We afterward met others of the scouts—intelligent, clear-headed fellows, with much more of cultivation than our rough friend possessed—and they corroborated his story in every particular. I have let him tell it in his own way, not only because vastly more graphic than any words of mine could be, but also to the end that the reader might become acquainted with a genuine frontiersman—one of that class which is wheeling into line with the immense multitudes of Indians and buffalo that time and civilization are bearing swiftly onward to hide among the memories of the past.
That the savages suffered very severely in their several attacks upon that little band of heroes on the Arickeree, was evident from the number of bodies found by the relief, as it hastened forward from Fort Wallace. The corpses were resting on hastily-constructed scaffolds, and some had evidently been placed there while dying, as the ground underneath was yet wet with blood.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE STAGE DRIVERS OF THE PLAINS—OLD BOB—"JAMAICA AND GINGER"—AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE—BEADS OF THE PAST—ROBBING THE DEAD—A LEAF FROM THE LOST HISTORY OF THE MOUND BUILDERS—INDIAN TRADITIONS—SPECULATIONS—ADOBE HOUSES IN A RAIN—CHEAP LIVING—WATCH TOWERS.
The stage drivers of the plains are rapidly becoming another inheritance of the past, pushed out of existence by the locomotive, whose cow-catcher is continually tossing them from their high seats into the arms of History. What a rare set they are, though! No two that I ever saw were nearly alike, and they resemble not one distinctive class, but a number. The Jehus who crack their whips over the buffalo grass region, and turn their leaders artistically around sharp corners in rude towns, are made up on a variety of patterns. Some are loquacious and others silent, and while a portion are given to profanity, another though smaller number are men of very proper grammar. Some with whom I have ridden would discount truth for the mere love of the exercise, while others I have found so particular that they could not be induced to lie, except when it was for their interest to do so.
In a village on the shores of Lake Champlain, in the frozen regions of northern New York, where mercury becomes solid in November, and remains so until May, I got on intimate terms, when a boy, with a stage driver. During the long winters the coaches were placed on sleds, and well do I remember the style in which "Old Bob," as he was universally called, would come dashing into the town on frosty mornings, winding uncertain tunes out of a brass horn, given him years before by a General Somebody, of the State Militia. In front of the long-porched tavern, the leaders would push out to the left, in order to give due magnificence to the right hand circle, which deposited the coach at the bar room door. Bearish in fur, and sour in face, Bob would then roll from the seat, rush up to the bar, and for the first time open his mouth, to ejaculate, "Jamaica and ginger!" The fiery draught would thaw out his tongue, as hot water does a pump, and after that it was easy work to pump him dry of any and all news on the line above.
That was many years ago, and in a spot half a continent away. One morning, while at Sheridan, I heard the blast of a horn up the street, whose notes awakened echoes which had long lain dead and buried in boyhood's memory. A moment more, and out from an avenue of saloons the overland stage rattled, and on its box sat the friend of my childhood, "Old Bob." He had the identical horn, and it was the identical tune, which I had so often heard in the by-gone years, the only difference being that both were cracked, and the lungs behind the mouth-piece, touched by the winters of sixty-odd, wheezed a little. As the coach came to the door, I jumped up by the "boot," and grasping the old fellow's hand, introduced myself. Old Bob rubbed his eyes, which were weak and watery, and scanned me closely.
"Well, well, lad," he said, "your face takes me now, sure enough. I mind your father and mother well, and you're the little rascal that stole my whip once, when I was thawing out with Jamaica and ginger. Did you tell me by the old tune? You did, eh? Well, truth is, lad, the horn won't blow any other. It's got to running in that groove, and when I try to coax any thing new out, it sets off so that it frightens the horses."