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CHARLES BENT.
 
 
 
 Almost immediately after the ratification of the purchase of
 New Mexico by the United States under the stipulations of the
 "Guadalupe-Hidalgo Treaty," the Utes, one of the most powerful tribes
 of mountain Indians, inaugurated a bloody and relentless war against
 the civilized inhabitants of the Territory.  It was accompanied by
 all the horrible atrocities which mark the tactics of savage hatred
 toward the white race.  It continued for several years with more
 or less severity; its record a chapter of history whose pages are
 deluged with blood, until finally the Indians were subdued by the
 power of the military.
 
 Along the line of the Santa Fe Trail, they were frequently in
 conjunction with the Apaches, and their depredations and atrocities
 were very numerous; they attacked fearlessly freight caravans,
 private expeditions, and overland stage-coaches, robbing and murdering
 indiscriminately.
 
 In January, 1847, the mail and passenger stage left Independence,
 Missouri, for Santa Fe on one of its regular trips across the plains.
 It had its full complement of passengers, among whom were a Mr. White
 and family, consisting of his wife, one child, and a coloured nurse.
 
 Day after day the lumbering Concord coach rolled on, with nothing to
 disturb the monotony of the vast prairies, until it had left them
 far behind and crossed the Range into New Mexico.  Just about dawn,
 as the unsuspecting travellers were entering the "canyon of the
 Canadian,"[30] and probably waking up from their long night's sleep,
 a band of Indians, with blood-curdling yells and their terrific
 war-whoop, rode down upon them.
 
 In that lonely and rock-sheltered gorge a party of the hostile savages,
 led by "White Wolf," a chief of the Apaches, had been awaiting the
 arrival of the coach from the East; the very hour it was due was
 well known to them, and they had secreted themselves there the
 night before so as to be on hand should it reach their chosen ambush
 a little before the schedule time.
 
 Out dashed the savages, gorgeous in their feathered war-bonnets,
 but looking like fiends with their paint-bedaubed faces.  Stopping the
 frightened mules, they pulled open the doors of the coach and,
 mercilessly dragging its helpless and surprised inmates to the ground,
 immediately began their butchery.  They scalped and mutilated the
 dead bodies of their victims in their usual sickening manner, not a
 single individual escaping, apparently, to tell of their fiendish acts.
 
 If the Indians had been possessed of sufficient cunning to cover up
 the tracks of their horrible atrocities, as probably white robbers
 would have done, by dragging the coach from the road and destroying it
 by fire or other means, the story of the murders committed in the
 deep canyon might never have been known; but they left the tell-tale
 remains of the dismantled vehicle just where they had attacked it,
 and the naked corpses of its passengers where they had been ruthlessly
 killed.
 
 At the next stage station the employees were anxiously waiting for
 the arrival of the coach, and wondering what could have caused
 the delay; for it was due there at noon on the day of the massacre.
 Hour after hour passed, and at last they began to suspect that
 something serious had occurred; they sat up all through the night
 listening for the familiar rumbling of wheels, but still no stage.
 At daylight next morning, determined to wait no longer, as they felt
 satisfied that something out of the usual course had happened,
 a party hurriedly mounted their horses and rode down the broad trail
 leading to the canyon.
 
 Upon entering its gloomy mouth after a quick lope of an hour,
 they discovered the ghastly remains of twelve mutilated bodies.
 These were gathered up and buried in one grave, on the top of the
 bluff overlooking the narrow gorge.
 
 They could not be sure of the number of passengers the coach had
 brought until the arrival of the next, as it would have a list of
 those carried by its predecessor; but it would not be due for
 several days.  They naturally supposed, however, that the twelve dead
 lying on the ground were its full complement.
 
 Not waiting for the arrival of the next stage, they despatched a
 messenger to the last station east that the one whose occupants
 had been murdered had passed, and there learned the exact number
 of passengers it had contained.  Now they knew that Mrs. White,
 her child, and the coloured nurse had been carried off into a
 captivity worse than death; for no remains of a woman were found
 with the others lying in the canyon.
 
 The terrible news of the massacre was conveyed to Taos, where were
 stationed several companies of the Second United States Dragoons,
 commanded by Major William Greer; but as the weather had grown
 intensely cold and stormy since the date of the massacre, it took
 nearly a fortnight for the terrible story to reach there.  The Major
 acted promptly when appealed to to go after and punish the savages
 concerned in the outrage, but several days more were lost in getting
 an expedition ready for the field.  It was still stormy while the
 command was preparing for its work; but at last, one bright morning,
 in a piercing cold wind, five troops of the dragoons, commanded by
 Major Greer in person, left their comfortable quarters to attempt
 the rescue of Mrs. White, her child, and nurse.
 
 Kit Carson, "Uncle Dick" Wooten, Joaquin Leroux, and Tom Tobin were
 the principal scouts and guides accompanying the expedition, having
 volunteered their services to Major Greer, which he had gladly accepted.
 
