Thirty-One Years on the Plains and in the Mountains, Or, the Last Voice from the Plains / An Authentic Record of a Life Time of Hunting, Trapping, Scouting and Indian Fighting in the Far West

by William F. Drannan

It is quite useless for me to say I thought my time had come. On looking ahead some fifty yards I saw a pile of rocks about four or five feet high, which I made a bee line for. Getting to the rock pile I dismounted and ran between two large rocks where poor old Pinto tried to follow me, but he received two more arrows in his hip and one in his flank. He fell to the ground, and after falling raised his head, and looking toward me, whinnied.

The poor faithful old fellow lay there and would whinny for me at intervals as long as he lived, which was perhaps half an hour. The reader can fancy my condition just at this time. Here I was almost surrounded by hostile Indians and the only friend that I had with me dead. I did not expect to ever get away from there, for I expected that while a part of the Indians guarded me the balance would go off and rally reinforcements.

I had made up my mind to fight them to the last and kill as many as I could before they got me. They made three desperate charges for me before dark, but as luck would have it I was always loaded for them. I piled up rocks as I could get them loose in a manner to give me protection from every quarter, but expected they would reinforce and attempt to starve me out.

Just as it was getting dark, two of the Indians crawled up to within thirty feet of my rock pen. I was watching them, and just as they rose up to fire I fired and brought one of them to the ground, thereby making another good Apache. The other one ran away, and it being somewhat dark, I did not get him.

This made the fifth Indian I had killed since I had been in my little rock pen and I had fired eleven shots. After it was good and dark I made up my mind that I would get out of there sometime during the night, for to remain there till the morrow only meant death, and I might as well lose my life in trying to get away that night as to remain there and be killed the next day. I felt sure they had a guard around me, but I made up my mind to make a desperate effort to get away. I crawled to where my dead horse was laying, which was only a few feet from my rock house, cut the latigo, removed my saddle from the dead horse, lashed it to my back, taking the mochilar or covering for a saddle, which I have described heretofore, I took my knife and cut a hole in the front portion of the mochila where the pommel of the saddle protrudes, so that I was able to stick my head through. The mochila was good as a shield, for an arrow would not go through it except at very short range. I cut the reins off of the bridle, and as the bit was a very heavy one, I thought it would answer pretty well as a sling shot in close quarters.

I had no idea of getting out without a desperate fight with ninety-nine chances against me to one in my favor. After I had my rig complete I started to crawl away flat on the ground like a snake, I would crawl for a short distance, then stop and listen. It was very dark, there being no moon in the fore part of the night. I was expecting every minute to feel an arrow or a tomahawk in my head. After working my way down the hill some hundred yards or so, I came to a tree and raised up by the side of it. I stood and listened for some time, but could not hear anything of the Indians, so I struck out in the direction of camp, walking very cautiously for some little distance.

After traveling about six miles I felt comparatively safe, knowing they could not do anything toward tracking me until morning and did not think they would even be able to track me then.

I passed over a great deal of rocky country where there was but little vegetation. Finally I laid down to wait until morning, and I must say that I never had been out in all my life when I actually longed for daylight to come as I did that long and lonely night, and I believe that I would freely have given five hundred dollars to have had a man there with me that night; not that I was afraid of Indians, for I considered that I had given them the slip, and did not believe they would be able to overtake me before I would reach camp even though they should be able to track me the next morning.

I thought of my dying horse who had been such a faithful servant and carried me out of so many tight places, and when I would think of him I could fancy that I could see him raise his head and whinny at me as he had done that evening in his dying moments, seemingly asking me for help, and I could not keep the tears from my eyes. As soon as it was light I started for camp, arriving there about ten o'clock that morning. The men in camp had given me up and did not expect to ever see me any more, thinking that the Apaches had got me. I told the men that we would have to leave this part of the country now, and that too, just as soon as I could get a bite to eat and get my saddle repaired. While the boys pulled up and started to move camp I saddled up another horse and took my back track, traveling very cautiously, thinking they would try to follow me out, and I wanted to watch their movements and see whether they had reinforced or not. I told the boys to move northeast and where to camp, the place being ten miles from where we were then, and not to build any fire that night, also that I would be in camp some time before morning this time, I was very cautious not to be surprised the second time. I rode back within a mile of where my dead horse lay, but could not see any Indians, so I finally concluded that it had been a small hunting party, and seeing that they could not scare me out of my rock pen by their ferocious charges, accompanied by a war-whoop that would make the hair stand on the bravest mountaineer's head, they had abandoned the idea altogether and had no doubt left the ground before I started to crawl away from my rock pen, which had been the means of saving me from falling their victim.

I returned to camp, arriving shortly after dark. We moved north, the men prospecting the country as we went and I scouting, keeping a sharp lookout to prevent a surprise party, but we did not see any more Indians during the entire winter. We struck the Colorado river at the mouth of the Green river.