the "Smoky Hill," with its rich share of wooded streams and fertile uplands, and the still more Elysian expanse watered by the great Arkansas—that embryo granary of two continents—were simply known as the region through which passed twin inter-oceanic trails, the Oregon and the Santa Fé, both now mere memories.

The commerce of the Great Plains over that broad path through the wilderness, the Santa Fé Trail, was at its height, and immense trains rolled day after day toward the blue hills which guard the portals of New Mexico. Oxen, mules, and sometimes horses, tugged wearily week after week through the monotony of their long journey, their precious freight ever tempting the wily nomads to plunder, dissimulation, and murder. Pawnee Rock, Walnut, Coon, Ash and Cow creeks were mute witnesses of a score or more battles that reddened the blossoming prairie in springtime, and the slopes of the Pawnee, Heath's Branch and Buckner's were resonant with the yell of the Kiowa and Cheyenne, who under the pale moonlight held their hideous saturnalia of butchery.

To protect the trains on their weary route through the "desert"—as the whole of this region was then termed, and confidently believed by the world to be—troops were stationed, a mere handful, relatively, at intervals on the "great trail," to escort the freighters and the United States mail over the most exposed and dangerous portions of the route.

The incident which is the subject of this sketch is as thrilling, perhaps, in its details, and as marvelous in its results, as any that have come down to us in the history of those memorable times. It deals with plain facts, and men who are now living—one of whom, the principal actor in the scenes to be related, is known favorably all over the State. [Capt. Henry Booth, just passed away—1898.]

Fort Riley, in the year referred to, was one of the extreme permanent military posts. Here, in November, 1864, Capt. Henry Booth was stationed. He was chief of cavalry and inspecting officer for the district of the Upper Arkansas, the western geographical limit of which extended to the foot of the Rocky Mountains.

Early in the month, in company with Lieut. Hallowell, of the Ninth Wisconsin Battery, he received orders to make a tour of inspection of the several outposts, which extended as far as Fort Lyon, in Colorado.

Salina was occupied by one company of the Seventh Iowa Cavalry, under command of Capt. Hammer. Where the old Leavenworth stage route crossed the Smoky Hill, in a beautifully timbered bend of that stream, was a little log stockade, commanded by Lieut. Ellsworth, also of the Seventh Cavalry.

To this comparatively insignificant post—insignificant only in its appointments, not in importance—the commanding officer gave his own name, which the county of Ellsworth will perpetuate in history.

At the crossing of the Walnut, on the broad trail to the mountains, were stationed three hundred unassigned recruits of the Third Wisconsin Cavalry, under the command of Capt. Conkey. This was one of the most important points of observation on the "Great Overland Route," for near it passed the favorite highway of the Indians on their yearly migrations north and south.

This primitive cantonment grew rapidly in its strategic aspect, was later made quite formidable, defensively, and was named Fort Zarah in memory of the youngest son of Maj. Gen. Curtis, killed by guerrillas somewhere south of Fort Scott, while escorting Gen. James G. Blunt, of Kansas fame.

At Fort Larned, always a prominent point in the military history of the Plains, one company of the Twelfth Kansas and a section of the Ninth Wisconsin Battery commanded by Lieut. Potter were stationed. From these troops—the isolated disposition of which I have hurriedly related—squads, consisting usually of from a dozen to twenty men or more, as the case might be, under the charge of a corporal or sergeant, were detailed to escort the mail coach, freighters, Government trains, etc.

On the morning the order (to make the special inspection of the outposts referred to) was received at Fort Riley, Captain Booth and Lieut. Hallowell immediately commenced active preparations for their extended and hazardous drive across the prairies.

All preliminaries arranged, the question as to the means of transportation of the two officers was determined in this wise, and as the sequel will show, curiously enough saved the lives of the two heroes in the terrible gauntlet they were destined to run.

Lieut. Hallowell was a famous "whip," and prided himself upon his exceptionally fine turn-out which he daily drove around the picturesque hills of Fort Riley.

"Booth," said he that morning, "let's not take a great lumbering ambulance on this trip. If you will get a good team of mules from the quartermaster, I will furnish my light wagon, and we will do our own driving."

"All right," replied Booth; "I'll get the mules."

Lieut. Hallowell therefore had a set of bows fitted to his light rig, over which was thrown an army wagon-sheet, drawn up behind with a cord, similar to the fashion of the average emigrant outfit now so often to be seen upon the roads of our Western prairies. A round hole was thus left at the end, which served as a window, and as will be seen further on, played a most important part in the tragedy in which this simply covered wagon figured so conspicuously.

Two valises containing their dress uniforms, a box of crackers and cheese, meat and sardines, and a bottle of anti-snakebite, made up the precious freight for the long journey; and in the clear cold of the early morning they rolled out of the gates of the fort, escorted by Company L of the Eleventh Kansas, commanded by Lieut. Jacob Van Antwerp.

Junction City was in those days in reality the limit of civilization, although Abilene with its solitary log cabin, and Salina with only two, made great pretensions as the most westerly cities of the Great Plains. A single glance at the howling wilderness surrounding either place, however, dissipated all idea of possible or probable future metropolitan greatness.

The rough bluffs that border Alum and Clear creeks, in Ellsworth county, through which the trail wound its tortuous way, were always in those days a favorite haunt of the Indians, and many a solitary straggler has met his death from their swift arrows in what are now called the "Harker Hills."

Safely through these dangerous bluffs and across the beautiful bottoms that are to-day dotted with some of the most picturesque homes in Ellsworth county, marched the little army and its one white covered ambulance. Not an incident disturbed the quiet of the grand autumn day, except the occasional slaughter of buffalo in mere wantonness now and then by some straggling soldier; and early in the afternoon the stockade in the bend of the Smoky Hill was reached.

After an inspection of this remote little garrison, which was found in excellent spirits and condition, the line of march was resumed next morning for Capt. Conkey's camp on the Walnut.

The company of 100 men acting as an escort were too formidable a number to invite the cupidity of the Indians, and not a sign of one was seen as the dangerous flats of Plum creek and the rolling country beyond were successively passed; and the cantonment on the Walnut was reached with nothing to disturb the monotony of the march.

Capt. Conkey's command at this important outpost were living in a rude but comfortable sort of way in the simplest of dugouts constructed along the bank of the stream, and the officers, a little more in accordance with military dignity, in tents a few rods to the rear of the line of huts. A stockade stable had been built, with a capacity of two hundred and fifty horses, and sufficient hay had been put up by the men to carry the horses through the winter.

The Captain was a brusque but kind-hearted man, and with him were stationed his other officers, one of whom was a son of Admiral Goldsborough, of naval fame.

The next morning Capt. Booth made a rigid inspection of the place, which took all day, as an immense amount of property had accumulated for condemnation; and when evening came, the papers, books, etc., were still untouched, and this branch of the inspection was postponed until the morning. In the evening while sitting around the campfire, discussing the war, telling stories, etc., Capt. Conkey said to Booth: "Captain, it won't take more than half an hour in the morning to inspect the papers and finish up what you have got to do: why don't you start your escort out early?—then they won't be obliged to trot after the ambulance, or you to poke along with them. You can then move out briskly and make time."

Acting upon this suggestion, Capt. Booth went over the creek to Lieut. Van Antwerp's camp and told him he need not wait for the ambulance in the morning, but to march at about half-past six or at seven o'clock, in advance. So at daylight the escort marched out agreeably to instructions, and Booth continued his inspection. It was found, however, that either Capt. Conkey had misjudged the amount of work to be done or the inspecting officer's ability to do it in a certain time, and nearly three hours elapsed before the task was completed.

At last everything was closed up, much to the satisfaction of Lieut. Hallowell, who had been chafing under the delay ever since the troops departed. When all was in readiness and the ambulance drawn up in front of the commanding officer's tent, Lieut. Hallowell suggested to Booth the propriety of taking a few of the men stationed there with them until they overtook their own escort, which must now be several miles on the trail toward Fort Larned. So, upon this, Booth mentioned it to Capt. Conkey, who said: "Oh, there is no danger; there hasn't an Indian been seen around here for more than ten days."

If they had known as much about Indians then as they afterward learned, Capt. Conkey's response, instead of assuring them, would have made them insist upon an escort, which Booth in his official capacity had the power to order; but they were satisfied, and concluded to push on. Jumping into the wagon, Lieut. Hallowell took the lines, and away they went, rattling over the old log bridge that used to span the Walnut, as light of heart as if riding to a dance. It was a clear cold morning, with a stiff breeze blowing from the northwest; their trail was frozen hard in some places, and was very rough, caused by the travel of heavy trains when it was wet.

