Part 27

The morning of the day before the boats were to start he occupied himself with some last preparations, giving Nikumi a number of articles that she had used around his quarters to take to her tipi, and telling her he would leave money with Sarpy so that she might get what was necessary for herself and Mary. In the afternoon he went down to the post and did not return to the quarters until late, where he supped at the mess table and then went in the direction of Nikumi's tent. He had devised, he thought, a cunning plan to get Nikumi to go the next morning for some fresh leaves of a shrub which she often procured for him to mix in his tobacco, and of which he was very fond; and after her departure he would make for the boat and embark hastily with little Mary, whom he would keep. Resolving the broaching of his plan as he approached the tipi, he did not notice that it failed to show the usual signs of habitation until he drew near when he observed that the kettle hanging from the tripod over the circle of stones had no fire beneath it, and no steam issuing from it, no dogs were playing about, and there was no sign of Nikumi and little Mary. He began to look about for them; the flap of skin usually fastened up to form a doorway was dropped down; he put it up and stooping, entered the tipi. It was almost entirely empty; the skins which had formed the beds were gone; the dishes seemed to be there, but the food of which he knew she always kept a supply, was all gone, and there were no signs of the articles of clothing belonging to them. Sarpy's words come to him, "I'm damned if I think you are smart enough to get the child away from its mother," and he knew that Nikumi had outwitted him. He should never see mother or child again.

He turned and traced angrily the narrow trail to Sarpy's. Striding in and down the low, dingy, fur odorous room to the rear where Sarpy sat lazily smoking his pipe he exclaimed, "You were right, Sarpy, Nikumi has gone with the child." Sarpy took his pipe from his mouth slowly, "Well I'm sorry you are disappointed, but it will be better for you and the child, too; she would have grieved herself to death, and worried you almost to the verge of lunacy first, and you would have had the burden on your conscience of Nikumi unhappy, and all for no good." "But I'll not give her up. I had set my heart on it; I shall start a search party for her at once." "And much good it will do you. There isn't a soldier in your camp that can find what an Indian chooses to hide, if it is not more than six feet away from him. You will only inform the camp of your design and of the fact that a squaw has outwitted you."

Gale knew too well the truth of his statement, but he paced up and down the building angrily for some time, determining at each turn towards the door to start out at the head of a search party, but turning again with an oath toward the rear as the futility of it all was forced upon him.

Sarpy regarded him quietly, a half smile in his eyes. He understood the conflict of feelings, the pain at leaving Nikumi, not very great, but enough to cause him some discomfort; the now added pain of separation from the child, also; the chagrin at being outwitted by a squaw, and one who had always seemed so submissive, and whom he had not dreamed possessed so much acuteness; the English obstinacy aroused by antagonism, all struggling against his knowledge that he could do nothing. Sarpy in his place would have invoked all the spirits of the darker regions, but he probably would never have put himself in a like predicament. To his class, seekers of fortunes in the New World, the Indian was simply a source of revenue and pleasure, treated fairly well to be sure, because that was the better policy; while it suited their convenience to use them they did so; when the need was supplied they cast them off; possibly Gale, if he analyzed the situation at all, thought the same, but under the present circumstances, a different set of emotions dominated him. Nikumi, superior to her tribe, had inspired inconveniently deep feelings, and he found his fatherly love a factor he had not counted on.

At last he approached Sarpy, and throwing himself in a chair, took out one of the two great soothers of man's woes, his pipe, lighted it and proceeded to mingle its smoke with that of Sarpy's. "I suppose I shall have to give it up, but I'm damned if I can submit to it with equanimity, yet; outwitted by an apparently innocent and submissive squaw, I suppose two months from now I'll be thanking my lucky stars that I'm not saddled with a brat of an Indian, and at intervals thereafter shall be falling upon my knees, and repeating the operation. But I'm blessed if I can see it so now."

"Yes it will be better for you as well as the others, and as soon as you get away from here you will view it very differently," said Sarpy.

And Nikumi in her cave dug into the bluff, held her baby tight in her arms, and listened to every sound, while she watched by aid of the rude but cunningly devised dark lantern, the reptiles and insects which crawled about, moving only to dispatch a snake or two that were venomous.

Could Gale have seen her would he have relented and left the child to her? Has it been the history of the union of the stronger and weaker races that the stronger have given up their desires?

"You will have to look out for Mary, too, Sarpy, as you have promised to do for Nikumi. I haven't any more money to leave with you at present, but I will send you some from England. I don't want her to grow up without any education at all, and have to slave and toil as squaws do generally, nor Nikumi either." "I'll see to them," said Sarpy, briefly, "there isn't much chance for education unless they keep up the post here and she be permitted to learn with the white children; for I don't suppose Nikumi will ever let her go away to school as Fontenelle sends his boys, but she shall have what education she can get and Nikumi shall not be obliged to go back to her tribe for support as long as I am here," and the smoke of the Frenchman's and Englishman's pipes ascended to ratify this compact.

