Finley and Bohlman
A coyote, an animal often seen on the desert, along the Pony Express trail. See Mark Twain’s description of the coyote, in Roughing It.
When we saw that we could not pass the Indians that were ambushing us at the rocky entrance of the canyon, Kennedy thought it would be best to go back two or three miles and cross a low divide to get into it at the head of the meadow. There the canyon narrowed again. We might head off the Indians if we got there first. We turned and went back about two and a half miles to go over this divide. When we neared the top of the divide there was a cliff too steep to take our horses over, so we tied them to a clump of mountain mahogany, and went afoot. We could not go very fast down the other side, for the white maple brush was very thick.
Just before we got down to the head of the meadows, we stopped on the side of the mountain near a very large flat-topped rock. Kennedy sat there watching for the Indians to come out on to the meadows from the canyon. The rest of us went down just below the rock and began to fill our pockets with “yarb,” or Indian tobacco. While picking this “yarb,” Frank Mathis laid his old muzzle-loading Springfield rifle down in the bushes where he could easily reach it if necessary.
We had been there about half an hour when all at once Kennedy jumped down among us and cried, “Boys, we’re surrounded!” In his excitement Mathis grabbed his gun by the muzzle and gave it a jerk. The hammer caught on a bush and the gun was discharged, shooting his left arm off between the shoulder and elbow. That rattled us a good deal so we hardly knew what to do next.
Kennedy thought it best for us to fight our way back to where our horses were tied. He started Mathis up the hill ahead of the rest of us. We were to keep the Indians back if we could. We knew they were around us on every side for we could hear the brush cracking and see it shaking every once in a while. When near the top, we came to a bare stretch of ground about two rods across.
We stopped at the edge of the brush, for we knew that the Indians could shoot us as soon as we got into the open. Kennedy thought we had better make a break for it and scatter out as we ran so that they could not hit us so easily. I had the shortest legs of all the men; but, just the same, I wasn’t the last one over. When we were about half way across, the Indians opened fire with their bows and guns. One bullet struck a rock right under my feet. It helped me over the hill just that much quicker.
By the time we reached the horses, Mathis was bleeding badly. He was faint and begging for water. We had to lead our horses down to the bottom of the mountain on account of the rocks. Kennedy sent Robert Orr and me down to the creek to get water in our hats for Mathis. When we got back with it, Kennedy sent me on to the station so I could be there when the express came and be ready to take it on. That was the last I ever saw of Frank Mathis. He was sent on to Salt Lake, where he was cared for and got well, but he got into trouble later and was killed.
About the time the Indians were at their worst a small train of emigrants came through on their way to California. They were warned by all of the station agents that it was not safe for so few people to travel through the country at that time, and were advised to stop until more trains came up. They replied that they were well armed and could stand off the Indians all right.