Booth sat on the left side with the whip in his hand, occasionally striking the animals to keep their speed. Hallowell struck up a tune (he was a good singer), and Booth joined in as they rolled along, as oblivious of danger as though they were in their quarters at Riley.

After they had proceeded some distance, Hallowell remarked, "The buffalo are grazing a long distance from the road to-day—a circumstance which I think bodes no good." He had been on the Plains the summer before, and was better acquainted with the Indians and their peculiarities than Capt. Booth; but the latter replied that he "thought it was because their escort had gone along ahead, and had probably frightened them away." The next mile or two was passed, and still they saw no buffalo between the trail and the river; but nothing more was said relative to the suspicious circumstance, and they rolled rapidly on.

When about five or six miles from Zarah, on glancing toward the river, to the left and front, Booth saw something that looked strangely like a drove of turkeys; he watched them intently for a few minutes, when they rose up, and he discovered they were horsemen. He grasped Hallowell's left arm, and directed his attention to them, saying, "What's that?" Hallowell cast a hasty look to the point indicated, and replying, "Indians, by George!" immediately turned the mules and started them back toward Fort Zarah on a full gallop.

"Hold on," said Booth; "maybe it is a part of our escort."

"No, no," replied Hallowell; "I know it's Indians."

"Well," replied Booth, "I am going to see;" so, stepping out on the footboard and holding onto the front bow, he looked back over the top of the wagon. There was no doubt now that they were Indians. They had fully emerged from the ravines in which they were hidden, and while he was looking were slipping their buffalo robes from their shoulders, taking arrows out of their quivers, drawing up their spears, and making ready generally for a red-hot time. While Booth was intently watching their hostile movements, Hallowell asked, "They are Indians, aren't they?"

"Yes," replied Booth, "and they are coming like blazes!"

"Oh, dear!" said Hallowell, in a despairing tone; "I shall never see poor Lizzie again." He had been married for only a few weeks, and his young wife's name was Lizzie.

"Never mind Lizzie," said Booth; "let's get out of here!" Although he was as badly frightened as Hallowell, he had no bride at Riley, and as he tells it, "was selfishly thinking of himself and escape."

Promptly in response to Booth's remark came back from Hallowell in a firm voice, clear and determined as ever issued from mortal throat: "All right; you do the shooting and I'll do the driving," and suiting the action to the word, he snatched the whip out of Booth's hand, slipped from the seat to the front of the wagon and commenced lashing the mules.

Booth then crawled back, pulled one of his revolvers—he had two, Hallowell only one—then crept, or rather fell, over the "lazy-back" of the seat, reached the hole made by the puckering of the sheet, and counted the Indians. Thirty-four feather-bedecked, paint-bedaubed savages, as vicious-looking an outfit as ever scalped a white man, were coming down upon them like a hawk upon a chicken.

Booth had hardly reached his place at the back of the wagon before Hallowell, between his yells to the mules, cried out, "How far off are they now, Cap.?"—for he could see nothing in the rear as he sat.

Booth answered him as well as he could, and Hallowell renewed his lashing and yelling.

Noiselessly the Indians gained, for as yet they had not uttered a whoop.

Again Hallowell asked, "How far off are they now, Cap.?" and again Booth gave him an idea of the distance between them and their merciless foe. From him Hallowell gathered fresh inspiration for fresh yells and still more vigorous blows.

Booth was sitting on a box containing crackers, sardines, etc., watching the approach of the cut-throats, and saw with fear and trembling the ease with which they gained upon the little wagon. He realized then that safety did not lie in flight alone, and that something besides mules' heels would be necessary to preserve their scalp-locks.

Once more Hallowell inquired the distance between the pursued and pursuing, but before Booth could answer, two shots were fired by the rifles from the Indians, accompanied by a yell that was enough to make the blood curdle in one's veins, and no reply was needed to acquaint the valorous driver that the fiends were sufficiently near to commence making trouble. He yelled at the mules, and down came the whip upon the poor animals' backs. Booth yelled, for what reason he did not know, unless to keep company with Hallowell, while the wagon flew over the rough road like a patent baby-jumper. The bullets from the two rifles passed through the wagon-cover immediately between the officers, but did no damage; and almost instantly the Indians charged down upon them, dividing into two parties, one going on each side, and delivering a volley of arrows into the wagon as they rode by.

Just as they darted past the mules, Hallowell cried out, "Cap., I'm hit!" and turning around to look at him, Booth saw an arrow sticking in his head above his right ear; his arm was still plying the whip, which was going as unceasingly as the sails of a windmill, and his yelling only stopped long enough to answer, "Not much," in response to Booth's "Does it hurt?" as he grabbed the arrow and pulled it out of his head.

The Indians by this time had passed on, and then, circling back, prepared for another charge.

Booth had already fired at them three or four times, but owing to the distance, the jumping of the wagon, and the "unsteadiness of his nerves," as he declared, the shots had not decreased to any material extent the number of their assailants.

Down came the red devils again, dividing as before, and delivering another lot of arrows. Hallowell stopped yelling long enough to cry out, "I'm hit again, Cap.!"

Looking around, Booth saw an arrow sticking in Hallowell's head, just over his left ear this time, and hanging down his back like an ornament. He snatched it out, asked Hallowell if it hurt him, but received the same answer as before—"No; not much."

Both were yelling at the top of their voices, the mules were jerking the wagon along at a fearful rate—frightened nearly out of their wits at the sight of the Indians and the shouting and whipping of their drivers. Booth, crawling to the back end of the wagon again and looking out, saw the Indians moving across the trail, preparing for another charge. One old fellow mounted on a black pony was jogging along in the center of the road behind them, quite near, and evidently intent on sending an arrow through the puckered hole of the wagon-sheet. As Booth looked out, the Indian stopped his pony and let fly. Booth dodged back sideways; the arrow sped on in its course, and came whizzing through the hole and struck the black-walnut "lazy-back" of the seat, the head sticking entirely through, the sudden checking causing the feathered end to vibrate rapidly with a vro-o-o-ing sound. With a sudden blow Booth struck it, breaking the shaft from the head, leaving the latter imbedded in the wood.

As quick as he could, Booth rushed to the hole and fired at his aged opponent, but failed to hit him. While he was trying to get another shot at him, an arrow came flying from the left side, and struck him on the inside of the elbow, hitting the nerve or "crazy-bone," which so benumbed his hand and arm that he could not hold on to his revolver, and it dropped from his hand to the road with one load still in its chamber. Just then the mules gave an extra jump, which nearly jerked the wagon from under him, and he fell on the end-gate, evenly balanced, with his hands sprawling outside, attempting to clutch at something to save himself.

At this the Indians gave a terrible yell—of exultation, probably, supposing Booth was going to fall out; but he didn't. He caught hold of one of the wagon-bows and pulled himself in again, terribly scared. It was a "close call" and no mistake!

While all this was going on, Hallowell had not been neglected by the incarnate fiends; about a dozen of them had devoted their time and attention to him, but he had not flinched. Just as Booth had regained his equilibrium and drawn the second revolver from his holster, Hallowell yelled, "Right off to the right, Cap.—quick!"

Booth tumbled over the back of the seat, clutching at a bow to steady himself, and "right off to the right" was an Indian just letting fly at Hallowell. The arrow struck the side of the wagon; Booth at the instant fired at the Indian, missed him of course—but he was badly scared, and throwing himself on the opposite side of his pony, scooted off over the prairie.

Back over the seat Booth piled again to guard the rear, where he found a young buck riding close behind and to the right of the wagon, his pony following the trail made by the ox-drivers in walking beside their teams. Putting his arm around one of the wagon-bows, to prevent being jerked out, Booth quickly stuck his revolver through the hole; but before he could fire, the Indian flopped over on the side of his pony, and all that could be seen of him was his arm around the pony's neck, and from the knee down, one leg. Booth did not fire, but waited for him to come up—he could almost hit the pony's head with his hand, so closely was he running. He struck at it several times, but the Indian kept him close up by whipping him on the opposite side of his neck. Presently the Indian's arm began to work, and Booth looking saw that he had fixed an arrow in his bow behind the pony's shoulder, and was just on the point of shooting at him, with the head of the arrow not three feet from his breast as he leaned out of the hole in the wagon-sheet. Booth struck frantically at the arrow and dodged back into the wagon. Up came the Indian, but Booth went out again, for he realized that the Indian had to be gotten away from there, as he would make trouble. Whenever Booth went out, down went the Indian; up he rose in a moment again, but Booth fearing to risk himself with his head and breast exposed at this game of "hide-and-seek," drew back as the Indian went down the third time, and in a second up he came again—but this was once too often. Booth had only gotten partly in and had not dropped his revolver, and as the Indian rose, instinctively, and without taking aim, fired.

