“June 19th. The train proceeded with much caution. Indian spies watched us in the distance, hanging like wolves on our rear; the gleam of their lances was often seen among the sandbuttes beyond the river. They were evidently intending to make another descent, on the first fair opportunity. Our flankguards were on the alert, and the day ended without a conflict. The country was sparsely wooded with cottonwood and boxelder, and bois de vaches supersedes substantial fuel for several days travel through the region of the ‘Coon Creeks.’
“Our animals were saddled, hitched, and the train in motion, after an early cup of coffee. The air brisk and cool, and the sky clear, gave promise of a fair day’s travel; and even uneasy fears of Camanche attack were not sufficient to check our joyous feelings. It was the duty of the horsemen to push forward at mealtime, select a camp, and wait for the arrival of the train. Near noon, we entered a large ‘bottom,’ horseshoe-shaped, around which the river made a circuit of three miles or more. The wagons kept the trace across the neck, and a party, composed of Colonel Russell, Mr. Coolidge, and myself, on mules, and three others, on horses, followed the course of the stream to gather fuel. This I laid across the pommel of the colonel’s saddle, as I collected it, and he was already loaded with sufficient to boil our cup of coffee and fry the slice of pork for which we were well prepared by several hours’ fasting, when, all at once, the three horsemen strung out in a straight shoot for the wagons, without a word to us. ‘Hallo!’ shouted we, ‘what’s your hurry?’ The fast receding men said nothing, but pointed to the southwest, in which direction there approached, at full speed, a war-party of about forty, endeavoring to cut us off from the wagons which were then corâlling in great confusion. Dusky figures, and light puffs of smoke, showed faintly in the distance, the attack on the straggling train. No time was to be lost in rejoining our company, and back we spurred, to the tune of Camanche take the hindmost. The lines of the Indian attack and our return were convergent, and it was a mere question of speed whether we lost our top-knots or gained the corâl. The pursuers already had the advantage. The colonel threw down his wood, and I replaced the old cap on my rifle with a fresh one, determined that one should ‘go under’ before my ‘hair was lifted.’ I led the retreat, mounted on a small iron-gray mule—a native of the California savannas—who bounded most gallantly—for a mule—over the prairie. Colonel Russell followed in my wake, but Coolidge was still behind. Our pace seemed snail-like, and we jammed our rifle butts into the flanks of the poor beasts most unmercifully.
“‘Come on, Coolidge,’ shouted the Colonel to the frightened trader, ‘come on, we’ll soon be safe.’
“‘Yes, yes! but this fool animal isn’t worth a cuss for running,’ and with that, he gave the poor mule another ‘chug’ with his sharp riflestock. No exertion was spared, no incentive was neglected, to urge our dull beasts along; and though there was but small chance for escaping a lance thrust, we answered loudly their yells. When within three hundred yards of the wagon, I looked back, and saw Coolidge far behind, with several Indians close upon him, the foremost brandishing his lance. I shouted to the colonel that Coolidge was gone, and immediately we jerked our animals around. The colonel aimed hastily, fired, and galloped back to the corâl. I spurred on to cover Coolidge’s retreat, who came lumbering with the owgh-owgh-he-a of his pursuers close to his ear. When I drew rein, and placed it between my teeth, my mule, contrary to all precedent and custom, stood stock still, while I took steady aim, at the nearest savage, who, flying along with eager look and harsh yell, was striving to make a sure blow. His band followed on his track, at distances various as their horses’ speed. Coolidge, with eyes staring with fright, bent close down to his mule’s neck. When I first drew bead on the Camanche’s painted hide, he was approaching in a quartering direction to my right; as the gentleman was rather fleshy about the umbilical region, and tender withal, to make a sure shot, I kept the silver bead at my rifle point, at that particular spot, until he had passed to the left. With the report the yellow devil’s legs twitched in pain (I was so close to him that I could see even his features with disagreeable distinctness), and throwing up his horse’s head, he galloped off to the river. Those who watched, say that he did not come back.
“Reloading at full speed, Coolidge and I hurried into the corâl, which was just being closed. We dismounted, merely giving each other a look of congratulation; for the rattling of the guns, and the warwhoops and yells of the men, drowned our voices, and left us nothing to do but fight. For that work, with a good will, and quite systematically, we prepared ourselves. The Colonel’s party were firing with much earnestness. A short distance of the place where we were gathering wood, a large force was descending the sand buttes, glittering with bright gun-barrels, swords, and lances—a well-armed band. They crossed the river in a trot, which was quickened into a charge as they reached the bank, and, at one hundred and fifty yards distance, they opened their fire. For a few minutes, rifles, warwhoops, escopetas, hurrahs, contended in discordant strife—a tumult of wild sounds. But they could not stand our well-directed fire, and fell back. They left no dead on the field. This is never done, and the only token of the effect of our balls was, by the wounded precipitately leaving the immediate scene of action. To give straightout evidence of injury, by show of pain, or otherwise, is a breach of their code of honor—an infringement severely rebuked by the taunts of the tribe—a weakness not soon forgotten or forgiven by the old chiefs, whose duty and care it is, to sustain, by precept and example, the national bravery and hardihood. They consider not the death, merely, of an enemy, a victory—a coup must be counted. On a horse-stealing expedition, this is a horse; in battle, a scalp; and the trophies must be shown at home, before the warrior is allowed to decorate his robe with the black hand. When an Indian falls too far gone to rescue himself, his friends rush up and bear him off between their fleet steeds.
“They rallied and again circled around us, with their white shields protecting their bodies, tossing their spears, and showing off their beautiful horses, and their own graceful persons, to the best advantage. Their intention was to make a charge on the first vulnerable point, but we, being too well guarded, they, after many feints, fell back. I sat flat on the ground, my rifle resting on the spoke of a wagon-wheel—firing as often as an Indian came within range—and, when the painted, warwhooping target vamosed for safer quarters, at the crack of the gun, certainly no other than a smile of satisfaction lit up my face. If none fell outright, it was not that any qualms of conscience prevented my taking cool and sure aim, at those who, after chasing a mile, and nearly scaring the life out of us, were then keeping us penned in the hot sun without water.
“One Indian, who, from his distinguished, though scanty, dress, was a ‘brave’ of the first order, came close into our lines, throwing himself behind the body of his horse, so as to show nothing but a hand and foot; but, as he raised himself, one of the colonel’s men cut, with his rifleball, a neatly-dressed skin, that hung at his neck, which we picked up after the fight, as our only trophy. They now tossed their balls into us from a long distance, by elevating their pieces, being convinced that our corâl could not be broken without great loss of life. Two teamsters, about this time getting scared at the whistling missiles, crept, for security, into an empty wagon. They had scarcely made themselves comfortable, when a ball, crashing through both sides of their defense, buried itself in the side of a poor steer. The terrified Neds tumbled out, greeted by the roars of the men around.
“‘That’s what you get for your cussed cowardice,’ drawled out one of the fellows.
“‘Well, I’ll be darned, if that wasn’t a grazer,’ ejaculated Charley McCarty. ‘Feel if you haven’t got a hole in your dogskin—I’d hate to be as bad scared as you, by thunder!’
“We were detained upward of two hours. Our fatigued and heated oxen were nearly dropping with thirst. The savages filed slowly up the sand buttes on the other side of the river, and we proceeded to camp, each man talking of his own shots.