If my horse had refused to go in there I believe I should have ridden back to the ranch and never thought that I was guilty of cowardice; but he didn’t. When I called on him to go ahead he went, but he did not seem to be holding his course toward the dead beef or horse I have spoken of, but turned a little to the right as if he were seeking evidence a little further on. Wondering what there was that my horse had in his mind, I humored him, and in a few minutes was horror-stricken at the scene he brought me to. There, flat on his back, stripped, scalped, his head beaten in by a stone or some other blunt instrument, and mutilated beyond description, lay Sam Noble, one of our cowboys. Where the other two were I didn’t know, nor did I waste any time looking for them. I shall never forget it as long as I live. He had evidently been killed before he was captured, which was a lucky thing for Sam.
Killed by the Indians.
As soon as I could recover my breath I pulled my horse about and took the back trail with long jumps, but before my horse had made half a dozen leaps I saw that I was captured. Three Indians came riding out of the ravine on my left, and scarcely had they been discovered, when three or four more came from the ravine on my right. What was I to do? I had heard that when a white man was surrounded by Indians, if he would raise his gun in the act of shooting, every Indian would at once get behind his horse. I don’t know why that came into my mind, but I tried it then and there, and in an instant two of the Indians were out of sight. They had gone down on the other side of their horses, so that I had nothing but a leg and a small portion of the head to shoot at. The third Indian, however, retained his upright position, and, holding up his bare hand to me, shouted:
“Don’t shoot! We’re friends.”
You can imagine what my feelings were as I sat there and listened to those words. They were my friends, and yet Sam Noble had been killed that very morning in the effort to escape from them! While I held my rifle in my hands and sat there debating the question, the Indians came quite close to me, too late to escape, and I yielded to them like one in a dream. I was able to tell now what savages looked like in their war-paint; and although they were hideous enough before, you can’t conceive what a difference those streaks of red and yellow paint made in their appearance. They looked just awful. The white man was the only one among them that was not painted, and I felt more like surrendering my weapons to him than I did to any of his savage crew. But I didn’t get the chance. The first one who held out his hand for my rifle was an Indian, and I readily gave it up to him. The other Indian seized my horse by the bridle, and the white man, after securing my revolvers and buckling them around his own waist, open my shirt and felt all around for the belt that contained my money; but he couldn’t find it.
“Where is it?” said he, with something that sounded like an oath.
“Where is what?” I asked, for I had by this time recovered my wits. I had no idea what would happen to me afterward, but I knew that so long as I behaved myself with them I need not stand in fear of bodily harm.
“The belt,” replied the man. “You didn’t bring it with you?”
“It is hidden at the ranch,” I replied. “We thought that somebody might try to take it away from us.”