 The massacre having occurred three weeks before the command had
 arrived at the canyon of the Canadian, and snow having fallen almost
 continuously ever since, the ground was deeply covered, making it
 almost impossible to find the trail of the savages leading out of
 the gorge.  No one knew where they had established their winter camp
 --probably hundreds of miles distant on some tributary of the Canadian
 far to the south.
 
 Carson, Wooton, and Leroux, after scanning the ground carefully at
 every point, though the snow was ten inches deep, in a way of which
 only men versed in savage lore are capable, were rewarded by
 discovering certain signs, unintelligible to the ordinary individual[31]
 --that the murderers had gone south out of the canyon immediately
 after completing their bloody work, and that their camp was somewhere
 on the river, but how far off none could tell.
 
 The command followed up the trail discovered by the scouts for nearly
 four hundred miles.  Early one morning when that distance had been
 rounded, and just as the men were about to break camp preparatory
 to the day's march, Carson went out on a little reconnoissance on his
 own account, as he had noticed a flock of ravens hovering in the air
 when he first got out of his blankets at dawn, which was sufficient
 indication to him that an Indian camp was located somewhere in the
 vicinity; for that ominous bird is always to be found in the region
 where the savages take up an abode, feeding upon the carcasses of
 the many varieties of game killed for food.  He had not proceeded
 more than half a mile from the camp when he discovered two Indians
 slowly riding over a low "divide," driving a herd of ponies before
 them.  The famous scout was then certain their village could not
 be very far away.  The savages did not observe him, as he took good
 care they should not; so he returned quickly to where Major Greer
 was standing by his camp-fire and reported the presence of a village
 very close at hand.
 
 The Major having sent for Tom Tobin and Uncle Dick Wooton, requested
 them to go and find the exact location of the savages.  These scouts
 came back in less than half an hour, and reported a large number
 of teepees in a thick grove of timber a mile away.
 
 It was at once determined to surprise the savages in their winter
 quarters by charging right among their lodges without allowing them
 time to mount their ponies, as the gallant Custer rode, at the head
 of his famous troopers of the Seventh Cavalry, into the camp of the
 celebrated chief "Black Kettle" on the Washita, in the dawn of a
 cold November morning twenty years afterward.
 
 The command succeeded in getting within good charging distance of the
 village without its occupants having any knowledge of its proximity;
 but at this moment Major Greer was seized with an idea that he ought
 to have a parley with the Indians before he commenced to fight them,
 and for that purpose he ordered a halt, just as the soldiers were
 eager for the sound of the "Charge!"
 
 Never were a body of men more enraged.  Carson gave vent to his wrath
 in a series of elaborately carved English oaths, for which he was
 noted when young; Leroux, whose naturally hot blood was roused,
 swore at the Major in a curious mixture of bad French and worse
 mountain dialect, and it appeared as if the battle would begin in the
 ranks of the troops instead of those of the savages; for never was
 a body of soldiers so disgusted at the act of any commanding officer.
 
 This delay gave the Indians, who could be seen dodging about among
 their lodges and preparing for a fight that was no longer a surprise,
 time to hide their women and children, mount their ponies, and get
 down into deep ravines, where the soldiers could not follow them.
 While the Major was trying to convince his subordinates that his
 course was the proper one, the Indians opened fire without any parley,
 and it happened that at the first volley a bullet struck him in the
 breast, but a suspender buckle deflected its course and he was not
 seriously wounded.
 
 The change in the countenance of their commanding officer caused by
 the momentary pain was just the incentive the troopers wanted, and
 without waiting for the sound of the trumpet, they spurred their
 horses, dashed in, and charged the thunderstruck savages with the
 shock of a tornado.
 
 In two successful charges of the gallant and impatient troopers more
 than a hundred of the Indians were killed and wounded, but the time
 lost had permitted many to escape, and the pursuit of the stragglers
 would have been unavailing under the circumstances; so the command
 turned back and returned to Taos.  In the village was found the body
 of Mrs. White still warm, with three arrows in her breast.  Had the
 charge been made as originally expected by the troopers, her life
 would have been saved.  No trace of the child or of the coloured
 nurse was ever discovered, and it is probable that they were both
 killed while en route from the canyon to the village, as being
 valueless to keep either as slaves or for other purposes.
 
 The fate of the Apache chief, "White Wolf," who was the leader in
 the outrages in the canyon of the Canadian, was fitting for his
 devilish deeds.  It was Lieutenant David Bell's fortune to avenge
 the murder of Mrs. White and her family, and in an extraordinary
 manner.[32]  The action was really dramatic, or romantic; he was
 on a scout with his company, which was stationed at Fort Union,
 New Mexico, having about thirty men with him, and when near the canyon
 of the Canadian they met about the same number of Indians.  A parley
 was in order at once, probably desired by the savages, who were
 confronted with an equal number of troopers.  Bell had assigned
 the baggage-mules to the care of five or six of his command, and held
 a mounted interview with the chief, who was no other than the infamous
 White Wolf of the Jicarilla Apaches.  As Bell approached, White Wolf
 was standing in front of his Indians, who were on foot, all well armed
 and in perfect line.  Bell was in advance of his troopers, who were
 about twenty paces from the Indians, exactly equal in number and
 extent of line; both parties were prepared to use firearms.
 
