CHAPTER IX.

UTE, BIG WARRIOR--NO PLOW.

The diuturnal petticoat of snow which clothed the mountain was getting shorter and shorter as the diurnal sun crept farther and farther north on his summer ascension. The beavers were busy, tooth and tail, building new dams and repairing old ones. The Ute ponies were getting fat on new buffalo and bunch grass, and the tender-eyed does were seeking higher altitudes when Jack again reached the old trail leading to the Indian village on Rock Creek.

Chiquita spied the lone horseman long before he was aware of his proximity to the old camping ground.

"Chiquita heap glad to see Jack." She made her welcome, palms to the front, raised high in the air.

"How! How!" replied Jack and he looked askance at Chiquita in wonderment that she should be so far from the village. "Jack no sabe," he continued, and looked from one point of the compass to another for a familiar landmark.

"Chiquita know, see Jack, old trail behind big peak, new trail this way, when Jack go where sun rise, ground covered with heap big snow--no see this trail."

"Me sabe. Where Yamanatz, Colorow, Antelope?"

Chiquita smiled at the first, became grave at the second and a flash shot from her eyes at the word Antelope, then her face saddened as she looked into Jack's very soul. "Yamanatz well, Colorow gone to Agency, Antelope ready for big pony race--Susan want Antelope, Antelope no like Susan, like--mebbe so Jack knows," she said with an arch look. "Antelope get up big race when white man come from Hot Sulphur Springs with heap fast pony to race Ute ponies--mebbe so Ute win ponies--white man walk back, Antelope heap smart. Plan big race, big dance and big games among the braves. Susan she put Antelope up to it, beat all Indians and white men, win Susan for his wife, carry her off to his tepee where she sing songs in twilight. But Antelope tell Chiquita he no race--just make believe. Antelope wait for Chiquita, but"--and she stopped abruptly with the frightened look of a startled deer as she gazed again into Jack's face.

"When race?" he asked.

"Three moons."

"About August," said Jack to himself. Then aloud, as a bright thought came to him, "Does Chiquita sabe name of white man's ponies?"

"Me sabe one," she replied.

"Jack sabe one heap fast pony in Middle Park. 'Brown Dick,'--run like the forked lightning out of the clouds."

Chiquita looked surprised and interrogatively answered, "Mebbe so 'Brown Dick' beat 'em Ute ponies, white man ride back?"

At which Jack laughed heartily. Chiquita continued: "That is the pony Antelope think no run much, heap fast, but Ute beat him. Antelope bet money, beads, buckskin, two ponies and other Utes bet heap lot."

"Has Yamanatz bet anything yet?" asked Jack.

"Yamanatz don't know--wait Jack come--Jack tell Yamanatz what to do."

Jack knew the horse well and all the people interested in the races and decided to stay and see the sport. Even had Yamanatz desired to go to the big mine, they would go later. On reference to his calendar he found a total eclipse of the sun would take place in August and he desired to see the Indians under this phenomenon as well as in their sports, and witness the struggles for the hand of Susan.

Upon arrival at the Indian village Yamanatz greeted Jack in the customary fashion. It was not long before they arranged to wait for the August festivities, then start for the desert mine from the Agency, to which point the Rock Creek village moved a short time after Jack's arrival.

During the three months Jack spent his time prospecting, hunting, and studying Indian character. Chiquita made rapid strides in her studies under his tutorship and by the time set for the races she could converse very well in English and read ordinary words. Jack watched the ponies and the athletic braves as preparation was made for the great event.

For days the frontiersmen along the reservation border had been wending their way to the Agency. Gamblers and confidence men from the nearest mining camps ran over to gather in a few dollars which would be "easy money." The Government's long delayed annuities and rations were to be distributed the week before the contest, so every Indian had money to bet or to buy plunder with. Groups of Indians, squatting on their haunches or kneeling beside a big blanket spread upon the ground as a table, gambled or traded their wares in common with the visitors.

