The last time I saw Fairchild he had his sleeves rolled up, skinning buffaloes, and on his face was a coat of tan half an inch thick. He bore little resemblance to the tenderfoot I had first seen at Dodge City.
Fairchild was not the only fellow we treated in this manner. The boys delighted in playing jokes upon each other. The worst scare I ever got was in 1870 when I was working for a man near Fort Hays. He owned a herd of beef cattle which he had sold to the Government. One day three of us were out with the herd. The cattle had been stampeding practically every day, and we were having lots of trouble with them.
We were riding along the Saline River, looking for strays. Campbell, a member of the outfit, was a quarter of a mile behind Thompson and myself. Campbell suddenly emptied his six-shooter and dashed toward us, shouting "Indians!" at the top of his voice. He knew that he was mounted upon a much swifter horse than either of ours, and passed us like the wind.
Thompson and I looked back, but could see no signs of Indians. We were certain, nevertheless, that Campbell was in earnest. We put both spurs to our horses and rode after him at top speed. The country was very rough, and we supposed that after Campbell and the Indians fired at each other, the Indians had dropped behind a ridge. We felt that we were making a run for our lives. Campbell was going so fast that we could not overtake him. Occasionally, he would stop long enough for us to come within speaking distance, whereupon he would shout, "Hurry up; there they come!" and dash away.
He kept this up for about six miles. Our objective point was a wood-choppers' camp, where we expected to make a stand against the Indians. If we were killed, we could at least die among men of our own race. We were hopeful, however, of being able to beat the Indians off.
Our horses were now in a lather, and rapidly breaking down. Rounding a little knoll, we saw Campbell lying on the ground and rolling from side to side, as if in acute pain. Perhaps he had been shot. Upon reaching him, we found to our inexpressible rage and disgust that his paroxysms were caused by laughter—he said that he had not seen an Indian all that day; just wanted to play a trick on us. We made Campbell swear not to tell the other boys; he kept his word.
CHAPTER VII.
We had lots of fun sky-larking in our camp on Moore's Creek, but spring was coming on, and it was our wish to establish a permanent camp at the best possible place. Unconsciously, we were drawn to that place as other men, long, long before us, had been drawn, and which we reached by pulling right down the river bottom about twelve miles to what was then called West Adobe Walls Creek but which is now called Bent Creek.
The latter is a beautiful stream, clear and swift. About a mile from its mouth stood the old ruins of the original Adobe Walls. Here we stopped and camped for the night. We had heard of these ruins ever since we had been in the Plains country. They were of great interest to us, and we carefully examined them, wondering what men in such a far-off day had ventured to establish themselves here, and why they had done so. We were not acquainted with the history of the place. We thought of Mexicans and different Indian tribes of the southwest. As a matter of fact, there are the remains of villages and old burial grounds on Wolf Creek in the Panhandle which men who claim to know about such things declare are the remains of the easternmost extension of the Pueblo civilization. I have no opinion in the matter.
