At the back of the world

by George Pugh; Jennie Pugh

“All right mates,” Tom answered, “and I hope it’ll be a lesson to some of you.

“Away back in the sixties I was working on a new line up the Rocky Mountains in California. It was as rough a bit of country as could be found, and we had a lot of trouble with the Indians. There was hardly a day passed without some poor fellow being picked off with their arrows.

“We had with us a number of peaceful Indians working on the line, and all things seemed to be going on well. However, one Saturday, after finishing a section of the line, a few of the head bosses came up to see it, and signified their satisfaction by sending a few cases of whisky to be distributed among the white and Indian labourers. There were about forty-five white men and one hundred and sixty Indians. We also received one month’s pay the same day, so that all were well furnished with the wherewithal for a jovial time. The white men, who were well used to drinking whiskey, soon disposed of their lot, and then some of the unruly ones suggested going over to the Indian camp and buying some more from the Indians, who were in general very temperate in the use of liquor. This was agreed to by most of the men, but some of the wiser ones did their best to dissuade them from doing this, but the majority carried the day and off they went, and I amongst them, worse luck.

“The Indians were having a great corroboree when our chaps arrived, but did not appear to have been drinking much, they were received very coolly and shown very plainly that their room was of more value than their company. However, they sold our chaps a few bottles of whiskey, and told them to go back to their own camp. This angered some of the rougher of our men, and one of them, half muddled with drink, struck one of the Indians full in the face with his hand.

“In an instant the Indian had buried his knife up to the hilt in the man’s throat, killing him instantly, but before he could withdraw it, he was shot dead by another of the white men. Then each man sprang to his feet, and at each other’s throats, knives and revolvers were drawn and a scene ensued that God forbid I should ever witness or take part in again. At the first onset the light was put out and knives and revolvers used indiscriminately. A few minutes after the row had started I received an awful blow on the side of the head, which stunned me at once. On coming to, I found two redskins lying on the top of me, dead, they had both been shot. The fight was still going on at the other side of the big tent. Slowly I crawled from under the two dead men, and in doing so I felt something wet touch my face, and found to my horror it was my own scalp the dead Indian grasped—he had been shot just after scalping me. I cut through the tent, and, covered with blood and fainting from weakness, made my way over to our camp. There was no one there, and I just managed to creep into a corner when I collapsed with the awful pain in my head. When I came to, one of my mates was bathing my head and face. He told me that when the six men that remained in our camp heard the shots and shouts, two of them ran down to the lower settlement for assistance. The other four, well armed, had hidden themselves to watch and, if possible, succour any of their mates who managed to get back to their own camp. After a while they saw me creeping along, covered with blood and stumbling every few yards, making for our tent. They waited for me to get a little nearer before they left their hiding place to come to my assistance. Suddenly they espied two other forms creeping after me, and not being sure if they were friends or foes, they lay quite still for a few moments to make sure. All at once the two forms sprang towards me with knives uplifted to slay me, when they were shot dead by my mates, who then carried me to the place where they had been hiding.

“‘How goes the row, Tom?’ they asked, when I opened my eyes.

“‘I think all our chaps are done for, mates,’ I answered, ‘and we must keep away from our tent lads, I am afraid the Indians will rush it after the fight.’

“The shots now began to clear off, and we knew that many a life had paid dear for the drink that night.

“Just after I was carried into safety, we heard a rush of feet from the Indian tent, and about ten or twelve Indians rushed over to our tents, flourishing axes and knives, while some had revolvers. They had just got within ten feet of the entrance when a perfect volley of shots rang out from a spot just to the right of the tent, and every Indian fell riddled with bullets. It was the relief party of whites who had come to our assistance.

“After seeing that this lot of redskins were dead, they made a rush for the Indian quarters, and on getting lights a terrible sight met their view. There was not a single man in the tent with a spark of life in him, and every white man was scalped; and the bodies stripped of arms, money and fearfully mutilated; just near the door there were a heap of bodies, five of our men and thirteen redskins. Poor Seth Walker, as good a mate as ever worked, was almost slashed to pieces. He had five Indians lying on the top of him. These apparently had been shot by Old Dan Creegan, for his body was close to, and partly on them, with his head split open by a tomahawk. It was just like a slaughter house, and God forbid that I should ever see such another sight. In and around that tent there were thirty-seven dead white men and sixty dead Indians.