On a big Navajo blanket sat Chiquita, making beaded moccasins, while near by on another blanket rested Susan, engaged in beading a buckskin shirt. Off at the side with bridle reins dragging, four ponies fed on the stubby grass as their owners, two Indians and two cowmen, played Spanish monte. The cowmen wore heavily fringed buckskin shirts and broad-brimmed hats, each hat having a leather band and leather string which passed back of the ears and under the back of the head to keep the hat from blowing off. Their feet were clad in high-topped boots, from which clanked the cruel Mexican spurs with tinkling bells. Each--and, in fact, every man on the reservation, had six-shooters--some four, and nearly all carried some make of rifle, not that they feared any evil, but it was second nature to be prepared for game of any kind. Another mark of civilization was the red bandanna handkerchief tied loosely around nearly every man's throat.

Oaths of the most curdling nature bellowed their way incessantly into the ears of the onlooker. A brightly painted Indian with eagle feathered bonnet and a string of grizzly claws around his neck, won a mule skinner's money. The latter turned loose a wild yell and a string of hair-raising adjectives, accompanied by the pistol-like crack of his fifteen-foot whip, and stalked off to his mules, swearing "agin the Gov'n'ment, the redskin and hisself"--chiefly in the end "agin hisself." Jack hailed him.

"Pard, I've seen you before."

"Mebbe so, stranger; I've lived in these hills many snows," answered the freighter.

"Didn't you lose some blankets about a year ago in the Wet Mountain valley, near Buena Vista?" asked Jack without mincing matters.

"That's what I did, but I got 'em back and--well"--and he stopped as Jack commenced to smile. "What pleases you, stranger?"

"I was picturing in my mind what that fellow's wife, if he had one, and she could have seen him, would have said after you fellows got through heaving him into that dirty pond instead of hanging him."

The man of mules and wagons broke into a long guffaw that echoed back from the woods, and circled his long whip about his head, allowing the big broad cracker to settle lightly the length of the lash from him as daintily as an expert caster lets his flies settle into a riffle where the big trout hide, then with a fierce backward motion and overhand shoot to the front the long sinuous black snake straightened out with a vicious snap that made Jack wince, for it told the rest of the tale of what happened to the blanket thief before "court" adjourned. Then the freighter finished his remark.

"Well, that onery cuss that stole my blanket has got my mark on his hide, made like that."

"Yes, I think he must have about fifteen of them the way the whips cracked as he ran the gauntlet between about thirty of you. Did he live?"

"Oh, yes. That is he was alive when we left him on the prairie, headed for the Missouri River."

"I was on my way to Leadville. Buena Vista was the end of the railroad and in looking after some freight at the depot I saw the preliminaries of opening 'court' and execution of 'judgment' against the prisoner," explained Jack. To which the grizzled teamster replied:

"It looks cruel to one not familiar with frontier life. It seems a crime, the justice which overtakes horse thieves and camp prowlers, while those who commit greater crimes go free. But there are no two things so essential to life on the border as blankets and horses. We have to sleep and travel. Hotels don't pop up for the asking, with warm beds on a winter's night, nor do horses grow out of a pine bough when a man is miles away from any habitation. If men be too onery and sassy and get to be too handy in their gun play with each other we make no fuss if both 'go over the range with their boots on'--a-killing of them fellers does not necessitate an honest man's freezing to death. We never hang a man, nor shoot him, if he steals our grub or watch, or even gets our gun, but blankets and horses are sacred property. But what be you doin' in here?"

"Came over to see the Ute races and study Indians," replied Jack.

"So did I, but to make it more binding I brought in a train of government plunder for the Agency, some plows and mowin' machines and school house desks. Say, but I'd like to see some of these redskins trying to cut a furrer down that sage brush flat or sittin' at one of them desks doin' sums in 'rithmetic. More'n likely they'll be makin' pictures of Parson Meeker crossing the divide on a sulky plow under escort of Uncle Sam's cavalry," at which the freighter turned his gigantic laugh loose again.

