"Whistled to Give His Quarry the Chance He Would Give a Mad Dog, and No More."
One of the Buckskins hunting antelope one day in the vicinity of La Bonte Creek crossed the trail of a single tepee or family, and three ponies. This he knew from the lodge pole tracks made by a horse dragging the poles over the ground. The Buckskin took the trail, keeping well out of sight, but finally cut off a lone Indian who had dismounted to drink from a spring, allowing his young buck sons to go on. Buckskin whistled to give his quarry the chance he would give a mad dog—and no more. Then he put a bullet in his head. He remained on the spot from which he fired, waiting to hear from the rest of the tepee, which he did in a few minutes, although the young bucks kept out of sight. They fired a few shots before Buckskin decided to make a dash, and when he did it was a race of ten miles to a ford in the Platte. The young bucks escaped. Buckskin returned to his "Good Indian," removed a lock of his hair, took his gun and ammunition and a greasy card from the folds of his blanket upon which some white man had written:
This is Cut Nose, a "Good"
Sioux Indian; but he is a
Murderer and Thief.
There was a big session of the Buckskin Militia a few nights later, and great rejoicing. Cut Nose was a whole tribe of Indians in himself, and many dark crimes had been laid at his door by the white men who were engaged in freighting food to the Indian agencies and army posts.
It must be understood that there were no settlers or settlements or families in this section of Wyoming at this time, therefore there were never any of those horrible affairs common farther East a hundred years or more ago. There were no women and children for these red devils to kill, and year in and year out the fight was between bullwhackers, a few ranchmen, not more than half a dozen, government woodchoppers, and a few prospectors.
The professional hunters usually "stood in" with the red man, being possessed of some kind of magic that was never fully explained. In those days beaver, bear, buffalo, deer, antelope and other game abounded. The hunter usually had a hut or "dug-out" near a beaver dam, and it usually was well supplied with food and sometimes a squaw was the hunter's companion. Her relatives were sure of good treatment, and I presume for that reason the relatives were able to give the "squaw man" hunter protection. Still hunters were murdered, but not often.
Finally, along in July, after the grass had lost its sap and turned brown, one of the Buckskins saddled up his pinto horse one day, strapped a blanket, a pone of bread and a piece of bacon to his saddle, and giving free play to his Rowell spur, waved his hat and yelled as he dashed away:
"Good-bye, boys; see you again in a few days. I'm goin' to put an end to these raids."
His brother Buckskins thought he was crazy—some of them did. But one or two winked and looked wise; and about sixty hours later, when some of the "militia" had almost forgotten him, Buckskin rode up, unsaddled his pinto, pitched him in the ribs and said: "There now, old boy, go up the creek and enjoy yourself. Eat yourself to death, and I'll know where to find you when I want you. No Indian will get you."
When the boys crowded around him he vouchsafed this much information:
"From a point twenty miles east of this spot to a spot twenty miles west of Fort Laramie—on the north side of the Platte—as far as the eye can reach in a northerly direction, and you know that's considerable distance, there is just one charred mass—every blade of grass has been burned."
There was no more trouble that season. No feed for the Indian ponies within a hundred miles of the fort to the north of the river.