The ball struck the Indian in the left nipple (he was naked to the waist), the blood spurted out of the wound almost to the wagon, his bow and arrow and lariat-rope dropped, he fell back on the pony's rump and rolled from there heavily onto the ground, where, after a convulsive straightening of his legs and a characteristic "Ugh!" he lay as quiet as a stone.

"I've killed one of them, Hallowell!" yelled out Booth, as the Indian tumbled off his pony.

"Bully for you!" came back the response; and then he continued his shouting, and the blows of that tireless whip fell incessantly upon the mules.

All the Indians that were in the rear and saw the young warrior fall, rode up to him, circling around his dead body, uttering the most unearthly yells,—but different from anything they had given vent to before.

Hallowell, from his cramped position in front, noticed the change in their tone, and asked, "What are they doing now, Cap.?"

Booth explained to him, and Hallowell's response was more vociferous yelling and harder blows upon the poor galloping mules.

Booth was still sitting on the cracker-box, watching the maneuvers of the Indians, when suddenly Hallowell sang out, "Right off to the right, Cap.—quick!" which startled him, and whirling around instantly, he saw an Indian within three feet of the wagon, with his bow and arrow almost ready to shoot. There was no time to get over the seat, and as he could not fire by Hallowell, he cried out, "Hit him with the whip! Hit him with the whip!" The lieutenant, suiting the action to the word, simply diverted one of the blows intended for the mules, and struck the Indian fair across the face.

The whip had a knot on the end of it to keep it from unraveling, and this knot must have hit the Indian in the eye, for he dropped his bow, put his hands up to his face, rubbed his eyes, and digging his heel into the left side of his pony, was soon out of reach of a revolver, but nevertheless he was given a parting shot—a sort of salute, for it was harmless.

A terrific yell from the rear at this moment caused Booth to look around, and Hallowell to inquire, "What's the matter now?" "They are coming down upon us like lightning!" replied Booth; and sure enough, those who had been prancing around their dead comrade were coming toward the wagon like a whirlwind, and with a whoop more deafening and hideous than any that had preceded it.

Hallowell yelled louder than ever and lashed the mules more furiously still, but the Indians gained on them as easily as a blooded racer on a common farm plug. Separating as before, and passing on each side of the wagon, the Indians delivered another volley as they charged by.

As this charge was made, Booth drew away from the hole in the rear of the wagon-cover and turned his seat toward the Indians, but forgot in the moment of excitement that, in the manner that he was sitting, his back pressed against the sheet, his body probably plainly outlined on the outside.

When the Indians rushed by and delivered their storm of arrows, Hallowell cried out, "I'm hit again, Cap.!" and Booth, in turning around to go to his relief, felt something pulling at him. Glancing over his left shoulder to learn the cause of his trouble, he discovered an arrow sticking into him and out through the wagon-sheet. With a jerk of his body he tore it loose, and going to Hallowell, asked, "Where are you hit now?" "In the back," he answered; where on looking Booth saw an arrow sticking, the shaft extending under the "lazy-back" of the seat. Taking hold of it, he gave it a pull, but Hallowell squirmed so that he desisted. "Pull it out! Pull it out!" he cried. Booth thereupon took hold of it again, and, giving a jerk or two, out it came. He was thoroughly frightened as he saw it leave the lieutenant's body, for it seemed to have entered at least six inches, and looked as if it must have made a dangerous wound; but Hallowell did not cease belaboring the mules, and his yells, accompanied by the blows, rang out as clear as before.

After pulling out the arrow, Booth turned again to the opening at the rear of the wagon, to see what new tricks the miscreants were up to, when Hallowell yelled again, "Right off to the left, Cap.—quick!"

Rushing to the front of the wagon as soon as possible, Booth saw an Indian in the act of shooting at the lieutenant from the left side, and about ten feet away. The last revolver was empty, but something had to be done at once; so, leveling the weapon at him, Booth yelled, "Bang! you son-of-a-gun!"

Down went the Indian; rap, rap, went his knees against his pony's sides, and away he flew over the prairie.

Back over the seat Booth tumbled, and began to load his revolver. The cartridges they had in those days were the old-fashioned paper kind, and biting off the end of one he would endeavor to pour the powder into the chamber, but the wagon was tumbling from side to side and jumping up and down as it flew over the rough trail, and more of the powder went into the bottom of the wagon than into the revolver.

Just as he was inserting a ball in the chamber, Hallowell cried out again, "Right off to the left, Cap.—quick!" Over the seat Booth went once more, and there was another Indian, with his bow and arrow in his hand, all ready to plug the lieutenant. Pointing his revolver at him, Booth yelled as he had at the other, but the Indian had evidently noticed the failure to fire at the first, and concluded that there were no more loads left; so, instead of taking a hasty departure as his comrade had done, he grinned a demoniacal grin and endeavored to fix the arrow into his bow.

Thoroughly frightened now at the aspect things were assuming, Booth rose up in the wagon, and grasping hold of a bow with his left hand, seized the revolver by the muzzle, and with all the force he could muster, hurled it at the impudent brute. It was a new Remington octagon barrel, with sharp corners, and when it was thrown turned in the air, striking the Indian, muzzle first, on the ribs, cutting a long gash.

"Ugh!" grunted the Indian, and dropping his long spear and bow, he flung himself over the side of the pony, and away he went over the prairie, to bother them no more.

Only the one revolver left now, and that empty, and the Indians still howling around the apparently doomed men like so many demons.

After he had driven the Indian off, Booth fell over the seat, picked up the empty revolver and attempted to load; but before he could bite off a cartridge, Hallowell yelled again, "I'm hit again, Cap.!"

"Where are you hit now?" asked the gallant captain.

"In the hand," replied Hallowell.

Looking around, Booth saw his right arm was plying the whip to the now laggard mules, and sticking through the fleshy part of his thumb was an arrow, which was flopping up and down as his arm rose and fell in its ceaseless and evidently tireless efforts to keep up the speed of the almost exhausted animals.

"Let me pull it out," said Booth.

"No, never mind," said Hallowell; "can't stop, can't stop"—and up and down went his arm, and flip-flap went the arrow with it, until finally it tore through the flesh and fell to the ground.

Along they bowled, the Indians yelling and the occupants of the wagon defiantly answering them, while Booth was still making a desperate but vain effort to load the revolver. In a few moments Hallowell shouted, "They are crowding the mules into the sunflowers!"

Along the sides of the trail huge sunflowers had grown the previous summer, and now their dry stalks stood as thick as a canebrake, and if the wagon once got among them the mules could not keep up their gallop, and would soon be compelled to stop.

The Indians seemed to realize this fact, and one huge fellow kept riding beside the off mule and throwing his spear at him and then jerking it back with the thong, one end of which was fastened to his wrist, the other to the shaft of the spear. The mule on the side next the Indian was jumping frantically and pushing the near mule from the road.

Stepping out on the footboard, and holding a bow with one hand, Booth commenced kicking the mule vigorously. Hallowell, meanwhile, was pulling on one line, whipping and yelling; so together they forced the animals back into the trail, and away they shot at the top of their speed.

The Indian kept close to the mules, and Booth made several attempts to scare him by pointing his revolver at him; but he would not scare, so he threw it at him. It missed the Indian, but struck the pony just behind the rider's leg, which started the latter off over the prairie, thus removing the immediate peril from that source.

They were now absolutely without firearms—nothing left but their sabers and valises; and the Indians, soon learning that there were no more shots to be fired, came closer and closer.

In turn the two sabers were thrown at them, as they came almost within striking distance; then followed the scabbards after the yelling fiends, as they surrounded the wagon. Some rode immediately in front of the mules, impeding their progress with the most infernal noises and attempts to spear them (the Indians having evidently exhausted all their arrows)—and the camp on the Walnut still a mile and a half away.