Just then two men in "store clothes" picked their way around the various groups of horses and Indians, stopping a short distance from Jack and the freighter, whose sobriquet was "Cal." As the new comers faced square about Cal eyed them a moment and then said to Jack:

"You see that red-faced, black mustached feller standin' there? Well, that's Sam Tupper, the graveyard starter of the Animas and Wet Mountain valleys. I seen him make the first corpse in Silver Cliff. Wonder what he's doin' up here. Sure as gun's made of iron he's up here for mischief. It was October and the first blizzard of the season caught us all with short wood and no pitch hot. Every prospector around the cliff made for 'Nigger Barber's' place--afterward it got a regular name, the 'slaughter house,' kase 'Nigger,'--he was half Indian, half Mexican and balance coyote--had two great big stoves to keep us warm. Four fellers rode into the Cliff about 10 o'clock, cold and hungry, and expected to find a tavern started, but they were a little early, for the camp was right young, so they got permission to use some feller's tent near by--one of the four was Charley Rogers"--

"Owner of 'Brown Dick,'" interrupted Jack, in surprise.

"Yes; and Frank Mitchell, Les McAvoy and Paddy Dinslow. Les was a bad man, no mistake. His daddy was a judge in one of the northern counties and when Les was a kid the old man would take the youngster to some of the faro banks, hold him on his knee and seem to think it cute if the little gambler picked up a 'sleeper' and sold it to the barkeep for lumps of sugar or a bottle of pop. Well, Les got pretty tough. Worked some, but liked his 'licker' and was allus waitin' to pick a fuss. He was nervy and could fight with fists, stove pokers, 'toad stabbers' or six-shooters, it was all the same to him. Sam and 'Nigger' both knew him of old in Trinidad and Silverton. The first night after the boys got into the Cliff they dropped into 'Nigger's' and got into a game of faro. Les piled his stack of reds above the limit and Sam there, who was lookout, told Les to take 'em down. Les lost on the turn, but before the dealer could rake in the chips Les snatched the extra ones off the top of the pile. If he won, the dealer only paid the limit, and then Les would talk bad. All of 'em were scared of Les and no one wanted to make a beginning, so they humored him, but the next night they laid for him. I met Frank and Charley durin' the day and they said Les had been run out of Silverton, and he remarked as he came into the Cliff, 'Boys, mebbe it's my time to die with my boots on in this very camp, but I'm game.'

"It was almost 8 o'clock and 'Nigger's' was jammed. There was a big crowd at the table near the end of the bar. I sat at a table parallel to it, the big red hot stove making the apex of a triangle about the same distance as the tables were apart. The deal which old Colonel Crumpy was making came to an end. I was winner and thumbing my chips, when bang went a gun at the other table. Say, but did you ever see two hundred and fifty crazy, desperate men push and crowd out of gun play range? Well, there was lots of tenderfeet in that gang. They jumped onto the 'mustang' table and then to the hazard table and into the crowd, pell-mell, out of windows. One feller was so scar't he never stopped to open it, but went kersmash through glass and all. Durin' this I backed away keerful like to the wall between two windows. I knew if any of 'em started to run it would be in the middle of the room and I didn't feel like risking my back to that crowd. My gun hung handy in case of a free get-away, or die a doin' it. As I felt the cold green boards rub my spine I seen the rest of the show. It don't take a man a lifetime to move when guns are speakin'.

