We had no opportunity of verifying this story of red beard's, but as no occasion existed for telling a lie, and the neighbors of the narrator there present seemed much interested in the account, we accepted it as truth. It was apparently no attempt to impose upon the strangers. But I would here state, as a specimen feature of the frontier experience of all travelers, that whenever, at any of our camps, surrounding ranchemen or hunters discovered any member of our party taking notes, there were straightway spun out the toughest yarns which ever hung a tale and throttled truth.
Of one fact our journey thoroughly convinced us. Lo's forte has no connection with the fort of the pale-faces. An unguarded hunter, or a defenseless emigrant wagon, or unarmed railroad laborer, gratifies sufficiently his most warlike ambition. The savages of the plains, in their attacks upon the whites, have been like bees, stinging whenever opportunity offers, and immediately disappearing in space. Their excuses for the murders they commit have been as various as their moods. At one time it is a broken treaty, at another the killing of their buffalo, and trespassing upon the hunting-grounds, and again it is some other grievance. It may be some gratification for them to know that it is estimated that, until within the last three years, a white man's scalp atoned for each buffalo killed by his race.
In our various wars with the Indians, it is worthy of remark the bison have been like supply posts at convenient distances, to the hostile bands. Traveling without any supplies whatever, and therefore rapidly, a few moments suffice to kill a buffalo near the camping spot, and roast his flesh over the chips. The pony, meanwhile, makes a hearty meal on the grass. On the other hand, our troops, in pursuit of these bands, have had to encumber themselves with baggage wagons, or pack-mules, bearing food and forage.
Among our notes, I find recorded many incidents illustrative of the aptitude which the savage mind possesses for dissimulation. For instance, in our council at Hays City, White Wolf could apparently understand only our sign language; yet when the interpreter advised the Professor, in good English, not to accept the little Mexican burro, unless content to return its weight in something much more valuable than jackass meat, the chief could not refrain from smiling. As Indians are not given to facial revelations, the colloquy must have struck him as very apropos and very amusing. We concluded then and there, that it was unsafe to talk Indian sign with the savages for effect, and meanwhile express our real sentiments to each other in English; and upon this opinion we habitually acted thereafter.
This was our last night together as a party. The Professor had signified his intention of remaining a few days longer upon the Solomon, for the purpose of studying the surrounding country. Shamus had asked a discharge, in order to engage as farm hand for Mr. Sydney—an Irish Jacob taking to agriculture as a means of obtaining his Rachel. We received numerous invitations to divide our party for the night among the settlers, and, glad to enjoy again the luxury of a roof, Sachem and I gratefully accepted the hospitabilities of a neighboring log-cabin among the trees.
The next day was busily occupied in separating from our loads such things as the Professor and Shamus required for their further sojourn in the Solomon valley. The morning following, we bade them both good-bye, and have seen neither leader or servant since. With but one mishap, the remainder of our party reached safely the more familiar haunts of civilization. Doctor Pythagoras was the victim of our exceptional misfortune. While attempting to mount his transformed prize-fighter, the metamorphosed bully struck out from the shoulder, and the doctor was floored. We found it necessary to carry him upon a rude stretcher to Solomon City, and provide him with a section on a sleeping car for transit to the East. As we shook his hand at parting, and bade him a last good-bye, he exclaimed, "My young friends, I can not die yet. I shall recover and outlive you all. I believe in the theory of the 'survival of the fittest.'"
Ever since our return, the tide of emigration, pouring onward from the Atlantic, has lapped further and further out upon the surface of the plains; and still, as truly now as when good old Bishop Berkeley first wrote the line, "the Star of Empire westward takes its way."
While I was preparing these notes for the press, I received the following characteristic letter from Sachem, dated at his haunt in New York. It was at first a puzzle, but I found the key in a note inclosed by him, which he had lately received from the Professor.
SACHEM'S LETTER.