The next day at sunrise the boats dropped swiftly down the river. A figure at the stern of one of them watched until the last sign of the landing place faded in the early morning light.

Dr. Gale had played a brief part in the settlement of a new country from which he now disappeared as if he had never been.

In after years only the few who belonged to that early settlement remembered that Mary was his child, and told of it sometimes, when they recounted the adventurous life of those early days. A young man listened to these reminiscences from the lips of the strange, irascible, but warm hearted Frenchman, and treasured them in memory. Hence this true tale. Nikumi released from her reptile inhabited cave by the little red bird in the tree down the ravine, came back to her tipi. She had kept her child but she had lost her lover and her life. How should she take it up again? She had been always quiet and little given to the chatter and laughter of the young squaws; she was only a little more quiet now, and Mary's lot was decided; she would always be an Indian woman.

One day Sarpy came to her and told her that Gale had left money for her and she was to come to the fort for what she wished. And after a time it came to pass that Sarpy took her to wife as Gale had done. Perhaps that was in his mind when he looked at Gale with a smile in his eyes; but Nikumi would not listen to him till she had waited long, and until Sarpy told her and she heard from others that Gale would never come again. And she was his faithful wife for many years, occupying always, because of her inherent dignity and real womanliness, a position high in the estimation both of the white and the red men. Many tales are told of her life with Sarpy, how at one time she carried him miles on her back when he was stricken with fever in the mountains, until she brought him to aid and safety. Another time when he had given orders that no more goods should be given her from the post (she was always very liberal to her relatives and he wished to check it) she quietly picked up two or three bolts of calico, and walking to the river bank, threw them in; a second armful followed, and then the enemy capitulated. And still another time when Sarpy had bought a beautiful black mare, "Starlight," to minister to the pleasure of a designing English widow, she one day quietly appeared when the horse was driven round by Sarpy's black servant, and ordered it taken to the stable, and enforced the order, too. But this is another story.

In later years, as Sarpy's dominion ceased with the gradual decline of the fur company, and he spent much of his time in St. Louis, Nikumi lived with Mary, who had married an Indian like herself, with a mixture of white blood in his veins, although he was French, and who occupied a prominent position in one of the tribes to whom was given a distinct reservation. From this mixture of English, French, and Indian bloods has arisen a family which stands at the head of their tribe, and one member who is known throughout this country. It is worthy of notice, too, that with one exception it has been the women of the family who have shown the qualities which gave them preÎminence.

Nikumi died March 23, 1888, at the home of her daughter Mary; but her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren live to show that sometimes the mixture of races tends to development of the virtues, and not, as has been so often said, of the vices of both races.

THE HEROINE OF THE JULES-SLADE TRAGEDY

BY MRS. HARRIET S. MACMURPHY

Our two weeks' ride over Iowa prairies was ended and we had reached our new home in Nebraska. I sat in the buggy, a child of twelve, with my three-year-old brother beside me, on the eastern bank of the Missouri river, while father went down where the ferry boat lay, to make ready for our crossing.

In the doorway of a log cabin near by stood a young girl two or three years older than I. We gazed at each other shyly. She was bare-headed and bare-footed, her cheeks tanned, and her abundant black hair roughened with the wind, but her eyes were dark and her figure had the grace of untrammeled out door life. To my girl's standard she did not appeal, and I had not then the faintest conception of the romance and tragedy of which she was the heroine.

We gazed at each other until father gave the signal for me to drive down on the clumsy raft-like boat behind the covered half-wagon half-carriage that held the other members of our family, which I did in fear and trembling that did not cease until we had swung in and out as the boat strained at the rope to which it was attached, the waters of the "Old Muddy," the like of which I had never seen before, straining and drawing it down with the current, and a fresh spasm of fear was added as we reached the far shore and dropped off the boat with a thud down into the soft bank. We had reached Decatur, our future Nebraska home, adjoining the Indian reservation with its thousand Omahas.

For a long time I did not know anything further of the girl of the log cabin by the river side, only that they told us the family were named Keyou and the men were boatmen and fishermen and ran the ferry. This first chapter of my little story opened in the spring of 1863.

Six years later my girlhood's romance brought marriage with my home-coming soldier, who in his first days in the territory of Nebraska had passed through many of the romantic events that a life among the Indians would bring, among them clerking in a trading post with one "Billy" Becksted, now the husband of my maiden of the riverside log cabin. And Billy and John always continued the comradeship of the free, happy, prairie hunting life, riding the "buckskin" ponies with which they began life together, although they came together from very different walks of life.