"It seems a kid, with sickly taller-like face and pinched cheeks, a young feller from the States lookin' for a gold mine, who got broke and nothing to do but clean spit-kits in 'Nigger's' and tend bar, had been exercised a little with the cards, dealing faro, and they put him on watch with a big Colt's old-fashioned navy on his lap, all cocked and ready for business, with instructions that if Les did any more funny work to plug him. Les had bet his stack as high as he could pile 'em and lost, grabbed the extra chips, and to the dealer's 'You--put them chips back,' Les slid up the back of his chair. He was keepin' cases and had his back to me, reachin' fer his gun. He had on a pair of blue overalls, and the hammer of that six-shooter got caught in the corner of his pocket. I seen him tuggin' to get it out, and the dealer, whose name was Bert Lillis, had lifted the big cannon, the muzzle half way across the table, and with both hands pulled the trigger, got scared, dropped the gun and was trying to skin under the table. He turned his head sideways to keep from scratching his nose, and just then Les got into action. He leaned on his left hand over the middle of the faro layout, put the muzzle of his gun against the eye of the dealer as he was sliding down and fired. As Les was doin' this Sam Tupper was busy, but Les had his eye on the lookout, who dared not move his hand for fear Les would git him first. As quick as Les made his play at the dealer, Sam reached for a drawer about six inches from his hand and grabbed a pearl-handled, silver-plated gun. As Les turned with uplifted arm, cocking his weapon, Sam stepped to the edge of the drygoods box on which the lookout's chair was placed, his weapon pointing straight at Les's heart. Before Les could fire there was a flash--a report. The smoke from the pearl-handled gun wreathed around Les's head as he turned convulsively, frantically trying to get the muzzle of his pistol on a line with Sam, who stood with the least perceptible smile waiting for the eye of his opponent to catch his own, but as Les's body slowly swayed and pivoted the gambler knew that in a moment more all would be over. The fingers which tightly gripped the murderous firearm now slackened, gripped again, then the pistol dropped to the floor; a body straightened up its full height, the head thrown back in defiance and with eyes rolling upward, Les McAvoy fell prone to the floor backwards. As he fell that man standing there stepped off the box with the pearl-handled gun cocked for a second shot, and hissed between those white teeth of his, 'You got it that time.' The jury heard no evidence of any shots but Lillis' and the one Les fired--no bullet was found from a Colt's navy, round ball. A conical ball rested just beneath the skin in the small of the back. The jury said, 'Justifiable homicide at the hands of Bert Lillis,' and I heard that Lillis died the next day."

"And that is the man who did the deed?" asked Jack, as he gazed at a real bad man; "one of those who make the history of every country black with their infamous deeds, which they plan and then inveigle innocent people to execute."

"Yes," said Cal, "and these redskins are not much to blame for goin' on the warpath the way they are bamboozled about. The trouble is, them cusses in Washington, who never see an Injun and who don't know what a real live one is, pass laws and send commissioners and army officers and agents out here to investigate. Some are preachers, some cunning lawyers and some statesmen--they call 'em so. The investigation drags along while the poor devils go hungry. Rations are held back, blankets rot for want of transportation, and somebody back in the woodpile is getting rich all the time. Then the Injun takes it out of a party of prospectors or some poor rancher, or like as not holds up a train of mules and the mule-skinners 'bite the dust' after defending their own property. But I suppose in the end it is all for the benefit of what they call civilization. Let's go and see them ponies over there."

"Look," said Jack; "must have been a bunch of folks come in last night," pointing to a regular settlement of new tents and camping outfits.

"Well, durn my pictures," ejaculated Cal. "Throw a rope on that blaze-faced, lop-eared son of Israel with a pack on his back and let's see his brand. Guess you find them everywhere except in Jerusalem. Hello, Isaac; where's Abraham?"

"Who'd you mean, my brodder or my fadder? My name is Cohen, and I gome to make a locashun for a cloding store. Dis will be a fine blace for a town, und Cohen will be der bioneer merchant, ain't it?"

"Git out, you hook-nosed Jew; this is Injun reservation, and yer 'Uncle Sam' don't allow no storekeepers here, except his own pets!"