 The parley was almost tediously long and the impending duel was
 arranged, White Wolf being very bold and defiant.
 
 At last the leaders exchanged shots, the chief sinking on one knee
 and aiming his gun, Bell throwing his body forward and making his
 horse rear.  Both lines, by command, fired, following the example
 of their superiors, the troopers, however, spurring forward over
 their enemies.  The warriors, or nearly all of them, threw themselves
 on the ground, and several vertical wounds were received by horse
 and rider.  The dragoons turned short about, and again charged through
 and over their enemies, the fire being continuous.  As they turned
 for a third charge, the surviving Indians were seen escaping to a
 deep ravine, which, although only one or two hundred paces off,
 had not previously been noticed.  A number of the savages thus
 escaped, the troopers having to pull up at the brink, but sending
 a volley after the descending fugitives.
 
 In less than fifteen minutes twenty-one of the forty-six actors in
 this strange combat were slain or disabled.  Bell was not hit, but
 four or five of his men were killed or wounded.  He had shot
 White Wolf several times, and so did others after him; but so
 tenacious of life was the Apache that, to finish him, a trooper
 got a great stone and mashed his head.
 
 This was undoubtedly the greatest duel of modern times; certainly
 nothing like it ever occurred on the Santa Fe Trail before or since.
 
 The war chief of the Kiowa nation in the early '50's was Satank,
 a most unmitigated villain; cruel and heartless as any savage that
 ever robbed a stage-coach or wrenched off the hair of a helpless woman.
 After serving a dozen or more years with a record for hellish
 atrocities equalled by few of his compeers, he was deposed for alleged
 cowardice, as his warriors claimed, under the following circumstances:--
 
 The village of his tribe was established in the large bottoms,
 eight miles from the Great Bend of the Arkansas, and about the same
 distance from Fort Zarah.[33]  All the bucks were absent on a hunting
 expedition, excepting Satank and a few superannuated warriors.
 The troops were out from Fort Larned on a grand scout after marauding
 savages, when they suddenly came across the village and completely
 took the Kiowas by surprise.  Seeing the soldiers almost upon them,
 Satank and other warriors jumped on their ponies and made good their
 escape.  Had they remained, all of them would have been killed or
 at least captured; consequently Satank, thinking discretion better
 than valour at that particular juncture, incontinently fled.
 His warriors in council, however, did not agree with him; they thought
 that it was his duty to have remained at the village in defence of
 the women and children, as he had been urged to refrain from going on
 the hunt for that very purpose.
 
 Some time before Satank lost his office of chief, there was living
 on Cow Creek, in a rude adobe building, a man who was ostensibly
 an Indian trader, but whose traffic, in reality, consisted in selling
 whiskey to the Indians, and consequently the United States troops
 were always after him.  He was obliged to cache his liquor in every
 conceivable manner so that the soldiers should not discover it, and,
 of course, he dreaded the incursions of the troops much more than
 he did raids of the Indian marauders that were constantly on the Trail.
 
 Satank and this illicit trader, whose name was Peacock, were great
 chums.  One day while they were indulging in a general good time
 over sundry drinks of most villanous liquor, Satank said to Peacock:
 "Peacock, I want you to write me a letter; a real nice one, that
 I can show to the wagon-bosses on the Trail, and get all the 'chuck'
 I want.  Tell them I am Satank, the great chief of the Kiowas, and
 for them to treat me the best they know how."
 
 "All right, Satank," said Peacock; "I'll do so."  Peacock then sat
 down and wrote the following epistle:--
 
 "The bearer of this is Satank.  He is the biggest liar, beggar, and
 thief on the plains.  What he can't beg of you, he'll steal.  Kick him
 out of camp, for he is a lazy, good-for-nothing Indian."
 
 Satank began at once to make use of the supposed precious document,
 which he really believed would assure him the dignified treatment
 and courtesy due to his exalted rank.  He presented it to several
 caravans during the ensuing week, and, of course, received a very
 cool reception in every instance, or rather a very warm one.
 
 One wagon-master, in fact, black-snaked him out of his camp.
 After these repeated insults he sought another white friend, and
 told of his grievances.  "Look here," said Satank, "I asked Peacock
 to write me a good letter, and he gave me this; but I don't
 understand it!  Every time I hand it to a wagon-boss, he gives me
 the devil!  Read it to me and tell me just what it does say."
 
 His friend read it over, and then translated it literally to Satank.
 The savage assumed a countenance of extreme disgust, and after musing
 for a few moments, said: "Well, I understand it all now.  All right!"
 