And I learned of my husband that "Addie," as we had learned to call her, young as she was when first I saw her, had been the wife of a Frenchman named Jules, after whom the town of Julesburg (Colorado) is named, and his dreadful death at the hands of one Slade was one of the stock stories of the plains well known to every early settler.

Billy and Addie after a time drifted away from Decatur down the river and we lost sight of them.

We, too, left the home town and became residents of Plattsmouth.

One day my husband, returning from a trip in the country said, "I ran across Billy and Addie Becksted today and they were so glad to see me that Addie put her arms round me and kissed me, with tears in her eyes." Later we learned with sorrow that Billy was drinking and then that he had come down to Plattsmouth and tried to find my husband, who was out of town and had gone back home and when almost there had taken a dose of morphine, and they had found him unconscious and dying near their log cabin under the bluffs half a mile above the Bellevue station. And my husband really mourned that he had not been at home, perhaps to have kept good-hearted Billy from his woeful fate. After a time Addie married Elton, a brother of Billy's, and one Sunday I persuaded my husband to go down to them in their cabin under the bluffs.

"I have always wanted to get Addie to tell me her story of her life with Jules," I said.

"I don't believe you can get her to talk about it," said Mac, "she never speaks of it, Elton says."

We went, and they were delighted to see us, killed the fatted chicken and gathered for us some of the wild berries that grew in the bluffs, and then as we sat under the trees with the bluff towering above us, I asked her for the story of her girlhood's days out on the plains, when only a single house that sheltered three or four people was her home, and not another for many miles.

"I was just a child," she said, "and Jules was more like my father than my husband. But there were few women in the country in those days and Jules said to my parents that he would take good care of me, and so they gave me to him, and they went on to Denver. He had a man and his wife to take care of the place and do the work, and I just did whatever I wanted to. We were on the great trail to California and Pike's Peak and trains would come by and purchase supplies from us, so I did not get lonesome. Jules had had some trouble with a man named Slade a few years before and had shot Slade, but had taken him to Denver and put him in a hospital and paid to have him cared for and Slade and he had made it all up, my husband thought. Slade's ranch was further west and on the other side of his ranch Jules had another ranch with cattle on, and one day he started off with two or three men to bring some of the cattle back. He had been told that Slade had threatened to kill him but he did not believe it, although he went armed and with good men, he thought. This time he did not take me along as he had the cattle to drive. When he got near Slade's place Slade and his gang came down on Jules and his men, shouting and shooting, drove off Jules' men, took him and carried him to Slade's ranch. One of Jules' men followed them and saw them tie Jules up to a great box and then Slade stood a ways off with his rifle and shot at Jules, just missing his ear or his neck or his hand that was stretched out and tied; sometimes hitting him just enough to draw the blood. He kept this up all the rest of the day and then towards night he fired a shot that killed him. The boys who were with Jules came back to us and told us what had been done. We were so frightened we did not know what to do at first, for we expected every minute that Slade and his gang would come and kill us. They did come the next day and carried off a lot of the stuff we had in the trading post but did not do any harm to us. The man and his wife that were with us and the boys then got a team together and put enough stuff into the wagon to do us until we could get to Denver. All the rest and the cattle I guess Slade got. Jules had money in some bank in Denver, he had always said, but we never could find it. I found my folks and after a while we came back here where we had lived before we went to Denver."

She told her story in the simplest commonplace manner, but it did not need any addition of word or gesture to paint on my memory for all time the pathos beneath.

A girl of fourteen, happy and care-free under the protection of her father husband one day, putting him in the place of father, and mother, trusting to him, and suddenly standing beside the rude trading post way out on the treeless spaces of the trail that seemed to come from solitude and lead away to it again, and listening to the story of the frightened cowboy on his broncho whose almost unintelligible words finally made her understand that her protector, the kind man she had learned to love, had died a death so horrible it would make the strongest man shudder. And with only three or four frightened, irresponsible people to save her, perhaps from a similar or worse fate? But the women of the plains had but little childhood, and must act the part that came to them no matter what it might be.

Afterward she told me more of her strange life with Jules, of his fatherly, protecting care of her, of his good heart, of the trouble with Slade, which was Slade's fault in the first place, and it was plain to see the ideal that had always been cherished way down in her subconsciousness of the man who played such an eventful but brief part in her life. It was a wrong, perhaps, but natural feeling to have when I found by after reading of annals of the plains that Slade died the death that such a fiendish nature should have suffered.

