A Tenderfoot Bride: Tales from an Old Ranch

by Clarice E. Richards

“Well,” Janet began, “Will and I have had so many experiences I scarcely know which was the most exciting, but I think our encounter with the Indians was the most thrilling from first to last.

“Will had to go into Miles City on business and I went with him for great unrest had been reported among the Indians and he didn’t want to leave me on the ranch alone. We had been in town only a few days when we heard that they were on the war path and Will felt he must go back to the ranch. He wanted me to stay in town, but I wouldn’t. If he was going back I was going with him, so we started in the buck-board on that long eighty-five mile drive. I’ll never forget it. The day was fearfully hot and we were constantly looking out for Indians. We had gone about half-way, when we came over the top of a hill and saw a band of Indians just below us. They saw us before we could turn back, we had to go on, and as we came towards them they formed into two lines so that we had to drive between them. It was horrible.” And Janet gave a shiver at the recollection. “I’ll never forget as long as I live those frightful, painted faces. Not an Indian moved; we passed through the line and had gone a short distance beyond, when we heard the report of a gun. Will clapped his hand to his side and said: ‘My God, I’m shot. Drive as fast as you can’—and he threw the lines to me.

“I lashed the horses and we fairly tore. Everything was still, there was only that one shot, the Indians made no attempt to follow us. We did not speak. Will was lying back in the buckboard, his hand pressed to his side. When we had gone out of sight of the Indians I stopped the horses and asked Will where he was struck.

“‘In the side; I can feel the blood oozing through my fingers,’ he said. He took his hand away and gave an exclamation as he looked at it. It was wet but not with blood. We could not find the sign of a wound. We got out to investigate and discovered—that just as we passed the Indians the cork flew out of a bottle of root beer we had in the back of the buckboard and struck him in the side. Poor old Willie, no wonder he thought he was shot,” and Janet smiled at her husband, who laughed with the rest of us.

“Now, Owen,” he said, “I know some of the things you’ve been through, so you can’t beg off,” and Owen began his story.

“In the spring of ’81 I came West to visit my brother, Ed., on his ranch in Wyoming. I was a tenderfoot, never having been on the plains before—and yet—I had scarcely arrived when I announced that the one thing I wanted to do was to kill a buffalo. He told me that if my heart was set on it I should have the chance, but that it was dangerous sport even for experienced hunters, as a buffalo frequently turns and gores the horse before it can get out of the way.

“The very next day the dead body of a professional hunter was brought to the ranch. He had wounded a buffalo bull which had turned, caught with his horn the horse he was riding, thrown him to the ground and gored the hunter to death. The sight of his mangled body was shocking and made a terrible impression on my mind, but my purpose was not changed.

“My brother assigned Al. Turpin the responsibility of serving as my guide. He was one of the best riders on the ranch, cool-headed and a good shot. We took breakfast before daylight in order to get an early start. After riding a considerable distance three dark objects were discovered far away on a hill which sloped toward us. A pair of field glasses confirmed the opinion that they were buffalo lying down. We rode in their direction and kept out of sight, except as we peered cautiously over the top of each succeeding ridge until it was possible to approach no nearer in concealment, when we rode to the top of the nearest hill and were in full view. The buffalo saw us and quick as lightning were on their feet running away. We sent our horses at full speed down the slope, across a level piece of ground and up the hill after them. We were gaining rapidly. My horse was the faster of the two and was in the lead. He was one of the best trained cow ponies I have ever ridden and was my brother’s favorite for cutting out cattle.

“When about thirty yards behind the buffalo, one stopped. The bit I was using was severe. I pulled and threw my horse back on his haunches. The buffalo was an immense bull. He appeared to me as big as a mountain. He turned facing me, his body at an angle, cocked his head on the side, then threw it toward the ground and, quicker than a flash, came down the hill like a landslide.

“My horse struggled against the bit and tried to jump toward the buffalo and turn him as he would a steer. I tried to swing his head away and dug my spurs into his sides to make him move, but he did not understand why he should run from a buffalo. He did respond a little and turned so that his haunches were toward the great brute coming down the hill.