 The next morning at daylight, Satank called for some of his braves
 and with them rode out to Peacock's ranch.  Arriving there, he called
 out to Peacock, who had not yet risen: "Peacock, get up, the soldiers
 are coming!"  It was a warning which the illicit trader quickly
 obeyed, and running out of the building with his field-glass in his
 hand, he started for his lookout, but while he was ascending the
 ladder with his back to Satank the latter shot him full of holes,
 saying, as he did so: "There, Peacock, I guess you won't write any
 more letters."
 
 His warriors then entered the building and killed every man in it,
 save one who had been gored by a buffalo bull the day before, and
 who was lying in a room all by himself.  He was saved by the fact
 that the Indian has a holy dread of small-pox, and will never enter
 an apartment where sick men lie, fearing they may have the awful
 disease.
 
 Satanta (White Bear) was the most efficient and dreaded chief of all
 who have ever been at the head of the Kiowa nation.  Ever restlessly
 active in ordering or conducting merciless forays against an exposed
 frontier, he was the very incarnation of deviltry in his determined
 hatred of the whites, and his constant warfare against civilization.
 
 He also possessed wonderful oratorical powers; he could hurl the most
 violent invectives at those whom he argued with, or he could be
 equally pathetic when necessary.  He was justly called "The Orator of
 the Plains," rivalling the historical renown of Tecumseh or Pontiac.
 
 He was a short, bullet-headed Indian, full of courage and well versed
 in strategy.  Ordinarily, when on his visits to the various military
 posts he wore a major-general's full uniform, a suit of that rank
 having been given to him in the summer of 1866 by General Hancock.
 He also owned an ambulance, a team of mules, and a set of harness,
 the last stolen, maybe, from some caravan he had raided on the Trail.
 In that ambulance, with a trained Indian driver, the wily chief
 travelled, wrapped in a savage dignity that was truly laughable.
 In his village, too, he assumed a great deal of style.  He was very
 courteous to his white guests, if at the time his tribe were at all
 friendly with the government; nothing was too good for them.
 He always laid down a carpet on the floor of his lodge in the post
 of honour, on which they were to sit.  He had large boards, twenty
 inches wide and three feet long, ornamented with brass tacks driven
 all around the edges, which he used for tables.  He also had a
 French horn, which he blew vigorously when meals were ready.
 
 His friendship was only dissembling.  During all the time that
 General Sheridan was making his preparations for his intended winter
 campaign against the allied plains tribes, Satanta made frequent
 visits to the military posts, ostensibly to show the officers that
 he was heartily for peace, but really to inform himself of what was
 going on.
 
 At that time I was stationed at Fort Harker, on the Smoky Hill.
 One evening, General Sheridan, who was my guest, was sitting on the
 verandah of my quarters, smoking and chatting with me and some other
 officers who had come to pay him their respects, when one of my men
 rode up and quietly informed me that Satanta had just driven his
 ambulance into the fort, and was getting ready to camp near the mule
 corral.  On receiving this information, I turned to the general and
 suggested the propriety of either killing or capturing the inveterate
 demon.  Personally I believed it would be right to get rid of such
 a character, and I had men under my command who would have been
 delighted to execute an order to that effect.
 
 Sheridan smiled when I told him of Satanta's presence and the
 excellent chance to get rid of him.  But he said: "That would
 never do; the sentimentalists in the Eastern States would raise
 such a howl that the whole country would be horrified!"
 
 Of course, in these "piping times of peace" the reader, in the quiet
 of his own room, will think that my suggestion was brutal, and without
 any palliation; my excuse, however, may be found in General
 Washington's own motto: Exitus acta probat.  If the suggestion had
 been acted upon, many an innocent man and woman would have escaped
 torture, and many a maiden a captivity worse than death.
 
 As a specimen of Satanta's oratory, I offer the following, to show
 the hypocrisy of the subtle old villain, and his power over the minds
 of too sensitive auditors.  Once Congress sent out to the central
 plains a commission from Washington to inquire into the causes of
 the continual warfare raging with the savages on the Kansas border;
 to learn what the grievances of the Indians were; and to find some
 remedy for the wholesale slaughter of men, women, and children along
 the line of the Old Trail.
 
 Satanta was sent for by the commission as the leading spirit of the
 formidable Kiowa nation.  When he entered the building at Fort Dodge
 in which daily sessions were held, he was told by the president to
 speak his mind without any reservation; to withhold nothing, but to
 truthfully relate what his tribe had to complain of on the part of
 the whites.  The old rascal grew very pathetic as he warmed up to
 his subject.  He declared that he had no desire to kill the white
 settlers or emigrants crossing the plains, but that those who came
 and lived on the land of his tribe ruthlessly slaughtered the buffalo,
 allowing their carcasses to rot on the prairie; killing them merely
 for the amusement it afforded them, while the Indian only killed
 when necessity demanded.  He also stated that the white hunters
 set out fires, destroying the grass, and causing the tribe's horses
 to starve to death as well as the buffalo; that they cut down and
 otherwise destroyed the timber on the margins of the streams, making
 large fires of it, while the Indian was satisfied to cook his food
 with a few dry and dead limbs.  "Only the other day," said he,
 "I picked up a little switch on the Trail, and it made my heart bleed
 to think that so small a green branch, ruthlessly torn out of the
 ground and thoughtlessly destroyed by some white man, would in time
 have grown into a stately tree for the use and benefit of my children
 and grandchildren."
 
