Part 13

"It is a long time since Ah-key has come to her white lover. I have been very sad; the sun shone brightly, but I could not see its brightness, for you were far away. I learn that In-ne-cose intends soon to take you for his fifth wife. I want but one; you are that one; my lodge is empty--I cannot live without you."

The Indian maiden trembled for a moment, then answered: "Ah-key-nes-tou's heart is small, but it is very red. My father has given me to the great chief. Two lovers have come to me; my heart can hold but one. I see in it the face of my young White Medicine only; but a river as wide as the Missouri parts us. In-ne-cose has given two horses for me; my father has spoken; I must be the fifth wife of the great chief. What can I do?"

The idea of Ah-key-nes-tou becoming the bride of any other than himself, made the young doctor almost wild, and he would have given vent to some very emphatic language had not the girl at that instant said to him: "There is a snake in the grass that the pale-face does not see," and she pointed with her tapering index-finger to a spot not far off, where the weeds and sunflower-stalks seemed to move by some other power than the wind. It was In-ne-cose himself, who had stealthily followed and was watching Ah-key-nes-tou. "You must go to the village and eat with my people to-day," continued the trembling maiden, as she looked imploringly toward her lover.

The doctor was now satisfied they had a dangerous spy upon their actions, and grinding his teeth, hastened to obey her injunction at once. He dared not kiss Ah-key now, but they exchanged glances,--a language that is understood by all who love, whether white, black, or red; and as she walked away he shouldered his heavy rifle and ascended the knoll again, where he stood erect for a few minutes so that the whole village might see him. Remaining where he stood until Ah-key-nes-tou had rejoined the group of her friends on the beach, where they were preparing for their bath, the doctor descended, and moved quietly toward the nearest group of lodges.

First, he made a visit to that of a subordinate chief who was friendly to both Ah-key-nes-tou and himself, looking with decided favor on his efforts to win the girl. Then he went to the lodge of Ah-key-nes-tou's father. He was received very kindly, invited to breakfast, and when that was disposed of, the pipe was passed around, an evidence of the warm feeling the Indian entertained for his white guest. After some time devoted to the fragrant fumes of the "kin-ne-ke-nick," the doctor opened up the subject always nearest his heart--his desire to marry the old savage's daughter. The father of the girl freely admitted that he should be highly honored by such an alliance, but that his word had been pledged to the "Iron Horn," and as presents had been accepted from him, the matter must be considered as settled; that the tribe would never condone any deceit on his part--he could not break his word.

The doctor agreed with his honorable host, that the difficulties were great, according to the Indian code of honor; nevertheless, he believed that the thing could be so arranged that it would be acceptable to all concerned. He then informed the old man that a steamboat (or "fire-ship," as the savages called it,) would arrive at the village that evening. On it were his trunk, tent, and all his belongings; he proposed to take up his abode with the tribe. To this, War Eagle, the father of Ah-key-nes-tou, cordially gave his approval; suggesting that the mound from which the villagers had first seen him that morning would be a suitable place to establish his lodge.

Just before sunset the guns of the steamboat were heard in the village as she rounded a sharp point near her proposed landing-place. Immediately the entire population, men, women and children, flocked to the beach to see the wonderful canoe that moved without oars. They regarded it as a monster, gazing upon it with fear and trembling every time it came up the river.

Early the next morning, with the assistance of some of his Mandan friends the doctor landed his traps and erected his tent on the spot designated by War Eagle. His equipments consisted of a neat camp bed, rich blankets, arms, ammunition, and a medicine chest, together with hundreds of little trinkets pleasing to the taste of the Indians of both sexes.

The enthusiastic young doctor had hardly gotten his things in shipshape before a messenger from In-ne-cose arrived, demanding his presence at the council lodge. He obeyed the summons from the head chief, of course, but he could not divine why he had been sent for so suddenly, just as he had fixed himself comfortably in his new home. Reaching the lodge where the chiefs and head men were assembled, he found there also many women and children of the tribe, evidently expectant of some serious matter to be discussed.