"What iss dot? I got no Ungel Sam; I got un Ungel Moses und Ungel Solomon, but no Ungel Sam. Ain'd dis a new town? Don' the shentlemans wand a negdie or hangerchief? I haf a"--but Jack and Cal had turned a deaf ear to the would-be "bioneer."

As Jack stepped around the trunk of a big pine the noose of a lariat circled around and settled over his head and arms; a short jerk and he was brought up standing. Cal looked on wonderingly, for at the other end of the rope sat a buckskin-clad cow-puncher mounted on a thoroughbred cow-pony.

"Now will you be good?" The bronzed face of "Happy Jack" broke into wreaths of smiles and happy laughter.

"Hello, Jack!"

"Hello yourself."

"Shake, old man--put her thar, Jack. Glad ter see yer. Never thought to see yer over here among the Utes."

"When did you leave Roaring Forks?"

"About a week ago; been looking for some horses that are missing."

"Jack, shake hands with Cal Wagner. No, not the minstrel man, but his equal just the same."

"Cal, this is 'Happy Jack' of the Bar E Ranch over in the Grand River country."

Both men, thus introduced, shook hands, and after a few exchanges of the day "Happy Jack" coiled up his lariat and, lifting his bridle reins, said, "I must look around this camp a while afore the races. May find some signs, but I'll see yer both again--adios."

The spurs jingled and his pony loped off toward the valley. Cal looked at the disappearing cow-puncher and turned to Jack, who said:

"He's as good one as ever straddled a broncho. He sure is a character and his name is well earned. One of the happiest men I ever met. I'll tell you about him as we take a smoke and watch the Indians. Down on Roaring Forks of the Grand River a young fellow from the east by the name of Eads took up a ranch. He was staked by some rich relative, and after buying a bunch of steers and some American-bred horses, drove them over the Tennessee pass to the Bar E ranch, five miles above the big Hot Springs[A] where the Forks empties into the Grand. He hired 'Happy Jack' as boss of the outfit, and with two or three other cow-punchers he started in and built a log house, and when I was there seemed to be doing well. I was on a hunting trip from Middle Park and heard about the Bar E ranch and the Springs, so our party made the place our camping ground for a week. The grass was fine and all the stock rolling fat. His horses were in two bands--one 'used' on one side of the Forks and the other band grazed on the opposite side. They rounded up the horses once a week at least, and the range riders never let the stock get away very far.

"One evening just after grub one of the boys came down to the cabin from the corral and said, 'Old Martha has pulled her picket pin and vamoosed.' 'Martha' was stake mare. Jack said, 'I guess not,' and bolted up the bank to the open bench which run for half a mile back to the cedars and pinons, where the branding pens and corrals were. He walked out to where he had picketed the mare and pulled up the pin with about ten feet of rope left where it had been cut. It was just before sundown, and a bunch of horses which had been run into the corral when the stake horse was changed had not gotten far away. Jack yelled 'Thief!' and for the boys to hustle and see if some of the bunch could be gotten back into the corral--a feat, you know, next to impossible when no one is mounted. As luck would have it, four went in when the rest broke, but we managed to get the bars up before they turned. It was but a few seconds' work to rope a 'saddle-wise' one and cinch him up. Jack had taken off his belt and it lay on the ground with his six-shooters back at the cabin. He pointed at mine and said, 'Give me that gun.' Throwing himself into the saddle, he was off like a streak of lightning. The mare's hoofprints were plainly visible in the trail leading toward the Grand River. About 9:30 o'clock we heard a yell and went up to the corral. Jack had the mare. Not a word was uttered, except 'She was in the middle of the ford just above where the Forks go into the Grand.' Both horses were covered with ridges of dry sweat and looked jaded, as though every inch of ten miles had been run in a death-race struggle. On the off side of 'Martha' a dirty red streak mingled with the sweat. As we went slowly back to the cabin, after picketing both horses, Jack handed me my belt and gun--a Colt's .41 double action. Two empty cartridge shells told the story of a tragedy. A week later one of our party found the body of a man on the bank of the Grand five miles below the Forks with two bullet holes in his back.