 After the pow-wow had ended, and Satanta had got a few drinks of
 red liquor into him, his real, savage nature asserted itself, and
 he said to the interpreter at the settler's store: "Now didn't I
 give it to those white men who came from the Great Father?  Didn't I
 do it in fine style?  Why, I drew tears from their eyes!  The switch
 I saw on the Trail made my heart glad instead of sad; for I new there
 was a tenderfoot ahead of me, because an old plainsman or hunter
 would never have carried anything but a good quirt or a pair of spurs.
 So I said to my warriors, 'Come on, boys; we've got him!' and when
 we came in sight, after we had followed him closely on the dead run,
 he threw away his rifle and held tightly on to his hat for fear
 he should lose it!"
 
 Another time when Satanta had remained at Fort Dodge for a very long
 period and had worn out his welcome, so that no one would give him
 anything to drink, he went to the quarters of his old friend,
 Bill Bennett, the overland stage agent, and begged him to give him
 some liquor.  Bill was mixing a bottle of medicine to drench a
 sick mule.  The moment he set the bottle down to do something else,
 Satanta seized it off the ground and drank most of the liquid before
 quitting.  Of course, it made the old savage dreadfully sick as well
 as angry.  He then started for a certain officer's quarters and again
 begged for something to cure him of the effects of the former dose;
 the officer refused, but Satanta persisted in his importunities;
 he would not leave without it.  After a while, the officer went to
 a closet and took a swallow of the most nauseating medicine, placing
 the bottle back on its shelf.  Satanta watched his chance, and,
 as soon as the officer left the room, he snatched the bottle out of
 the closet and drank its contents without stopping to breathe.
 It was, of course, a worse dose than the horse-medicine.  The next
 day, very early in the morning, he assembled a number of his warriors,
 crossed the Arkansas, and went south to his village.  Before leaving,
 however, he burnt all of the government contractor's hay on the bank
 of the river opposite the post.  He then continued on to Crooked Creek,
 where he murdered three wood-choppers, all of which, he said afterward,
 he did in revenge for the attempt to poison him at Fort Dodge.
 
 At the Comanche agency, where several of the government agents were
 assembled to have a talk with chiefs of the various plains tribes,
 Satanta said in his address: "I would willingly take hold of that part
 of the white man's road which is represented by the breech-loading
 rifles; but I don't like the corn rations--they make my teeth hurt!"
 
 Big Tree was another Kiowa chief.  He was the ally and close friend
 of Satanta, and one of the most daring and active of his warriors.
 The sagacity and bravery of these two savages would have been a credit
 to that of the most famous warriors of the old French and Indian Wars.
 Both were at last taken, tried, and sent to the Texas penitentiary
 for life.  Satanta was eventually pardoned; but before he was made
 aware of the efforts that were being taken for his release,
 he attempted to escape, and, in jumping from a window, fell and broke
 his neck.  His pardon arrived the next morning.  Big Tree, through
 the work of the sentimentalists of Washington, was set free and sent
 to the Kiowa Reservation--near Fort Sill in the Indian Territory.
 
 The next most audacious and terrible scourge of the plains was
 "Ta-ne-on-koe" (Kicking Bird).  He was a great warrior of the Kiowas,
 and was the chief actor in some of the bloodiest raids on the Kansas
 frontier in the history of its troublous times.
 
 One of his captures was that of a Miss Morgan and Mrs. White.
 They were finally rescued from the savages by General Custer, under
 the following circumstances: Custer, who was advancing with his
 column of invincible cavalrymen--the famous Seventh United States--
 in search of the two unfortunate women, had arrived near the head
 waters of one of the tributaries of the Washita, and, with only
 his guide and interpreter, was far in advance of the column, when,
 on reaching the summit of an isolated bluff, they suddenly saw a
 village of the Kiowas, which turned out to be that of Kicking Bird,
 whose handsome lodge was easily distinguishable from the rest.
 Without waiting for his command, the general and his guide rode
 boldly to the lodge of the great chief, and both dismounted, holding
 cocked revolvers in their hands; Custer presented his at Kicking
 Bird's head.  In the meantime, Custer's column of troopers, whom
 the Kiowas had good reason to remember for their bravery in many
 a hard-fought battle, came in full view of the astonished village.
 This threw the startled savages into the utmost consternation, but
 the warriors were held in check by signs from Kicking Bird.  As the
 cavalry drew nearer, General Custer demanded the immediate release
 of the white women.  Their presence in the village was at first
 denied by the lying chief, and not until he had been led to the limb
 of a huge cottonwood tree near the lodge, with a rope around his neck,
 did he acknowledge that he held the women and consent to give them up.
 