There was nothing left for our luckless travelers to do but whip and kick the mules and yell, all of which they did most lustily—Hallowell sitting as immovable as a sphinx, except his right arm, which from the time he had started had not ceased, and Booth kicking the poor animals and shouting in concert with their importunate foe. Looking casually over the seat, Booth saw twelve or fifteen Indians coming up behind, with their spears all unstrung and ready for action, and he felt that something must be done, and that right speedily, to divert them; for if these were added to the number already surrounding the wagon, the chances were they would succeed in forcing the mules from the trail, and the end of the tragedy would soon come.

Glancing around the bottom of the wagon, in his despair, for some kind of weapon with which to resist them, Booth's eye rested upon the valises containing the dress suits, and snatching his, threw it out, while his pursuers were yet some four or five rods behind. The Indians noticed these new tricks with a yell of apparent satisfaction, and as soon as they reached the valise they all dismounted, and one of them grabbed it by the two handles and attempted to open it; failing in this, another drew a long knife from under his blanket, and, ripping up one side, thrust in his hand and pulled out a sash, and began winding it around his head (as a negro woman winds a bandana), letting the tassels hang down his back.

While he was thus amusing himself, another had pulled out a dress coat, a third a pair of drawers, still another a shirt—all of which they individually proceeded to put on, meanwhile dancing around and yelling.

Booth reported to Hallowell how the sacrifice of his valise had diverted the Indians, and said, "I'm going to throw out yours."

"All right," he replied; "let her go; all we want is time." So out it went, and shared the same fate as the other.

As long as the Indians were busy helping themselves to the wardrobes contained in the two valises, they were not bothering the mules, and as Hallowell had said, "all they wanted was time."

But while the diversion was going on in the rear, the devils on each side and front were still attempting to force the mules from the road by rushing at them and yelling, and brandishing their spears; none of them had as yet tried to kill them, evidently thinking they could wound the two officers and secure them alive—a prize too valuable for an Indian to lose. But as they were now drawing near the creek, on the opposite bank of which the camp was situated, and the chance of escape grew brighter, one miserable cut-throat of the band apparently conceived the idea of killing one of the mules, for he charged down on the wagon, rode close up to one, and discharging his arrow at him, struck him on the fore leg, severing a small artery, from which the blood spurted by jerks. The mules had no blinds on their bridles, and the one hurt, seeing the blood, became so frightened that he gave a terrific jump and started off at a break-neck gait, dragging the other mule and the wagon after him; so all the occupants had now to do was to pound and kick the uninjured one to make him keep up.

This fresh spurt of speed had carried them away from the Indians, but Booth and Hallowell knew that the animals could not continue it, and they became convinced that the Indians now meant to kill one or both of the mules in order to stop them.

The lull caused by the mules outstripping the Indians gave our almost despairing heroes time to talk the matter over.

Hallowell said he did not propose to be captured and taken to Medicine Lodge creek, or some other place, and then butchered or burned at the leisure of the Indians. He said to Booth, "If they kill a mule and we stop, let's kick, strike, throw clods or anything, and compel them to kill us on the spot." So they agreed, if worst came to worst, to stand back to back and fight them off.

This may seem overdrawn to many of our readers of to-day; but if they have ever seen the remains of men and women hacked and mutilated, as the writer has, and realize as fully as the occupants of the little wagon did that such a fate awaited them in the event of capture, they too would have courted death sudden, certain, and immediate, in preference to that other, more remote but just as sure, and far more terrible.

During the discussion of the situation by Booth and Hallowell, the speed of the mules had slackened but little; the arm of the latter still plied that effective lash, and they drew perceptibly nearer the camp, where there were men enough to rescue them if they could only be made aware of their situation; and as they caught the first glimpse of the tents of the officers and dugouts of the men, hope sprang up within them, and life, hanging as it were by a slender cord, seemed more precious than ever. In the hope of arousing and attracting the attention of some of the soldiers, they again commenced yelling at the top of their voices; the mules were panting like hounds on the chase; wherever the harness touched them it was white with lather, and they could not keep on their feet much longer.

Would they hold out until the bridge was reached, provided they escaped the spears of the Indians? The whipping and kicking had little effect on them now; they still continued in their gallop, but it was slower and more labored than before, and as the Indians fell back to make fresh charges, the mules also slackened their gait, and it became almost impossible to accelerate their motion.

Hallowell kept his whip going mechanically, and Booth continued his attention to the little near mule with his foot; but the worn-out animals began to evince unmistakable signs of breaking down, and longing eyes were turned toward the camp, now so near.

Though the Indians who had torn open the satchels had not come up, and did not seem inclined to further continue the fight, there was still a sufficient number of the fiends pursuing to make it interesting; but they could not succeed in spearing the mules, as at each attempt the plucky animals would jump sideways or forward and evade the impending blow.

One gigantic fellow followed them with a determination and valor worthy of a better cause, the others seeming now to have almost abandoned the idea of capturing either men or animals; but this persistent warrior was in all probability related to the young "buck" Booth had killed, and was thirsting for revenge. At any rate, he was loth to give up the chase, and followed the wagon to within a few rods of the bridge, long after the other Indians had fallen back entirely.

The little log bridge was now reached; their pursuers had all retreated, but the valorous Hallowell kept the mules at the same galloping gait. This bridge was constructed of half-round logs, and of course was extremely rough. The wagon bounded up and down enough to shake the teeth out of one's head, as the mules went flying over the rude structure. Booth cried out to Hallowell, "No need to drive so fast now—the Indians have all left;" but he answered:

"I ain't going to stop until I get across," and down came the whip, on sped the mules, not breaking their gallop until they pulled up in front of Capt. Conkey's tent. Booth could not stand the fearful bounding of the wagon as it rolled across the bridge, so he crawled out behind and walked up to the quarters.

The rattling of the wagon on the bridge was the first intimation the command had of its returning. The sentinel on the post had been walking his beat on the east side of the long stockade stable to keep out of the cold northwest wind, and had heard nothing of the yelling and talking until they struck the bridge, when he came around the stable, saw the wagon and two or three of the Indians behind, fired his carbine, and thus aroused the camp.

The officers came running out of their tents, the men poured out of their dugouts like a lot of ants, and the wagon and its occupants were soon surrounded by their friends. Capt. Conkey ordered the bugler to sound "boots and saddles," and in less than ten minutes ninety troopers were mounted, and, with the Captain at their head, started after the Indians.

Lieut. Hallowell reached the line of officers' tents before Booth, and as the latter came up was attempting to rise so as to get out; but each effort only resulted in his falling back. It was thought at first his wounds were the cause, but when asked, "What's the matter? Can't you get out?" replied, "I don't know. I seem to get up only so far." Some one stepped around to the other side to assist him, when it was discovered that the skirt of his overcoat had worked outside the wagon-sheet and hung over the edge, and that three or four of the arrows fired by the Indians had struck the side of the wagon, and passing through the flap of his coat, had pinned him down. Booth pulled the arrows out and helped him up. He was pretty stiff from sitting in his cramped position so long, and his right arm dropped to his side as if struck with paralysis.

While Hallowell walked into Capt. Conkey's tent, assisted by the adjutant and quartermaster, some of the soldiers unhitched the poor mules and led them to the corral. On examining the inside of the wagon, twenty-two arrows were found lying in the bottom, innumerable holes through the sheet made by the passage of arrows, besides two from bullets, and the outside of the bed was scarred from one end to the other.

Booth stood looking on while Hallowell's wounds were being dressed, when the adjutant said, "What makes you shrug your shoulders so, Captain?" Booth replied that he "did not know; something caused it to smart." The adjutant looked, and said, "Well, I should think it would smart!—here is an arrow-head sticking into it;" and he tried to pull it out, but it would not come. Capt. Goldsborough then attempted it, but was no more successful than the adjutant. The doctor told them to let it alone and he would take care of it after he had finished with Hallowell, which he soon did, and with his lance cut it out. The point of the arrow had struck the thick part of the shoulder-blade and made two complete turns, wrapping around the muscles, which had to be cut apart before it could be withdrawn.