"Jack had one habit that city boys think belong to themselves"--

"Midnight lunches?" asked Cal.

"Yes; but Jack generally had his hungry spell about 2 a. m. Every night that our party was at the Bar E ranch Jack would wake us up and every one had to 'break bread' with him--only it was flapjacks instead of bread. Jack would do all the work, and he was an artist with the frying pan. He would turn those big cakes by tossing them out of the pan in the air, you know, and catch them after the flop. After our lunch a smoke, and while we smoked a few deals of Spanish monte and a story or two, then back to bunks. Yes, 'Happy Jack' is a character."

As Jack finished his story of "Happy Jack" a shout announced the beginning of the trials of strength, endurance and courage, which would probably proclaim the victor for the hand of Susan. Standing erect with arms folded over his breast, Red Plume watched with seeming indifference the trials. Susan, seated upon her blanket, appeared even more so; in fact when it became apparent that Antelope was not to be one of the contestants she shook her head and disconsolately continued her beadwork.

The braves vied with each other in feats of running, wrestling, jumping, swinging from one tree to another, riding in all manner of positions on bareback, bridleless ponies; throwing knives at each other's heads, arms and necks in endeavors to pinion the victim to a tree without doing him any bodily harm; torturing themselves with cruel whips; gashing and lacerating the flesh; being suspended from a pole or bar by means of thongs thrust under the muscles of the shoulders, and other blood-curdling deeds original with the savage.

Old chiefs watched the young bucks, and as the games proceeded these old ones shook their heads or nodded in assent as success or failure rewarded the contestants.

All were in gala dress. War bonnets of elaborate manufacture bedecked some, while single feathers adorned others. Small hoops fastened to long sticks were held aloft displaying portions of a human scalp, the hair floating naturally from one side while the other side of the scalp was painted a bright red. Every Indian lovingly carried his pipe, the red slender bowl made from pipestone mined from quarries hundreds of miles away and guarded carefully from reckless souvenir and market hunters.

As a successful contestant received his reward and led his bride away, the onlookers rent the air with piercing yells; rattle-boxes split the ear with their characteristic din, and tom-toms bellowed their dull intonations with a certain amount of regularity which produced that same agonizing monotony of sound found in a healthy foghorn.

In a group not far from the racing strip was Yamanatz, and thither Jack and Cal bent their way. Charley Rogers and his companions were making bets with anyone who would risk ammunition, money, clothes, ponies, blankets, guns, pistols or knives; and even war bonnets were staked. Yamanatz was about the only Ute who did not bet against "Brown Dick." Few of the white gamblers, who had come to fleece the Indians with their special style of confidence games, cared to risk their coin against Indian ponies or wampum. They wanted cash, and as the Indians had plenty to do to meet all the demands of Jack and his friends and Charley Rogers and his following, the gamblers saw little prospect of a coup.

The level, well-beaten, straight-away course stretched along between rows of tents, tepees and lodges out into the plain beyond. Indian races are not upon oval tracks and are not confined entirely to one dash over the course, but include a certain distance and back over the same ground, the finish being at the starting point. Other races are run where the contestant must lean from the pony's back and pick up a quirt or hat as the animal dashes past.