 This well-known warrior, with a foreknowledge not usually found in the
 savage mind, seeing the beginning of the end of Indian sovereignty
 on the plains, voluntarily came in and surrendered himself to the
 authorities, and stayed on the reservation near Fort Sill.
 
 In June, 1867, a year before the breaking out of the great Indian war
 on the central plains, the whole tribe of Kiowas, led by him,
 assembled at Fort Larned.  He was the cynosure of all eyes, as he
 was without question one of the noblest-looking savages ever seen
 on the plains.  On that occasion he wore the full uniform of a
 major-general of the United States army.  He was as correctly moulded
 as a statue when on horseback, and when mounted on his magnificent
 charger the morning he rode out with General Hancock to visit the
 immense Indian camp a few miles above the fort on Pawnee Fork,
 it would have been a difficult task to have determined which was
 the finer-looking man.
 
 After Kicking Bird had abandoned his wicked career, he was regarded
 by every army officer with whom he had a personal acquaintance as
 a remarkably good Indian; for he really made the most strenuous
 efforts to initiate his tribe into the idea that it was best for it
 to follow the white man's road.  He argued with them that the time
 was very near when there would no longer be any region where the
 Indians could live as they had been doing, depending on the buffalo
 and other game for the sustenance of their families; they must adapt
 themselves to the methods of their conquerors.
 
 In July, 1869, he became greatly offended with the government for
 its enforced removal of his tribe from its natural and hereditary
 hunting-grounds into the reservation allotted to it.  At that time
 many of his warriors, together with the Comanches, made a raid on
 the defenceless settlements of the northern border of Texas, in which
 the savages were disastrously defeated, losing a large number of
 their most beloved warriors.  On the return of the unsuccessful
 expedition, a great council was held, consisting of all the chiefs
 and head men of the two tribes which had suffered so terribly in
 the awful fight, to consider the best means of avenging the loss
 of so many braves and friends.  Kicking Bird was summoned before
 that council and condemned as a coward; they called him a squaw,
 because he had refused to go with the warriors of the combined tribes
 on the raid into Texas.
 
 He told a friend of mine some time afterward that he had intended
 never again to go against the whites; but the emergency of the case,
 and his severe condemnation by the council, demanded that he should
 do something to re-establish himself in the good graces of his tribe.
 He then made one of the most destructive raids into Texas that ever
 occurred in the history of its border warfare, which successfully
 restored him to the respect of his warriors.
 
 In that raid Kicking Bird carried off vast herds of horses and a
 large number of scalps.  Although his tribe fairly worshipped him,
 he was not at all satisfied with himself.  He could look into the
 future as well as any one, and from that time on to his tragic death
 he laboured most zealously and earnestly in connection with the
 Indian agents to bring his people to live on the reservation which
 the government had established for them in the Territory.
 
 At the inauguration of the so-called "Quaker Policy" by President
 Grant, that sect was largely intrusted with the management of Indian
 affairs, particularly in the selection of agents for the various
 tribes.  A Mr. Tatham was appointed agent for the Kiowas in 1869.
 He at once gained the confidence of Kicking Bird, who became very
 valuable to him as an assistant in controlling the savages.  It was
 through that chief's influence that Thomas Batty, another Quaker,
 was allowed to take up his residence with the tribe, the first white
 man ever accorded that privilege.  Batty was permitted to erect
 three tents, which were staked together, converting them into an
 ample schoolhouse.  In that crude, temporary structure he taught
 the Kiowa youth the rudiments of an education.  This very successful
 innovation shows how earnest the former dreaded savage was in his
 efforts to promote the welfare of his people, by trying to induce
 them to "take the white man's road."
 
 Batty succeeded admirably for a year in his office of teacher,
 the chief all the time nobly withstanding the taunts and jeers of
 his warriors and their threats of taking his life, for daring to
 allow a white man within the sacred precincts of their village--
 a thing unparalleled in the annals of the tribe.
 
 At last trouble came; the dissatisfied members of the tribe, the
 ambitious and restless young men, eager for renown, made another
 unsuccessful raid into Texas.  The result was that they lost nearly
 the whole of the band, among which was the favourite son of Lone Wolf,
 a noted chief.[34]  After the death of his son, he declared that he
 must and would have the scalp of a white man in revenge for the
 untimely taking off of the young warrior.  Of course, the most
 available white man at this juncture was Batty, the Quaker teacher,
 and he was chosen by Lone Wolf as the victim of savage revenge.
 Here the noble instincts of Kicking Bird developed themselves.
 He very plainly told Lone Wolf, who was constantly threatening and
 thirsting for blood, that he could not kill Batty until he first
 killed him and all his band.  But Lone Wolf had fully determined
 to have the hair of the innocent Quaker; so Kicking Bird, to avert
 any collision between the two bands of Indians, kidnapped Batty
 and ran him off to the agency, arriving at Fort Sill about an hour
 before Lone Wolf's band of avengers overtook them, and thus the
 Quaker teacher was saved.
 
