Ten Years Among the Mail Bags / Or, Notes from the Diary of a Special Agent of the Post-Office Department

by James Holbrook

We have room for but one more narrative of border life, and the perils of mail carrying in the backwoods; and this is also an incident in the life of our "model mail contractor."

At a period anterior to the events just related, the mail, with quite a number of wagons, was wending its way toward Santa Fé. The party were near the banks of the Cimmeron, and then in the country of the Arrapahoes. Large herds of buffalo were constantly visible, but no Indians had been seen for some days.

It was a beautiful afternoon in June, the slowly descending sun illuminating one of the grandest scenes in nature—a broad rolling prairie covered with verdure, and presenting one checkered field of animal life. Beautiful antelopes, that flew rather than ran, and scarce seemed to touch the earth; stately elks, with branching horns, gallantly guarding their gregarious herds, and the unwieldy bison, far more numerous than all the rest, numbering hundreds of thousands, and blackening the plain as far as the eye could reach. Our hero of many an Indian skirmish and numerous buffalo hunts, mounted his horse to go and select an animal from the vast herd, which should furnish supper for his party.

He was mounted on a fleet animal, but after getting fairly away from the train, he found he had omitted to put on his spurs. It was in a section of country where small streams form deep ravines, some of them nearly as abrupt, though not as deep as the awful canons of the Gila and the head branches of the Rio Grande. He singled out a fat buffalo cow, and drawing his "Colt," dashed on to get near and be sure of a fatal shot at the first fire. Not being able to spur his horse, the animal led him a rapid race, and taking a path, followed it down a dark ravine, where a slender stream gurgled idly between its banks.

His horse, accustomed to the sport, went faster and faster, and neared the buffalo at every spring, till she suddenly turned the corner of the bank, now near the bottom of the ravine, and some fifty or sixty feet below the level of the prairie. The path that led down the ravine was a gradual descent, and on each side were some scattering trees and bushes.

When the bluff was rounded in pursuit of the buffalo, the animal was but a few yards ahead, and then, for the first time, a fair mark. Our hero was nearly ready to fire, when whiz! went an arrow so near that there was no mistaking its sound, especially to one whose ear was practised in Indian warfare.

The arrow had scarcely ceased its whir, before a mounted Indian came down upon our buffalo hunter, from behind the bank of the ravine. His lance was poised in its "rest," with the butt of it firmly against his shoulder. The buffalo passed from sight, and the Indian instantly appeared; and before there was a moment for reflection, the "white hunter" had to "wink and hold out his iron."

The lance was a bright piece of steel, about twenty inches long, on a pole of some twelve feet in length. This murderous blade was aimed directly at his breast, and the two horses on a full run in opposite directions. Our contractor had nothing on but a pair of trousers, his red hunting shirt, and traveling cap.

The Indian, with the exception of some long feathers on his head, was naked to the waist. The savage observed the "law of the road," and took the right, and with one simultaneous and almost involuntary movement, the "pale face" dropped the bridle, and with his left arm parried the approaching blow by knocking the lance upward. The blade in its course ripped the hunting shirt, and tore the muscles from his shoulder; and simultaneously with this he fired his "Colt," and saw the blood spirt from the naked breast of the Indian. The slain warrior fell heavily to the ground, while the white man's horse turned suddenly to the right, and mounted the bank of the ravine, which was here so steep, that, having no longer a hold of the bridle, the rider came near tumbling backward.

The surface of the prairie was gained, and near two hundred yards measured off by the horse before the owner had time to gather his scattered thoughts. He attempted to grasp the bridle, but found his left arm quite powerless, not only from the wound on the shoulder, but the stunning effect of the lance on his fore-arm, near the wrist. With a rapid movement he plunged his pistol into the holster, and seizing the bridle with his right hand, drew up his horse and dismounted.