But the time for the great race on which the bets are made has arrived, and the restless, anxious animals have to be guided to the starting place by their riders and arranged in line with heads opposite the direction in which the race is to be run. Bare-skinned warriors on bridleless, saddleless ponies, a small, finely-braided lariat attached to the horse's jaw, sit like graven images upon their favorite steeds. "Brown Dick," whose rider is his owner, steps along jauntily, champing in eager fashion the silver-ringed bit supported by a silver ornamented Mexican braided-leather bridle, the loose reins held almost listlessly by the man in blue shirt and buckskin trousers seated on an English racing saddle. A little moisture around the roots of the delicately pointed ears shows that "Brown Dick" has been exercised. The muscles of the forelegs play beneath the skin as step by step he approaches the line; the veins in his arched neck stand out like small ropes, and the dilated nostrils reveal the pink membranes as each deep breath is inhaled. Charley has maneuvered for position, timing his arrival to such a nicety that the last slow step of his well-trained racer falls exactly as the pistol belches forth the signal to start. Simultaneously he utters a shrill "Go" and presses his knees violently into his horse's sides, leaning far out in the saddle and throwing his weight against the reins on the faithful horse's neck, who rears aloft, pivots in beautiful fashion and leaps in one bound clear of the line of frantic ponies, and amid the warwhoops of Indians, the yells of the frenzied and the fear of defeat piercing his ears he dashes on to victory. The struggle is not long, and the spoils won from the vanquished nearly bankrupt the entire tribe until the next annuities replace their losses.

There are no imprecations nor villainous mutterings. An Indian is a good loser and bears defeat in a philosophical, stoical manner. Immediately after the exciting races come the feasts given to the successful competitors, and the following day finds the erstwhile holiday-arrayed village desolate and uninteresting.

Yamanatz, Jack and Chiquita began preparations for the trip to "Blazing-Eye-by-the-Big-Water," and soon followed the crowd of visitors making their way to the nearest railroad.

The last one to bid Chiquita "adios" was Antelope. He had little to say, but averred he would continually seek the aid of all the Ute gods, big and little, to bring the heart of Chiquita to Antelope's tepee.

"Antelope will wait many, many snows and take no other maiden," were his parting words.

The restraining influence which Chiquita and Yamanatz exerted vanished very soon with their departure from the reservation. Susan at once commenced to be vindictive, as jealousy and revenge gnawed at her heart. Chagrined and disappointed at the turn of affairs in the competition by the young bucks for their brides, she coquetted with Johnson, well knowing that in him she would find an acquiescent if not an aggressive leader. Furthermore, he was the brother-in-law of Ouray and considered one of the greatest of Douglas' band of great warriors and fighters. She soon became, in fact, Johnson's squaw, and no one in all the Ute tribe was more regal in dress nor feared more as an enemy than Susan. Her silver girdles, beaded buckskins, elk-tooth necklaces and other feminine accessories were the envy of squaws, whose chiefs were also envious of Johnson--aye, even of any one of Douglas's band of braves.

While the races and general carnival were in progress at the Agency a portion of this renegade band had wandered far out in the plains one hundred miles east of Denver, near Cheyenne Wells, where they quarreled with and murdered Joe McLane, of Chicago, and fled back to the reservation through Middle Park--Colorow, Washington, Shavano and Piah. Washington was wounded and had his arm in a sling when they met the outgoing party, of which Charley Rogers, Jack, Yamanatz and Chiquita were members, then camped on the Frazier River. Colorow offered no explanation of whence they came nor their object, but all four were in a hurry and hastened along through the Park.

Arriving on the Blue, where old man Elliott peaceably conducted a ranch and with whom the Indians had been on good terms for years, they murdered him in cold blood and left immediately for the Agency.

Upon their arrival it did not take long to start the undercurrent of open revolt. Susan enlisted the sympathies of Jane, a vicious squaw, whose husband had a great many ponies. Jane had selected a fine piece of pasture land and under the rights of an Indian "squatted" upon the land in question. It was the best land near the Agency, and Meeker decided to use it for cultivation and to "school" the Utes in the use of the plow. Jane objected, and quarrel after quarrel took place, Douglas even going so far as to assault Agent Meeker in his (Meeker's) own home.