 One day, long after these occurrences, a friend of mine was in the
 sutler's store at Fort Sill.  In there was a stranger talking to
 Mr. Fox, the agent of the Indians.  Soon Kicking Bird entered the
 establishment, and the stranger asked Mr. Fox who that fine-looking
 Indian was.  He was told, and then he begged the agent to say to him
 that he would like to have a talk with him; for he it was who led
 that famous raid into Texas.  "I never saw better generalship in the
 field in all my experience.  He had three horses killed under him.
 I was the surgeon of the rangers and was, of course, in the fight."[35]
 
 When Kicking Bird was told that the Texas doctor desired to talk with
 him, he replied with great dignity that he did not want to revive
 those troublous times.  "Tell him, though," said Kicking Bird, "that
 was my last raid against the whites; that I am a changed man."
 
 The President of the United States sent for Kicking Bird to come to
 Washington, and to bring with him such other influential Indians as
 he thought might aid in inducing the Kiowas to cease their continual
 raiding on the border of Texas.
 
 In due time Kicking Bird left for the capital, taking with him
 Lone Wolf, Big Bow, and Sun Boy of the Kiowas, together with several
 of the head men of the Comanches.  When the deputation of savages
 arrived in Washington, it was received at the presidential mansion
 by the chief magistrate himself.  So much more attention was given
 to Kicking Bird than to the others, that they became very jealous,
 particularly when the President announced to them the appointment
 of Kicking Bird as the head chief of the tribe.[36]  But Lone Wolf
 would never recognize his authority, constantly urging the young men
 to raid the settlements.  Lone Wolf was a genuine savage, without one
 redeeming trait, and his hatred of the white race was unparalleled
 in its intensity.  He was never known to smile.  No other Indian can
 show such a record of horrible massacres as he is responsible for.
 His orders were rigidly obeyed, for he brooked no disobedience on
 the part of his warriors.
 
 In the summer of 1876, a party of English gentlemen left Fort Harker
 for a buffalo hunt.  They soon exhausted all their rations and started
 a four-mule team back to the post for more.  Some of Lone Wolf's band
 of cut-throats came across the unfortunate teamster, killed him,
 and ran off the team.  After the occurrence, Kicking Bird came into
 the agency at Fort Sill and told Mr. Haworth, the agent, that he had
 given his word to the Great Father at Washington he would do all he
 could to bring in those Indians who had been raiding by order of
 Lone Wolf, particularly the two who had killed the Englishmen's driver.
 
 He succeeded in  bringing in twelve Indians in all, among them the
 murderers of the driver.  They, with Lone Wolf and Satank, were sent
 to the Dry Tortugas for life.  The morning they started on their
 journey Satank talked very feelingly to Kicking Bird, with tears in
 his eyes.  He said that they might look for his bones along the road,
 for he would never go to Florida.  The savages were loaded into
 government wagons.  Satank was inside of one with a soldier on each
 side of him, their legs hanging outside.  Somehow the crafty villain
 managed to slip the handcuffs off his wrists, at the same instant
 seizing the rifle of one of his guards, and then shoved the two men
 out with his feet.  He tried to work the lever of the rifle, but
 could not move it, and one of the soldiers, coming around the wagon
 to where he was still trying to get the gun so as he could use it,
 shot him down, and then threw his body on the Trail.  Thus Satank
 made good his vow that he would never be taken to Florida.  He met
 his death only a mile from the post.
 
 After the departure of the condemned savages, the feeling in the tribe
 against Kicking Bird increased to an alarming extent.  Several times
 the most incensed warriors tried to kill him by shooting at him from
 an ambush.  After he became fully aware that his life was in danger,
 he never left his lodge without his carbine.  He was as brave as a
 lion, fearing none of the members of Lone Wolf's band; but he often
 said it was only a question of a short time when he would be gotten
 rid of; he did not allow the matter, however, to worry him in the
 least, saying that he was conscious he had done his duty by his tribe
 and the Great Father.
 
 In a bend of Cash Creek, about half a mile below the mill, about half
 a dozen of the Kiowas had their lodges, that of their chief being
 among them.  At ten o'clock one Monday in June, 1876, Mr. Haworth,
 the agent, came in haste to the shops, called the master mechanic,
 Mr. Wykes, out, told him to jump into the carriage quickly; that
 Kicking Bird was dead.
 
 When they arrived at the home of the great chief, sure enough he was
 dead, and some of the women were engaged in folding his body in robes.
 Other squaws were cutting themselves in a terrible manner, as is their
 custom when a relative dies, and were also breaking everything
 breakable about the lodge.  Kicking Bird had always been scrupulously
 clean and neat in the care of his home; it was adorned with the most
 beautifully dressed buffalo robes and the finest furs, while the floor
 was covered with matting.
 