In-ne-cose sat in the center of his counselors, on a magnificently embroidered buffalo robe, smoking his great pipe trimmed with eagle-feathers, as stoical as an Egyptian mummy, excepting that around his mouth there played a smile of devilish import.

Standing near her father, who had also been summoned to the council, was Ah-key-nes-tou, dusky and beautiful in her savage grace, with a look of pride on her countenance; for was it not certain that she was to be the subject for discussion by the suddenly assembled warriors?

Wrapped around the shoulders of the stern In-ne-cose was a curiously wrought Mexican blanket, the sight of which, as the doctor's eyes fell upon it, caused his whole frame to tremble. He turned pale, and his entire aspect was that of fear and deep solicitude; but not a word did he utter.

As soon as those who were called to the council had seated themselves, In-ne-cose rose and said:

"A pale-faced medicine-man has fixed his lodge by those of the Mandans. We have plenty of ground here; there are great herds of buffalo roaming over the prairie, which the Great Spirit has sent to furnish food for his people; the rich young warrior with a white skin is welcome to his share of these. His heart is red, and he is the friend of the Mandans. But he is alone; he has no squaw to cook his meat or saddle his horse; no one to make his bed of the soft skins of the buffalo; no one to shape the moccasins for his feet; he has no wife to bring home the game that he kills. He cannot get a slave to do all these things, for we are at peace with every nation; there is no war. He must therefore take a wife from among the young women of the Mandans; there are many. He can buy two wives, for he is rich; let him choose when In-ne-cose takes Ah-key-nes-tou. I have said."

The doctor immediately arose from his place, full of indignation and disgust at the old chief's cunning. Familiar with the language of the tribe, he addressed the assembled warriors in their own tongue. All eyes were riveted on him, for the majority of those present, and many who were absent, were in perfect accord with him in his honorable efforts to win Ah-key-nes-tou from the "Iron Horn," whom they feared but did not respect.

"In-ne-cose is a dog!" boldly began the doctor. The chiefs gazed upon him with wonderment, but without betraying any emotion. "The Great Spirit is angry," continued the orator. "In-ne-cose is a vulture among eagles, and would carry off the prettiest eaglet. But the Great Spirit says that it shall not be so. Before the sun goes down seven times more, In-ne-cose will be dead! He will take with him to the happy hunting-grounds many Mandan warriors; many young women and children--perhaps Ah-key-nes-tou;" and the young man was deeply affected. He merely added the chief's own words, "I have said," then sat down.

In a few moments, when his feelings had partially regained their normal state, he rose again to explain to the now bewildered and wondering warriors and women what he meant by the awful prophecy he had just uttered. He told them that on the passage of the steamboat up the river, only two days before she had landed at their village, a Mexican merchant on board had died of a frightful disease, the smallpox! He explained how terribly contagious it was to those who were not guarded against it by a great medicine operation performed by the white man. That the merchant who had died of the disease possessed a blanket, upon which he had breathed his last. In-ne-cose had stolen that blanket off the boat, and had it now wrapped around him. He told them that every Indian who went near him, who touched that blanket, or even breathed the same air where he sat, would die unless with his medicine he could save them. The doctor continued:

"The Great Spirit is very angry. Darkness is coming over the lodges of the Mandans. In less than one moon, perhaps, not a lodge will be full. You love Ah-key-nes-tou; let her go to the lodge of the pale-faced Medicine Man, and he will go to that of the 'Iron Horn'--but I fear it is too late."

By the time the doctor had completed his remarks so fraught with portent, all those assembled within the council lodge rapidly moved themselves from the presence of In-ne-cose. He however sat stoically smoking, apparently not the least disturbed by the fearful predictions of the doctor. In a few moments the old chief rose again, and thus addressed himself to the presumptuous white man:

"The Great Spirit lives in the clouds. If he wills that all my people shall go to him, they must obey. My little ones slept on the mystery blanket last night; they awoke this morning and were well. Will the Bad Spirit touch them?"