Both of the principals in the terrible ride were soon attended to and made as comfortable as possible. Booth was not seriously hurt. Hallowell, however, had received two severe wounds: the arrow that had struck in his back penetrated almost to his kidneys, and the wound in his thumb was very painful, caused not so much by the simple contact of the arrow, as the tearing away of the muscles by the shaft while he was whipping the mules; his right arm, too, was swollen fearfully, and became stiff, from the incessant use of it during his drive, and for nearly a month he required help in dressing and undressing. The mules, the veritable saviors of our heroes, were of little account after their memorable trip;—they remained stiff and sore from the rough road and their continued forced speed. Booth and Hallowell went out the next morning to take a look at them as they hobbled around the corral, and from the bottom of their hearts wished them "green fields and pastures new."

About half an hour after the little wagon had returned to Capt. Conkey's camp, a portion of the escort which had been sent out in advance in the morning came galloping up, and from them the following was learned in relation to their movements:

They had started early, as ordered the night before, and moved out on a brisk walk toward Fort Larned. There were plenty of buffalo on the north side of the trail, and they saw no signs of Indians except the absence of buffalo near the river. They kept looking back, and slackened their gait somewhat after getting out four or five miles, to enable the wagon to catch up; and after they had proceeded about a mile beyond the point where the Indians made their first attack, and the wagon had been turned toward the camp, one of the lieutenants said to the other that they were getting too far ahead of the Captain, and suggested the propriety of halting; but Van Antwerp, who was in command, thought it better to leave a part of the company at that spot to wait. Accordingly, a corporal and fifteen men were detailed to remain there until the wagon should arrive, and the remainder moved on toward the fort.

The squad that had been detailed remained beside the trail for half an hour or so, when, becoming chilled, the corporal took them toward the river into a ravine that sheltered both men and horses from the cold northwest wind. There they remained some time, when the corporal, becoming anxious, sent one of the men up the trail to see if the wagon was coming, but he soon returned, reporting nothing in sight. Waiting a few minutes longer, he sent out another man, who on returning reported that the wagon was coming, and had an escort. This last man had seen them a long way off while the Indians were chasing them, and supposed they were an escorting party—which was correct in one sense, but not as he thought and reported.

Remaining in the ravine until the corporal supposed the wagon had arrived nearly opposite, he moved out his squad on the trail, but seeing no wagon, and suspecting something had happened, started his party toward the camp on Walnut creek. They had proceeded but a short distance when one of his men cried out, "Here's an arrow!" Hardly were the words out of his mouth before a second said, "Here's another!" They knew now the reason why the wagon had not come up, and the corporal gave the command to gallop, and away they flew toward the camp. As they successively passed by the empty valises and the innumerable arrows on the trail, they fully realized what kind of an escort had accompanied the little wagon when the soldier had reported, "They are coming, and have an escort."

Capt. Conkey's command returned about midnight. He had seen but one Indian during the entire ride, and he was on the south side of the river, in the sand-hills.

---

THE TRAGEDY AT TWIN MOUNDS.
An Incident of the Indian War of 1866-'67.

SUSIE RÉAUME.

The highest points of the divide separating the beautiful valley of the Saline from the Elkhorn, in central Kansas, are two relatively elevated peaks, close together, known all over the region as the Twin Mounds. They can be seen from anywhere within a radius of thirty miles, cutting the deep blue of the sky on clear days as sharply as a summer thunder-cloud. In their contour they are so exactly similar, even to two white patches of limestone on their southwestern slopes, that their name would immediately suggest itself to a stranger, for never were twins born so perfect in resemblance as these dual masses of disrupted rock.

Under their conical shadow runs the trail of the Mormon hegira to far-off Deseret, when that sect was driven out of Illinois; and also that of General John C. Frémont, on his memorable "Exploring Expedition" across the continent in 1843. Until very recently, when it was ruthlessly cut down, there stood in the valley, on the bank of the Elkhorn, immediately below the mounds, a large oak tree, at the foot of which the General caused that mutineer to be shot, the circumstances of which are related in his itinerary of that wonderful march.

But that was nearly a quarter of a century before the occurrence of the events to be related in this story; and they date back nearly the same length of time from the present. Both trails may still be seen in places where the land has not yet been subordinated to the plow; almost obliterated wagon-tracks in the short buffalo-grass covering that portion of the prairie through which the expedition passed, which each recurring season grow dimmer, and in a few more years will have vanished forever.

The valleys of the Elkhorn and the Saline were heavily timbered—are to-day, relatively. They were a favorite haunt of the Indians; and elk, buffalo, bear, and an occasional panther sought the rocky and vine-involved recesses of the primitive forest.

But the savage and the beasts of the plain have passed away. Now the land is full of harvests and green meads. Yet the Indian summer now as then wraps the hills in its mellow tints; the grass grows brown and rusty as each autumn fills its measure, and the days, as in the long-ago, are as grand as the golden sunshine of that incomparable season of the Great Plains ever lighted up; the mirage, as of old, weaves its fantastic forms out of the charming landscape, and under certain atmospheric conditions a man on top of one of the Twin Mounds will appear, as does the specter of the Brocken, like a huge giant in mid-air.

When Fort Harker, on the Smoky Hill, about fifteen miles south of the Twin Mounds, was established as a military post by Gen. Hancock in the fall of 1866, the whole vast area of central Kansas was the hunting-ground of the cruel and bloodthirsty Cheyennes, Arapahoes, and Kiowas. Their opposition to the intrusion of the whites manifested itself at every opportunity where it was possible to murder or carry into captivity. The empire of the plow had just then dawned, and the march of the homesteader but fairly begun. The satanic genius of Indian hatred brooded over the beautiful landscape, and the harvest of the unlabored fields was blood.

It is true a few hardy trappers had for years roamed over the prairies and camped temporarily on the banks of the wooded streams, but there was no attempt at permanent settlement except in the immediate vicinity of the several forts; but they were established only from time to time at remote distances from each other, generally on the line of the Oregon and Santa Fé trail, under the protection of which it was alone safe to remain in the country.

About the time the site for the new post of Fort Harker had been determined upon, and troops—the Fifteenth Infantry and Gen. Custer's Seventh Cavalry—were camped on the grassy bottoms of the river and creeks in the vicinity, waiting for their permanent quarters to be erected, a bold and persistent frontiersman named Paul Réaume, who had been a pioneer in the wilds of Wisconsin twenty years before, emigrated from that State to Kansas.

After looking around for some time, visiting all the inviting localities of the new commonwealth, in decided opposition to the advice of the military authorities at Fort Harker and the commanding general of the department he took up a "claim" and established a ranch at a magnificent spring a few hundred rods north of the base of the Twin Mounds.

Réaume was a widower, but his eldest daughter, Susie—dark-haired, rather handsome, and withal a modest, gentle girl of eighteen—kept house and acted the rôle of mother to her four young sisters and brothers, who loved and obeyed her with all the intensity of their warm natures, (Réaume was French but one generation removed,) which she reciprocated in an equal degree. They were a charming little family, of more means and greater refinement than are usually found in the average pioneer immigrant.

The fertile valley stretching many miles north and south afforded a rich pasturage, and the relatively deep woods on the margin of the Elkhorn a splendid shelter in winter for the herd of cattle that Réaume had driven from his old home. So he built as his needs required a comfortable log house and spacious corrals, where with an abundance of game all around him, from the trim-feathered quail to the huge shaggy-coated buffalo, he settled down to a life of rude contentment.

Of the many Government scouts at Fort Harker, among whom were William F. Cody ("Buffalo Bill"), William Hickok ("Wild Bill") and others, was Jack Hart. Hart was a young light-haired boy, not more than twenty-three years old. He was fairly well educated, neither slangy nor dialectic in expression of thought; courageous as a lion, and endowed with a degree of endurance under hardships incident to his vocation that was marvelous in its contemplation by a novice. Jack was a remarkably fine shot with either rifle or revolver. He could toss up an empty oyster can and put every ball out of his two Colts into it before it fell to the ground, and either "crease" or center the heart of an antelope at five hundred yards, as he might elect.

SITTING BULL, CROW EAGLE, BUFFALO BILL.

He was as keen on the trail as any Indian, whose original astuteness and strategy he had mastered, and was the superior of the savage, as is any white man when once thoroughly familiar with their cunning. Besides, in that quick perception and determination so essential to success in the moment of danger, when dealing with the wily nomad of the Plains, Hart was unequaled by any other scout I ever knew, and I have intimately known all who have figured at all conspicuously during the past thirty-five years.

Jack was a great favorite with all the officers at the military posts in the whole Department of the Missouri; had their entire confidence, and when any duty in his line became necessary requiring exceptional bravery, judgment and promptness in its execution, Hart was invariably detailed, if present, to perform it.

