AND LEADING OUR HORSES WE STARTED FOR THE RANCH.
Fort Fetterman is situated on a high plateau, at the base of which the North Platte River winds its course for miles and miles, as far as the eye can reach, through the finest grazing country in the world, giving a view more extensive and grand than at any other point on my route. The storm cleared toward sundown, and during the night the characteristic Chinook wind of Wyoming came up—a dry wind, which blew away and absorbed nearly all the snow. When I awoke the next morning and looked out upon the vast expanse of plains and mountains, I was astonished to find hardly a trace of the storm, except in isolated places high up in the foot-hills.
Fort Fetterman used to be a Government fort, but has been abandoned for several years. It now contains two ranch hotels, several cow ranches, a post-office, Government telegraph office, half a dozen saloons and a general store, and is the largest place between Cheyenne and Buffalo. It has the reputation of being the hardest point in the Territories, being the rendezvous of all the cowboys in Central Wyoming. I kept very quiet, and with the exception of a few disagreeable solicitations to drink from some of them, I was not molested. I was a little concerned, but not at all shaken in my purpose, by authentic reports from the telegraph office, which connects with Fort McKinney, near Buffalo, of serious disturbances among the Crow Indians, who had left their reservation in Montana, and were only waiting for grass to make war on the settlers in Johnson County. I concluded, however, if they were to make a break, I would be as safe under the protection of the troops as I would be here, where a tenderfoot was never known heretofore to live more than ten days.
IN CAMP FOR THE NIGHT.
A true story is told of a young man who was stationed here as a telegraph operator. He belonged to the class designated dudes, whom the cowboys love less than any other breed of tenderfeet. He was much pleased with the country and life in the Far West, but he was not satisfied with simply seeing the boys ride on horseback into saloons and shoot the lights out, common everyday fights, and an occasional lynching bee. He sighed for Indians and gore. He wanted to “spread himself” fighting the wary redskin. Finally the cowboys thought they would see if there was as much stuff in him as he bragged, so half a dozen or more dressed themselves up as Indians, with paint, feathers and tomahawks, and hid in a secluded place not far from town. In the meantime our hero was informed that some Indians had been seen a few miles up the river, and he was invited, if he wanted some sport, to join in and add his great fighting ability to help the rest. So they all started, but had hardly got out a mile or so when the secreted pseudo-Indians commenced yelling and firing in the air. The would-be Indian fighter, thinking they were an advanced guard of a host of others, turned and fled with his hair on end, and did not stop till the telegraph office was reached. He immediately wired to the Governor at Cheyenne, “Dispatch troops at once; two thousand Indians are on us,” and then hurried out to warn all to arm themselves for their lives. The postmaster, whose office was in the same room as the telegraph, directly sent another message: “Don’t deliver telegram just sent,” and the return of the cowboys soon gave the trick away. They gave the St. Louis tenderfoot no peace whatever. The territorial papers got hold of the story, and one morning he packed his grip and silently boarded the south-bound stage for parts unknown.
Early on April 9 I crossed the North Platte River. At noon I reached Sage Creek, and after resting an hour or so, left the stage road and struck a trail to my right, leading, as I was told, to Andrew’s cow ranch, on South Fork Cheyenne River, fourteen miles distant. I could see by my map a ranch in that direction, so I felt perfectly safe in venturing away from the telegraph poles, which had been my faithful and silent guides hitherto.
I was now leaving the mountains and approaching the sage-brush plains, a most monotonous and dreary-looking country. For miles I plodded along, alternately riding and walking, without seeing any sign of human life, or anything to break the monotony of the sage-brush. About half-past six, as I approached the river, I ran into a barbed-wire fence, which, when followed up for a mile or so, led me to the door of the ranch, where I dismounted and camped for the night.
I left the ranch in fine spirits. I had gone perhaps four miles when two men overtook me, passed, then turned and came back, scrutinizing me and my outfit as they came. As they drew up, one said: “Where did you get that horse?” Was it a case of mind-reading, or a mere freak, that led me to match his impertinence by saying, “Stole him.” “Yes,” he replied, “we know you did,” drawing out at the same time a warrant for the arrest of a horse-thief. My bill of sale for the horse and other papers sufficed, however, to prove that I was not the thief, and Terry carried the proof of his identity in a brand under the saddle, though answering strangely well in other respects to the description of the missing horse. They apologized for their mistake, and bidding me good-day turned toward the hills in the hope of capturing the real thief. I felt much relieved as they disappeared, for a horse-thief once caught in Wyoming stands but little chance for his life.