Then drawing the "death-blanket" closer around him, In-ne-cose apparently defied the evil effects of the wrap. But shortly afterward his dusky skin showed a slight pallor and he seemed strangely agitated. He again spoke, though this time in a disturbed voice, addressing himself, as before, directly to the doctor:

"The chief of the Mandans is rich. He has four squaws already. If the young pale-face will drive away the Bad Spirit from the little ones of In-ne-cose, he may take Ah-key-nes-tou for his wife."

The doctor, delighted at these words of the head chief, grasped the old man's hand, and told him that he would do his best to save the children. Then, ordering Ah-key-nes-tou's brother to lead his sister to his lodge on the knoll, he told another Indian to go and bring his medicine chest to the lodge of In-ne-cose. He then went to the chief's lodge himself, but on examining the little ones discovered it was too late for vaccination: the blanket had done its work!

The next day the pestilence broke out in a hundred lodges. Very soon the Indians were not able to bury their dead--the latter outnumbering the living. In less than a month, out of three thousand families only eight survived. Where the Mandan village once stood, even as late as thirty years ago the traces of over eight thousand graves could be seen. It was an awful visitation, almost annihilating a whole nation!

In-ne-cose, as predicted by the doctor, was the first to die. Ah-key-nes-tou was saved by prompt vaccination. The doctor took her to St. Louis, where they were married, the ceremony being performed by that grand and good old Catholic priest, Father DeSmet, who was stationed there at the time, and whose memory is kept green by every tribe of Indians on the continent. Ah-key-nes-tou was educated at one of the convents in the Mound City, became the pet of society, and her worthy husband a State Senator.

CARSON'S "FIRST INDIAN."

I have been requested by several parties to offer something of Kit Carson's early days on the Plains. Having been intimate with that famous man during the declining years of his eventful life, and having heard from his own lips many of the adventures of his youth, while sitting around the camp-fire on several little "outings" with him and Maxwell in the mountains of New Mexico, I have chosen for my sketch Kit's first shot at an Indian.

That portion of the great central plains of Kansas which radiates from the Pawnee Fork as its center, including the bend of the Arkansas, where that river makes a sudden sweep to the southeast, and the beautiful valley of the Walnut,--in all an area of nearly a thousand square miles,--was from time immemorial a sort of debatable ground, occupied by none of the tribes, but claimed by all to hunt in, for it was a famous resort of the buffalo.

None of the various bands of savages had the temerity to attempt its permanent occupancy, for whenever they met there--which was of frequent occurrence--on their annual hunt for their winter's supply of meat, a bloody battle was sure to ensue. The region referred to has perhaps been the scene of more sanguinary conflicts than any other portion of the continent. Particularly was this the case when the Pawnees, who claimed the country, met their hereditary enemies, the Cheyennes.

Through this region, hugging the margin of the silent Arkansas, and running under the very shadow of Pawnee Rock, the old Santa Fé trail wound its course, now the actual road-bed of the Santa Fé Railway,--so closely are the past and present transcontinental highways cemented at this point: one, a mere memory; the other, one of the great railways now spanning the continent.

Who, among the bearded and grizzled old fellows like myself, has forgotten that most exciting and sensational (at least it was so to my boyish mind) of all the miserably executed illustrations in the geographies of their school-days fifty years ago--"Santa Fé Traders Attacked by Indians"? The picture located the scene of the fight at Pawnee Rock, which formed a sort of a nondescript shadow in the background of a crudely drawn representation of the dangers of the trail.

I witnessed a spirited encounter between a small band of the Cheyennes and Pawnees in the fall of 1867. It occurred on the open prairie, just north of the mouth of the Walnut, about four miles from where the city of Great Bend now stands. Both tribes were hunting the buffalo, and when each by accident discovered the presence of the other, with a demoniacal yell that fairly shook the sand-dunes of the Arkansas they rushed at once into the shock of battle.