One day in April, 1867, as he was returning from the Platte river to Fort Harker with a company of the Fifth Calvary he was guiding to the post, they halted at the spring where Réaume had established his ranch, to feed the horses, rest and water. Then for the first time in his life Jack saw Susie Réaume, who was cheerfully preparing an excellent dinner in her father's modest cabin for the officers of the command, who had politely requested of her something to eat.

It was the same old story of mutual love, the moment their eyes met; and ever after that memorable noon halt, when Hart had a day off he would mount his own roan broncho Tatonka, ride across the country to the Twin Mounds, and pour out his heart's thoughts to the gentle and confiding Susie, who before a month had elapsed promised to be his wife.

"There's no chaplain at the post now," said he, one evening after they were engaged, as they were sitting on the porch of her father's cabin in the bright moonlight, discussing plans for the future and building those airy castles in space as lovers are wont; "but I heard from the adjutant yesterday that one had been ordered to Harker from Fort Leavenworth, under an escort of a squadron of the Fifth Cavalry. They will be up in a couple of weeks, and when he arrives we will get married immediately. Eh! darling?" pleadingly continued Jack.

Susie blushingly assented to Hart's importunity, and then he told her that he had saved enough to stock a ranch and build a house; that he proposed to leave the Government employ as soon as they were married, take up a "claim" on the Elkhorn near her father's, so that he would not be separated from her at all, or she from her family. Then Jack, after cautioning Réaume, who had long before given his consent to the proposed match, to keep a sharp lookout for Indians, started about midnight on his lonely ride back to Fort Harker, where he was obliged to be early the next morning.

Jack arrived at the post long before daylight, and went to bed. When he reported to the commanding officer the next morning immediately after guard-mount, he found himself (much to his disgust, now that he was in love) ordered to guide a scouting-party composed of four companies of the Seventh Cavalry, commanded by Col. Keogh, to the region of Pawnee Rock and the Great Bend of the Arkansas, seventy miles to the southwest of Harker, where the Kiowas, under the leadership of the dreaded Chief Sa-tan-ta, had been for the past fortnight successfully raiding the overland coaches and the freight caravans to New Mexico.

SA-TAN-TA.

The command to which Hart was attached remained away, having occasional brushes with the Indians, for several weeks. During its absence the allied tribes had become excessively impudent and threatening. They culminated their atrocities in a most fiendish and cruel massacre of the settlers on Spillman creek, upon the receipt of the news of which the Government determined to inaugurate an extended campaign against them, in which Gen. Sheridan was to take the field in person, with such famous Indian-fighters for his lieutenants as Gens. Sully, Custer, Carr, and others. Consequently all the scouting-parties were called in to their respective stations by courier, to prepare for the impending great conflict.

Of course, the moment Hart returned to Fort Harker he made preparations to leave for the ranch at Twin Mounds and the girl who had so photographed herself on the tablets of his memory. It was early the next morning after his arrival at the post; he had shaved, put on a new suit purchased from the sutler, and otherwise made himself presentable after his long scout. But he had hardly cinched the saddle on Tatonka before an orderly came to the corral and informed him that the commanding officer desired his presence at once. So Jack, with terribly depressed feelings and mentally cursing his luck, mounted his horse and rode slowly up to headquarters, where he found the General standing on the porch waiting to receive him.

"Jack," said he, as the scout dismounted, "I'm awfully sorry to be compelled to call upon you to make another trip right away, when you have just returned from such a long one, but the fact is there's not another scout at the post; they are all away. I want you to start immediately for the Saline. Part of the Fifth Cavalry are en route from Fort Saunders here, and will probably reach the ford northwest of Fort Hays sometime to-day. It is now only six o'clock," looking at his watch; "you can reach there as soon as they do—before, if you start now. So go at once and guide them in. They don't know anything about that country on the river. You remember how terribly broken it is out there. Here are some dispatches you are to give to whomever you find in command;" and he handed the scout a small package of papers.

"All right, sir," replied Hart, as he put the bundle in the breast-pocket of his flannel shirt; "I'm off now, as soon as I go to my quarters for my saddlebags and carbine."

With a sad heart as he cast his eyes on the blue cones of the Twin Mounds, looming up so suggestively of the ranch at their base, Jack left the post in a few minutes after his interview with Gen. Sully, fully mindful of the responsible duty intrusted to him. Hart made excellent time. He was anxious to get back as soon as possible. By two o'clock he had crossed the Saline, and when about three miles the other side of where the handsome little village of Sylvan to-day nestles so picturesquely in the wealth of woods surrounding, he met the troops, to whose commander he reported, and delivered his dispatches. He turned with them to the river, where, as it was now past three, the command went into camp for the night.

After grazing Tatonka for half an hour, feeding him some corn, and eating his own dinner, the thought suddenly struck Jack to ask permission to go over to the ranch at the foot of the Twin Mounds, whose dual peaks were plainly visible only fifteen miles away to the southeast as the crow flies. The colonel cordially granted Jack's request. He promised to join the column on the trail early in the morning before it had marched any great distance; then, at the commanding officer's suggestion, Jack drew in the sand with his finger a rough map of the route to Fort Harker, supplementing it by pointing out certain divides and ledges of rock that could plainly be seen on the trail from where the colonel and the scout stood.

When Jack had finished he left the camp for the spot where he had given his heart more than two months before, his soul filled with rapture at the prospect of soon meeting again the gentle girl he loved.

His horse was a medium-sized broncho, full of power and endurance, which he knew could easily make Réaume's ranch in three hours. That would bring him there about seven o'clock, in time for supper, and more than an hour and a half before dark. So he struck a bee-line for the Mounds, his feelings better imagined than described; an ecstasy indefinable except to those whose experience has been similar to that of the overhappy scout.

The sun was just sinking below the horizon when Jack arrived at the Elkhorn, in the immediate vicinity of the ranch. A flood of golden light poured into the beautiful little valley as he crossed the ford and entered the circular grove, in the middle of which Réaume had built his log cabin and corrals. As he rode toward the place where the cluster of rude huts should be, his eyes, which were ordinarily as keen and as bright as an eagle's, suddenly filled, for he looked upon a scene that caused his bronzed cheeks to blanch and an exclamation of horror to escape his lips. The cabin was roofless, and the green timber composing its sides and ends was still slowly burning.

"Cheyennes!" he muttered with set teeth, as he unslung his carbine, spurred his horse forward, while a prayer for the safety of the girl he loved was formulated in his brain. When he reached the opening where the once happy home was so picturesquely located he drew up on the reins, and as Tatonka stopped a deep groan escaped Jack. Lying under the mighty trees, close to the ruins of the cabin, were the scalped and mutilated remains of Réaume and his four youngest children.

But where was Susie, the woman he loved? Dazed and stupefied for a moment, Jack began to search for her body. She was not with the rest of the murdered family. "Oh, my God!" he cried in his agony, "has she been saved for a fate worse than death! Carried off a miserable captive among the soulless savages? Great God, no! I cannot think of it. Sooner would I see her here dead with the others!"

Although almost overcome with grief, and furious with passion as these thoughts, so terrible in their contemplation, crowded thick upon his brain, he was determined not to lose his self-control. Pausing for a moment, cautiously looking around to assure himself that none of the paint-bedaubed fiends were lurking in the timber, he dismounted, tied his horse to an oak sapling, walked to where his dead friends lay, and silently contemplated the horrid butchery. He dared not think of the probable fate of the faithful young girl who had promised to be his wife, but he uttered bitter curses against the demons who had so wantonly, and without the slightest provocation, annihilated the peaceful little family. He swore to himself that he would have ten lives for one, in his determined revenge. He turned away, sick at heart, from these victims of Indian hatred, and walked slowly toward the spring to quench his feverish thirst and to collect his dazed ideas.

It was six or seven rods from where the cabin had stood to the wall of rock in the hillside out of which the water gushed, and it was completely hidden by a dense growth of cottonwoods, willows and elders, covering more than an acre. As he approached the edge of this tangled thicket, a low moan reached his ear; whether animal or human, so faint was it, he could not distinguish.

Stopping for an instant, every sense on the alert, he cocked his carbine, and listened attentively. The strange sound was repeated. He moved cautiously on the narrow trail. Then suddenly as he arrived at the spring, which made quite a pool as it fell from a shelf of sandstone, with a cry of horror from his lips he saw prone on the ground, her pale mouth just touching the water's edge as it flowed in a diminutive rivulet, the apparently lifeless body of Susie Réaume.