 It seems that Kicking Bird, after visiting Mr. Wykes that morning,
 went immediately to his lodge, and sat down to eat something, but
 just as he had finished a cup of coffee, he fell over, dead.  He had
 in his service a Mexican woman, and she had been bribed to poison him.
 
 An expensive coffin was made at the agency for his remains, fashioned
 out of the finest black walnut to be found in the country where that
 timber grows to such a luxuriant extent.  It was eight feet long
 and four feet deep, but even then it did not hold one-half of his
 effects, which were, according to the savage custom, interred with
 his body.
 
 The cries and lamentations of the warriors and women of his band
 were heartrending; such a manifestation of grief was never before
 witnessed at the agency.  A handsome fence was erected around his
 grave, in the cemetery at Fort Sill, and the government ordered
 a beautiful marble monument to be raised over it; but I do not know
 whether it was ever done.
 
 Kicking Bird was only forty years old at the time of his sudden
 taking off, and was very wealthy for an Indian.  He knew the uses
 of money and was a careful saver of it.  A great roll of greenbacks
 was placed in his coffin, and that fact having leaked out, it was
 rumoured that his grave was robbed; but the story may not have been
 true.
 
 One of the greatest terrors of the Old Santa Fe Trail was the
 half-breed Indian desperado Charles Bent.  His mother was a Cheyenne
 squaw, and his father the famous trader, Colonel Bent.  He was born
 at the base of the Rocky Mountains, and at a very early age placed
 in one of the best schools that St. Louis afforded.  His venerable
 sire, with only a limited education himself, was determined that
 his boy should profit by the culture and refinement of civilization,
 so he was not allowed to return to his mountain home at Bent's Fort,
 and the savage conditions under which he was born, until he had
 attained his majority.  He then spoke no language but English.
 His mother died while he was absent at school, and his father
 continued to live at the old fort, where Charles, after he had
 reached the age of twenty-one, joined him.
 
 Some Washington sentimentalist, philosophizing on the Indian character,
 his knowledge being based on Cooper's novels probably, has said:
 "Civilization has very marked effects upon an Indian.  If he once
 learns to speak English, he will soon forget all his native cunning
 and pride of race."  Let us see how this theory worked with Charley Bent.
 
 As soon as the educated half-breed set his foot on his native heath
 he readily found enough ambitious young bucks of his own age who
 were willing to look on him as their leader.  They loved him, too,
 if such a thing were possible, as Fra Diavolo was loved by his wild
 followers.  His band was known as the "Dog-Soldiers"; a sort of a
 semi-military organization, consisting of the most daring,
 blood-thirsty young men of the tribe; and sometimes "squaw-men,"
 that is, renegade white men married to squaws, attached themselves
 to his command of cut-throats.
 
 At the head of this collection of the worst savages, hardly ever
 numbering over a hundred, Charles Bent robbed ranches, attacked
 wagon-trains, overland coaches, and army caravans.  He stole and
 murdered indiscriminately.  The history of his bloody work will
 never be wholly revealed, for dead men have no tongues.
 
 He would visit all alone, in the guise of plainsman, hunter, or
 cattleman, the emigrant trains crossing the continent, always,
 however, those which had only small escorts or none at all.  Feigning
 hunger, while his needs were being kindly furnished, he would glance
 around him to learn what kind of an outfit it was; its value, its
 destination, and how well guarded.  Then he would take his leave with
 many thanks, rejoin his band, and with it dash down on the train and
 kill every human being unfortunate enough not to have escaped before
 he arrived.
 
 He was indefatigable in his efforts to kill off the whole corps of
 army scouts.  He would pass himself off as a fellow-scout, as a
 deserter from some military post, or as an Indian trader, for he was
 a wonderful actor, and would have achieved histrionic honours had
 he chosen the stage as a profession.
 
 He would always time his actions so as to be found apparently asleep
 by a little camp-fire on the bank of Pawnee Fork, Crooked, Mulberry,
 or Walnut creeks, all of which streams intercepted the trails running
 north and south between the several military posts during the Indian
 war, when he would seem delighted and astonished, or else simulate
 suspicion.  Then he would either murder the unsuspecting scout with
 his own hands, or deliver him to the red fiends of his band to be
 tormented.
 
 The government offered a reward of five thousand dollars for Bent's
 capture, dead or alive.  It was reported currently that he was at last
 killed in a battle with some deputy United States marshals, and that
 they received the reward; but the whole thing was manufactured out of
 whole cloth, and if the marshals received the money, Uncle Sam was
 most outrageously swindled.
 
 The facts are that he died of malarial fever superinduced by a wound
 received in a fight with the Kaws, near the mouth of the Walnut and
 not far from Fort Zarah.  His "Dog-Soldiers" were whipped by the Kaws,
 and his band driven off.  Bent lingered for some time and died.