The Pawnees were of course friendly to the whites, and had permission from their agent to leave their reservation in the valley of the Neosho, near Council Grove. At that particular time, for a wonder, the Cheyennes too were temporarily at peace with the Government. So I had nothing to do but passively witness the savage combat.

Both bands of the savages soon exhausted their ammunition, and then the chiefs of the contending factions appealed to me most earnestly to supply them with more, of which there was plenty at Fort Zarah, only half a mile away. I was necessarily forced to remain neutral, but my sympathies were with the "under dog" in the fight,--which happened to be the Cheyennes, whom the Pawnees drove off disgraced and discomfitted.

That evening, in a grove of timber on the Walnut, the victors had a grand dance in which scalps, ears and fingers of their enemy, suspended by strings to poles, were important accessories to their weird orgies around the huge camp-fires.

How true it is, as Longfellow declares: "The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember that map in the geographies of fifty years ago (already referred to) on which was depicted "the Great American Desert," over which I pored in the little log school-house at the crossroads in the country, near my home in one of the Eastern States. How distinctly I remember seeing Bent's old fort marked on the western edge of the "Desert" on that quaint map. Then, in the "long, long thoughts" of my boyhood's fancy, it seemed to me to be away out on the confines of another world, for then I had never been thirty miles away from the farm on which I was reared. I have slept under the old fort's hospitable roof many times since, but long before the era of railroads, where, gathered around its huge adobe fireplaces, up whose cavernous throats the yellow flames crackled and roared, were the mighty men of the Ute nation, with Kit Carson, Lucien B. Maxwell, Bent, and other famous characters of the border, conversing in the beautiful but silent sign-language, that is so perfect in its symbolization. Of those who were present then, all but myself are long since dead, and the scenes of those days are only hidden pictures in the storehouse of my brain, to be called back in the quiet of the gloaming, with their host of accompanying pleasant memories of a shadowy past.

In my boyhood days I honestly believed that Kit Carson was at least eight feet tall; that he always dressed in the traditional buckskin, fringed at the seams, and beaded and "porcupined" all over; that he carried innumerable eleven-inch bowie-knives, his rifle of huge dimensions--so large and heavy that, like Warwick's sword, no ordinary man could even lift it. I believed his regular meal to be an entire buffalo, which he raised with both hands to his mouth, and picked its immense bones as easily as the average mortal does a chicken's wing, and that he drank out of nothing smaller than a river. Boys, probably by the thousands, had the same "long thoughts," for boy-nature is the same everywhere.

Kit Carson was really a man under the average height, rather delicate-looking in physical make-up than otherwise, but in fact, wiry and quick, though cautious, possessing nerves of steel and an imperturbability in the moment of supreme danger that was marvelous to contemplate.

He was fond of cards and horse-racing, a famous rider in his younger days, having entered the lists in many a contest with the Indians, who are generally passionately devoted to trials of speed between rival ponies. I have myself seen, in the long-ago, as many as eight hundred horses bet by contending bands, whose wealth was counted by the number of animals they possessed.

Kit once, years before he became famous, fought a duel, mounted; he escaped with a bullet-wound behind his left ear, the scar of which he carried to his grave, but he winged his equally youthful antagonist in the quarrel.

Kit's nature was composed of the noblest of attributes: he was brave, but never reckless like Custer; unselfish, a veritable exponent of Christian altruism; and as true to his friends as steel to the magnet.

He died in 1868, at Fort Lyon, on the Arkansas, while on his way to Fort Harker to make me a long-promised visit. For some time after his passing away he rested peacefully under the gnarled and knotted old cottonwoods which fringe the river--that Nile of America--in the vicinity of Lyon. Later, his remains were moved to Taos, his former New Mexico home, where an appropriate monument was erected over them; in the plaza of quaint and curious Santa Fé, too, there is a massive cenotaph which records his deeds and name.