"Susie, my darling!" cried he, as he knelt reverently by her side and kissed her forehead, for he believed her certainly dead. But the girl's eyes opened as she felt the warm impress of his lips, and she looked up into his anxious face with an unmistakable glance of recognition, vainly essaying to speak.

"Oh, Susie, are you seriously hurt? Tell me, if you can," he lovingly pleaded, as he then for the first time noticed, with fear depicted on his countenance, a pool of dried blood on the sod beneath her.

After an evident struggle she laboredly gasped: "Yes—Jack—here," touching her right side with her left hand, causing her much effort to accomplish it.

Jack at once commenced to unfasten her dress, but she instinctively attempted to raise her arms to prevent him, while a delicate blush spread over her pale face.

"Susie, dear," said Jack, as he understood what her motion was intended to convey to him, "there are no woman's hands here to do what under the circumstances must be done; so, darling, let there be no false modesty. I want to save you, and you want to live."

Upon this appeal she made no more resistance, but her eyes closed, and the glow of her maiden delicacy deepened, while Jack, with the most sacred feelings, cut open her bodice with his sheath-knife and exposed her virgin bosom to the evening breeze. On the right side, immediately on a line with her shoulder, he discovered an ugly lance-wound, which had bled so profusely that she had fainted, and was almost exhausted when Jack found her. The wound had evidently stopped flowing some time since, and fortunately the blade had not penetrated her lungs; at least so thought Jack in his careful and gentle examination, determining the matter from the fact that there was no hemorrhage from her mouth, and he silently thanked God.

It was now long after sundown. In the lingering twilight he carefully washed the wound with water, using a portion of her skirt he had cut off for the purpose. Completing this office, and binding on a wet compress, Jack then moved her tenderly to a mat of soft buffalo-grass near by, made a pillow of his saddle, and a covering for her out of his saddle blanket, then busied himself in making her a cup of coffee, a supply of which and a small pot he always carried with him.

The coffee and some hardtack he had, revived the wounded girl very materially, reduced the incipient fever which had set in, and permitted her to fall into a gentle slumber; while Jack, under the brilliant constellations of the incomparable June night, nursed her through its silent watches. The poor fellow leaned patiently over her with looks of the most tender solicitude, bathing her temples now and then with water from the spring when she became the least restless, and occasionally running his fingers through her dark ringlets with the fondness of a young but constantly growing affection—for it was his first love, and he had given his soul up to it with all the strength and weakness of his passion.

The sun, though not yet above the horizon of the valley, was just gilding the crests of the Twin Mounds next morning when Susie awoke with a glance of approving affection on Jack. Although she did not speak, there is a language of looks which is sufficient for the purposes of love. As he quietly kissed her he understood it perfectly, and it filled his soul with joy.

Jack then, after his ablutions at the spring, made a little fire, put on his coffee-pot, which soon boiled, and while it was settling he tenderly washed the wounded girl's face and placed a fresh compress on the cruel hole in her side.

After Susie had partaken of her frugal breakfast, she was able to converse a few minutes. She expressed herself in words that were music in Jack's ears, of the deepest gratitude and love for the care he had bestowed upon her, assuring him that but for his opportune coming and devotion, she would hours since have been dead.

"Do you think, Susie, you could ride on my horse?" pleadingly inquired Jack. "We could reach Fort Harker early in the afternoon, if you have strength enough to sit in the saddle, and can bear the fatigue. I am certain you need a doctor's care and a woman's nursing. Were it possible to leave you here, I would make the post in three hours, and bring back an ambulance for you. But that would require every minute from now until four o'clock; and to compel you to remain here and alone until I return, with the Indians perhaps hovering around, cannot be thought of."

Susie was now sitting up, leaning against the trunk of a big elm to which Jack had carried her, in order that she might be more comfortable; and in answer she said:

"I think I am strong enough, Jack. I must be. That is the only thing that can be done. I haven't much fever now, and my wound hasn't bled any since yesterday. Let's try, at least. I've lots of courage—you know that—and I believe that I can make the trip."

Jack then watered Tatonka, saddled him, and after tying him to a tree, told Susie he would go up on the hill and make a reconnoissance before they started; that he would be gone only about ten or fifteen minutes, and not to worry during his absence.

The sun was fairly above the horizon when Jack, with only his sheath-knife, started for the bluffs above the creek bottom, where he could see over the country for miles. He wanted to satisfy himself whether there were any Indians skulking in the vicinity, as he dared not take such desperate chances, handicapped with the helpless girl, as he would if he were going to make the trip to Fort Harker alone.

He had not forgotten his promise of the afternoon before, to join the cavalry column and guide it to the post; consequently he was somewhat disturbed at first. But when he left the colonel he of course never imagined that such a fate had befallen Réaume's ranch and the girl Jack loved. So the scout did not, when he considered the matter a moment, weigh his duty in the scales of his affection. He would have sacrificed place, friends and everything to save his affianced. What man would blame him?

He had just reached the second bottom above the creek and was emerging from the heavy growth of timber out on the prairie at the foot of the most southerly of the Twin Mounds, when he was confronted by a monstrous she-panther, with three young ones not more than six weeks old. Ordinarily, that animal of the genus felis will not attack man,—preferring, rather, to shrink from his presence, unless provoked by wounds. But in this instance both Hart and the panther were face to face on the edge of the woods before they were aware of the fact. Which was the more surprised, the man or the beast, it would have been difficult to determine.

If there had been no little ones with her, in all probability the panther would have incontinently bounded into the timber at the first glance of Jack's eyes; but the presence of the kittens aroused the maternal instinct for their safety. So, with a low growl and a characteristic "spit" at him, she flew at the scout's breast, fastening her great claws into his shoulders before he could draw his knife, and they both fell by the sheer impetus of the cat's onset.

Jack, unfortunately for himself at this juncture, had left his carbine and revolvers with Susie. She could use them very effectually in case of emergency, but she was too far away to be able to hear him if he should call, and too weak to come if she could hear him. Now, his only dependence for defense from the murderous attack of the ferocious beast was his knife, but he was an expert in its use.

They struggled fearfully, the infuriated animal endeavoring to insert its teeth in the scout's throat, which luckily he succeeded in preventing by the dexterous use of his knife. But in the awfully unequal battle he was terribly cut by the sharp, active claws of the enraged beast, and was bleeding profusely from more than a dozen wounds already inflicted on his shoulders, legs and body. He had, fortunately, been able to keep the cat's great paws off his face.

At last, by one desperate effort Jack succeeded in giving a home thrust in the region of the creature's heart, which ended the struggle; luckily for him, too, for at that moment he swooned from loss of blood. The panther loosened her hold—she was dead.

This final effort of the scout occurred on the extreme edge of a rocky shelf, whither both man and beast had been forced during their desperate fight. Below this shelf, at a distance of only a few feet, fortunately, the level prairie hugged the timber, the latter throwing a deep shade over the spot. Into this grassy little place both Hart and the panther fell—he insensible from loss of blood, with the lifeless beast alongside him.

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In the cavalry camp on the Saline the troopers were busily grooming their horses at the picket-line. The captains of companies near by were superintending this important duty, while the colonel, surrounded by a group of officers, nearly all of whom were smoking their matutinal pipes, stood in front of headquarters tent, drinking in the charming landscape and delicious freshness of the early summer morning. Suddenly, as his eyes happened to rest upon the double cones of the Twin Mounds that loomed up blue and clearly defined in the coming light from the east, he pointed in their direction with a field-glass he had in his hand, and exclaimed:

"Look, gentlemen, look! A mirage! a mirage!"

Every one turned; and presently, while all were gazing with enchantment on the strange phenomenon, far above the peaks, in the sky, but inverted, two moving figures appeared, surrounded by that waving purple mist characteristic of the mirage on the Great Plains. One of the celestial apparitions was in the similitude of a man, the other of a beast. Both were gigantic and exaggerated in outline; both were grappling in a deadly struggle!

THE MIRAGE.

Every soldier stopped his work to watch the curious picture suspended in the heavens; some regarded it with a superstitious awe, thoroughly frightened at the manifestation, which they never dreamed of as within the range of possibilities.

The colonel recognized the huge figure of the man in the clouds, disproportioned as he was, to be the scout who had left him the afternoon before, but what the beast was none of the men could make out.