A compromise was seemingly effected by which Jane was to get another piece of land for her pasture and Meeker again set the plow to going, only to have the man in charge of the work shot at by two bucks who were concealed in the sage brush. Meeker had repeatedly asked aid of both state and Federal government. He begged for troops, as the lives of the white people were in peril. As the aged philanthropist listened to the council held in a smoke-smothered lodge, where warrior after warrior gave utterance to his opinion in a language absolutely unintelligible to any but a Ute, and when at last Douglas made his measured, forcible, irresistible appeal to his brother savages to resist the onward march of the white people, he (Meeker) must have known his doom was at hand. Signal fires were constantly seen as night came on, and the murmur of discontent increased with the uncertainty.

Finally word came that troops were on the way. Captain Payne with colored, and Major Thornburg with white troops had been despatched to the Agency. The morning of September 30, 1879, saw the White River plateau under sunny skies--the air was warm and inviting. Twenty or thirty bucks of Douglas's band sauntered forth as though in quest of venison, others of the various bands had been out among the hills on similar errands, and it was not unusual for the majority of the whole Ute nation to be scattered throughout the reservation even beyond the lines for short periods.

Susan, Jane, Antelope and a few others wandered about the Agency buildings laughing, chattering and in the best of spirits. All seemed happy, Susan especially, and Antelope had not been so gay for a long time.

Still there was an ominous phase to their very good humor. It had that practical joke fatality which foreboded evil in every smile and made the heart sick for those who watched the sage-covered mesa and feathery clouds which floated from range to range. But a few miles away toward the Red Canon on Milk Creek the troops were hastening. As the advance line swung up to the narrow gorge a few Indians in warpaint suddenly came into view. The cavalry made an attempt to flank the defile and thus saved the entire command from being literally shot to pieces by Indians surrounding the open death trap into which they would have marched.

Hostilities were begun at once by the Indians. Major Thornburg in his attempt to cut through to the main body was killed, with thirteen others. The rest of the troops reached a place of safety, and with the dead bodies of their comrades, the carcasses of dead horses and mules and the wagons, formed a temporary shelter until breastworks could be thrown up. The command was not relieved until the 5th of October.

Runners carried the news of the ambuscade to the Agency, reaching there at noon of the same day. During the excitement which followed and the shots directed first at the men who were putting a roof on a building, the venerable agent was killed and a barrel stave driven down his throat, log chains placed around his neck, and subsequently the savages in their fury held up the dead man's legs, imitating a man plowing.

The women were taken by Douglas, Johnson and other Utes to the old Rock Creek village and there held as prisoners until the middle of October. Susan was left at the Agency and did not know that her brave warrior had taken unto himself a new squaw under penalty of blowing her brains out, nor that Douglas threatened another with death unless she, too, became his Ute squaw, while the other Indians jeered, scoffed and insulted the wives of the men who lay dead at the Agency. Yet these bucks dared do nothing but taunt the poor, helpless women, as Douglas and Johnson were big chiefs, and the women owed their personal safety to the declaration that they were respectively Douglas's and Johnson's squaws.

Upon the body of Major Thornburg was found a picture of Colorow, this signifying that the death-dealing bullet that killed the officer had been fired by that crafty old savage.

After a tedious examination of both Johnson and Douglas by commissioners, Douglas was confined in the prison at Fort Leavenworth for one year. Colorow never was taken into custody.

When Susan learned that her wily spouse (Johnson) had been unfaithful to her, she started at once for Rock Creek with the intention of murdering the white woman; but she was too late, as the prisoners had been led away and delivered to their friends in a place of safety.

The Utes were afterward moved to the Uintah Reservation[B] in Utah, but many of them visit the old Agency grounds, and at this writing (1902) Antelope again favored the White River people with his presence and his photograph in civilized attire.

[Footnote A: "Hot Springs"--now Glenwood Springs.--EDITOR.]

[Footnote B: For authentic documents on the Meeker massacre see Chicago Tribune, Oct. 2-15, 1879; Denver papers of same date; Bancroft's History of Colorado; U.S. House Documents, 1879-1880 (Indian Commission).]