Kit was born in Kentucky, on the 24th of December, 1809. While a mere infant his parents emigrated to what is now Howard county, Missouri, which at that early date was literally a "howling wilderness" filled with "varmints" of all kinds.

There, as soon as he was big enough to lift a rifle, the old-fashioned patch-and-ball, flint-lock affair, the embryo great frontiersman began to hunt, and by the time he was fifteen he became the most expert shot in the whole settlement. He could hit the eye of a squirrel every time he pulled the trigger, or it didn't count.

At this period, however, his father apprenticed him to a saddler, with whom he worked faithfully for two years, spending all his leisure moments in the primitive forest, hunting bear, deer, and other large game that abounded there.

In two years more, when Kit had reached the age of seventeen, the trade with Santa Fé began, with its initial point in the hamlet of Old Franklin, in Howard county, near where Kit lived (from which place it did not move to Independence until 1836).

In the late spring of 1826, Col. St. Vrain, a prominent agent of the great fur companies, (a grand old gentleman whom I knew intimately,) arrived at Franklin and made preparations to fit out a large caravan destined for the far-off Rocky Mountains, loaded with goods to be used in trading with the Indians for the skins of the valuable fur-bearing animals of that remote and but little known region.

Kit, as green as any boy of his age who had never been twenty miles from his home, was infatuated by the stories told by the old trappers of the Colonel's outfit, regarding the wonderful game in the land to which they were going, and he was easily persuaded to join the caravan in the capacity of hunter, his prowess with the rifle having reached the ears of the major-domo of the train. Kit ran away from home, I suspect, though he never told me so.

The expedition was composed of twenty-six mule-wagons, some loose stock, and forty-two men. In addition to his employment as hunter, young Kit was to help drive the extra animals, take his turn in standing guard, and make himself generally useful.

The party marched wearily along, day after day, Kit proving his right to the reputation of being a mighty hunter, without any adventure worthy of recording, until they arrived at the Walnut, where they discovered the first signs of Indians. They had halted for that day; the mules were unharnessed, the camp-fires lighted, and the men about to indulge in their ever-welcome black coffee, when they were suddenly surprised by half a dozen Pawnees, who, mounted on their ponies, hideously painted and uttering the most diabolical yells, rushed out of the tall grass on the Arkansas bottom, and swinging their buffalo robes attempted to stampede the animals of the caravan.

Every man in the outfit was on his feet in an instant with his rifle in hand, so that all the impudent savages got for their pains were a few harmless shots as they scampered back to the river and over into the sand-hills out of sight.

The next night the caravan camped at the foot of Pawnee Rock, and of course, after the experience of the afternoon before, every precaution was employed to prevent another surprise. The wagons were formed into a corral, so that the animals might be protected in the event of a prolonged fight with the savages. The guards were instructed to be doubly vigilant, and every man slept with his rifle on his arm, for the old Colonel assured them the savages would never rest content with their defeat on the Walnut, but true to their thieving propensities and their desire for revenge, would seize the first favorable opportunity to renew the attack.

All this was a new and strange experience to young Carson, who had never before seen any Indians except a few friendly Shawnees and Osages. Of the methods and tactics of the wild Plains tribes, he literally knew nothing.

When everything was arranged for the night, Kit was posted as a sentinel immediately in front of the south face of the Rock, nearly two hundred yards from the wagon corral. The other men who were on guard were posted on top, and on the open prairie on either side.

About half-past eleven, as near as he could guess, Kit told me, one of the guards yelled out "Indians!" and ran the mules that were grazing near, into the corral, while the entire company turned out of their blankets on the report of a rifle on the midnight air coming from the direction of the Rock.

In a few minutes young Kit came running down toward the corral, where the men had collected, and Col. St. Vrain asked him if he had seen any Indians.

"Yes," replied Kit, "I killed one of the red devils--I saw him fall."

There was no further disturbance that night; it proved to be a false alarm; so all who were not standing guard that night were soon peacefully sleeping again.