Addie Becksted still lives in a little cabin down among the hills about Bellevue, her children and grandchildren about her, and still bears traces of the beauty that was hers as a girl. She is only about ten miles distant from Omaha but has not visited it for years.

When I go to see her, as I do occasionally, she puts her arms about me and kisses me on the cheek. And her still bright brown eyes look the affection of all the years and events that we have known together.

It is well worth while to have these humble friends who have lived through the pioneer days with us.

THE LAST ROMANTIC BUFFALO HUNT ON THE PLAINS OF NEBRASKA

BY JOHN LEE WEBSTER

In the autumn of 1872 a group of men, some of whom were then prominent in Nebraska history, Judge Elmer S. Dundy and Colonel Watson B. Smith, and one who afterward achieved national fame as an American explorer, Lieutenant Frederick Schwatka, and another who has since become known throughout Europe and America as a picturesque character and showman, Colonel Wm. F. Cody, participated in what proved to be the last romantic buffalo hunt upon the western plains of the state of Nebraska.

Elmer S. Dundy was a pioneer who had come to Nebraska in 1857. He had been a member of the territorial legislature for two successive terms; he was appointed a territorial judge in 1863, and became the first United States district judge after the admission of the state into the union. Colonel Watson B. Smith at that time held the office of clerk of the United States district and circuit courts for the district of Nebraska. Some years afterward he met a tragic death by being shot (accidentally or by assassination) in the corridors of the federal building in the city of Omaha. Colonel Smith was a lovable man, of the highest unimpeachable integrity and a most efficient public officer. There was also among the number James Neville, who at that time held the office of United States attorney and who afterward became a judge of the district court of Douglas county. He added zest, vim, and spirit by reason of some personal peculiarities to be mentioned later on.

These men, with the writer of this sketch, were anxious to have the experience and the enjoyment of the stimulating excitement of participating in a buffalo hunt before those native wild animals of the plains should become entirely extinct. To them it was to be a romantic incident in their lives and long to be remembered as an event of pioneer days. They enjoyed the luxury of a pullman car from Omaha to North Platte, which at that time was little more than a railway station at a division point upon the Union Pacific, and where was also located a military post occupied by a battalion of United States cavalry.

Lieutenant Frederick Schwatka, a regular army officer and American explorer, at one time commanded an arctic expedition in search of traces of the remains of Dr. Franklin. At another time he was in command of an exploring expedition of the Yukon river. At another time he commanded an expedition into the northernmost regions of Alaska in the interest of the New York _Times_. He also became a writer and the author of three quite well known books: _Along Alaska's Great River_, _Nimrod in the North_, and _Children of the Cold_.

At the time of which we are speaking Lieutenant Schwatka was stationed at the military post at North Platte. He furnished us with the necessary army horses and equipment for the hunting expedition, and he himself went along in command of a squad of cavalry which acted as an escort to protect us if need be when we should get into the frontier regions where the Indians were at times still engaged in the quest of game and sometimes in unfriendly raids.

William F. Cody, familiarly known as "Buffalo Bill," who had already achieved a reputation as a guide and hunter and who has since won a world reputation as a showman, went along with us as courier and chief hunter. He went on similar expeditions into the wilder regions of Wyoming with General Phil Sheridan, the Grand Duke Alexis, and others quite equally celebrated.

This Omaha group of amateur buffalo hunters, led by Buffalo Bill and escorted by Lieutenant Schwatka and his squad of cavalry, rode on the afternoon of the first day from North Platte to Fort McPherson and there camped for the night with the bare earth and a blanket for a bed and a small army tent for shelter and cover.

On the next morning after a rude army breakfast, eaten while we sat about upon the ground, and without the luxury of a bath or a change of wearing apparel, this cavalcade renewed its journey in a southwesterly direction expecting ultimately to reach the valley of the Republican. We consumed the entire day in traveling over what seemed almost a barren waste of undulating prairie, except where here and there it was broken by a higher upland and now and then crossed by a ravine and occasionally by a small stream of running water, along the banks of which might be found a small growth of timber. The visible area of the landscape was so great that it seemed boundless--an immense wilderness of space, and the altitude added to the invigorating and stimulating effect of the atmosphere.

We amateurs were constantly in anticipation of seeing either wild animals or Indians that might add to the spirit and zest of the expedition. There were no habitations, no fields, no farms. There was the vast expanse of plain in front of us ascending gradually westward toward the mountains with the blue sky and sunshine overhead. I do not recollect of seeing more than one little cabin or one little pioneer ranch during that whole day's ride. I do know that as the afternoon wore on those of us who were amateur horsemen were pleased to take our turns as the opportunity offered of riding in the army wagon which carried our supplies, and leading our horses.