"Great Cæsar!" cried the colonel; "what a place for a battle, away up there in the clouds! It reminds me of Lookout Mountain, when I was with Hooker."

Every one intently watched the strange combat, filled with excitement at the novelty of the thing, until presently the figures appeared to fall over an immense precipice and vanish, although they seemed to disappear with an upward movement. Then there was nothing left but the inverted mounds, the woods and the prairie of the wonderful mirage; it, too, was all dispelled in a few moments more.

The colonel turned to his adjutant and ordered "boots and saddles" sounded at once.

"For we must be off," said he, addressing the officers around him generally. "Life may depend upon our promptness in reaching the scene of that strange conflict."

In less than a quarter of an hour the column had moved out, headed in a "bee-line" for the Twin Mounds, every man in the whole command as anxious as his comrade to reach the place, for all were excited over what they had witnessed.

It required four hours of brisk marching before they arrived on the plateau at the base of the Mounds, and by that time it was past eleven o'clock, and intensely hot. The command halted there, while the colonel, the adjutant, the surgeon, several other officers and a detail of five enlisted men instituted a search for the missing scout.

In a little while they found the bodies of Hart and the panther close together, lying in the shade of the huge oaks, where they had fallen in their last struggle, and when they had disappeared to those who had watched the combat from their camp on the Saline.

Upon examination, the surgeon discovered that the scout was alive, but terribly lacerated by the sharp claws and teeth of the panther, as well as badly bruised in consequence of his fall from the ledge of rocks, though no bones were broken, nor were any of his wounds necessarily serious. He had merely become insensible from loss of blood and exhaustion incident to the awful struggle. The doctor placed a flask of brandy to the unconscious man's mouth, which he pried open with Jack's own knife, still clutched in his right hand when discovered; and in a few moments, as the stimulating liquor reached his stomach, he slowly opened his eyes, looked around in a bewildered manner at first, then apparently taking in the situation of affairs at a glance, partially raised himself, and in a hoarse whisper, pointing in the direction where he had left her, said:

"Susie Réaume! Near the spring! Quick, for God's sake!"

"Who?" replied the astonished doctor; "Susie, a woman, here too?"

Jack had by this time gotten over his dizziness somewhat, and was able feebly though intelligently to convey the story of the awful massacre at the ranch, his relations to the wounded girl, and the state of affairs when attacked by the panther. Then looking at the sun, and realizing that hours must have elapsed since he had left Susie, he urged the doctor to go at once, upon which he attempted to get on his feet to guide him to the spot, but he was too weak yet, and would have fallen if one of the men had not caught him.

"No! no!" exclaimed the doctor, when he divined Jack's intention; "don't try to walk yet. I'll leave one of the troopers to look after you and I'll go and attend to the young girl immediately. You'll be all right in half an hour; then you can follow."

So, with directions from Jack, the doctor, the colonel and two soldiers started for the spring, which they found without any difficulty, the trail to that point having been explained in such a clear manner by the anxious scout.

Entering the maze of willows by a well-beaten trail that led from the kitchen door of the destroyed cabin, they found Susie in nearly the same position in which Jack had left her early in the morning, sitting on the grass against the big elm, weak and feverish. She involuntarily gave a little cry of surprise when she saw the officers approaching, and with a slight blush mantling her cheeks, laid the rifle she had raised from the ground at her side when she first heard footsteps, back in its place, and bowed her head gracefully in response to the colonel's courteous salutation. Both he and the doctor were surprised to find so much refinement and culture as Susie evinced, in such an unlooked-for place.

"Miss Susie," said the colonel, as he irresistibly lifted his hat to the charming picture of rusticity, "I have brought our surgeon, at Jack's request, who will see what he can do for you, and then we'll find means to transport you comfortably to Fort Harker, where you can be properly cared for. The doctor will tell you all about Jack's mishap—there, don't be alarmed," as Susie made a convulsive start; "he's all right, and will be here presently." Then bowing again, the colonel and his two men retired some distance, while the doctor, as modestly as possible, examined the gentle girl's wounds, and told her the story of Jack's strange adventure.

Susie Réaume was a girl of the strongest affections, but not in the least degree demonstrative. Her grief at the horrible fate of her father, brothers and sisters was as deep as the circumstances were appalling, her love for the young scout as pure as it would be enduring; but on both subjects of the sorrow which had come to her in a single day she was reticent, or communicated so little that the first impressions of the colonel and the doctor were that she was as emotionless as a marble statue. There was never a greater error of judgment: concealment of her anguish was a prominent characteristic of her nature, while she suffered unutterable mental torture.

By the time the doctor had finished dressing Susie's wounds the command was well established in camp on the stream, and dinner in progress. Jack had returned to the spring too, holding a conference with the colonel as soon as he arrived there, explaining that he was not a quarter of a mile away from a good trail to Fort Harker, that ran a little distance west of the Elkhorn, where they now were.

Jack was thinking and congratulating himself upon the curious chain of circumstances which had thwarted all his plans, provided better for the wounded Susie, and at the same time saved his honor, if indeed it were at all involved, in breaking his word to the colonel.

Both of the doctor's patients in a short time received some excellent nourishment, prepared by the hospital steward out of the medical stores, under the surgeon's direction, reviving the wounded girl materially and putting Jack fairly "on his feet" again, for he was "as tough as a knot."

About half-past two the column was ready to move out. Susie was made comfortable on a litter, fashioned after the Indian method of transporting their wounded, constructed of saplings and blankets, which was carefully slung between two pack-mules of the supply train, respectively led by two troopers detailed for that duty. This novel equipage the colonel ordered to march in advance of the column, so that the dust raised by the company's horses should not annoy Susie; while Jack, who was able to mount Tatonka, though he was terribly sore and stiff, rode alongside of her and piloted the command on the trail. Before they left the ruined ranch, however, the colonel caused the bodies of the unfortunate Réaumes to be temporarily interred and large stones put over their graves, to prevent the wolves from digging up and eating the flesh off their bones, as it was Hart's intention to have them taken to the post and decently buried in the little cemetery there.

After an eventful march the command arrived at Fort Harker just as the sun was setting, where Susie was kindly cared for, and Jack went to his own quarters, to be patched up and plastered by the post surgeon.

Hart was out and ready for duty inside of a week; but Susie did not gain rapidly. She seemed to be slowly wasting away with a fever, though the wound in her side had closed, and there was no longer danger from that source. It was the terrible agony of her soul; she did not complain, and the doctor was puzzled. The awful mental strain incident to what she had passed through, coupled with the morbid fear that the marriage with the man she loved could not be consummated, was doing its work. Only time, the great healer of sorrows, could bring relief, and both she and Jack were impatient.

The weeks dragged their weary length along, and the golden October days came before she was convalescent; but with that subdivision of the year came also the inauguration of that celebrated winter campaign against the allied tribes, for which Gen. Sheridan had been making vigorous preparations all summer. Of course there could be no marriage now until the war was over, and it lasted (officially) for one hundred and sixty-three days, counting from the 21st of October, but virtually ending with Gen. Custer's annihilation of Black Kettle and his band of warriors in the battle of the Washita, in November.

At last, in May, 1869, that month of floral beauty on the Central Plains, on a delicious Sabbath morning, Jack and Susie were married by the post chaplain in the large unoccupied ward of the hospital at Fort Harker, which had been garlanded with wild flowers, roses predominating, and great bunches of the creamy-petaled yucca, for the occasion.

Gens. Sheridan, Custer, Sully, and all the officers, with their wives, who were part of the garrison stationed there, graced the ceremony with their presence. Buffalo Bill, Wild Bill, and all the other famous scouts on duty at Fort Harker, were also present; and many substantial presents were received from all the distinguished guests by the favored couple.

Nearly a quarter of a century has elapsed since then. All the famous generals mentioned are dead. Hart is now a prosperous ranchman, with large herds of mild-eyed Jerseys and broad-backed Shorthorns peacefully grazing in his extensive pastures. On the porch of his beautiful home, Susie, now a stately matron, and Jack with his pipe in his mouth, may be seen sitting in their large arm-chairs at the close of day, resting from the labors the ranch imposes. A bevy of handsome children are busy with hammock or swing under the great trees of the lawn; and as the twilight gathers, the old folks relate to the little ones the story of those terrible hours on the Elkhorn so many years ago—a picture on "memory's walls" that time can never efface.

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