Sept, 12, ig^s.] 
FORtlST AJsrC STREAM. 
I had at least gotten where 1 wanted, I was content 
to "say nothing and saw wood," 
It was still early in the season for much game to 
be around. Our meat was running low, and a neigh- 
bor, Mr. Burkett, from twenty miles distant, came to 
Luke's on some business, and wanted some wild meat 
to take home with him. They had spent the whole day 
hunting, and got no meat. It was a cold and chilly 
evening; the men were in the house lingering over their 
supper while I had gone to the bunk-house. I happened 
to look up in a pasture about 300 yards from the house 
and there saw six bull elk coming down toward the 
house. I gave the alarm, and let Bob take my gun, as 
he had none there, and away they went. By that time 
they had turned, and were going back the other way, 
and Luke took a run of a half mile up a steep mountain 
side to head them off and drive them back to the other 
fellows, which he succeeded in doing. They all began 
shooting at long range, and Luke finally landed a shot 
in the hind quarters of one as it was going away from 
him, and it fell. After the band had disappeared we 
all came together. Luke's gun was empty and he was 
out of ammunition. Bob gave him my gun, and he 
and Mr. Burkett went after the band, while Bob and 
I went to take care of the one which was down; it was 
not killed, but was making desperate efforts to get up. 
Of course we had nothing to shoot with except our 
knives. I said I thought 1 could get on its head while 
Bob would cut its throat. I got on its head and 
grabbed it firmly by the hoi-ns, which were then in 
the velvet, and Bob commenced operations. Suddenly 
I found myself flying through the air and lit about 
twenty feet below, as it was on a steep little bluff. I 
looked back and the bull was on its feet and coming 
right toward me. I "scooted" to one side and it went 
on past, for it was not after me; it was only trying to 
get away. 
It went directly toward the house, about 150 yards, 
and lay down among the willows. We found it and re- 
peated our tactics, and that time succeeded in killing it, 
not more than 150 yards from the house. 
^Luke and Burkett shot away the last of their ammu- 
nition at the band and wounded one so badly they could 
almost catch it, but had to leave it and come home. 
The next morning I went after it and found it dead 
but still warm, evidently having been dead but a few 
minutes, and the meat was all right and I dressed it, 
and we packed it home that afternoon. 
My opportunities for hunting that season were lim- 
ited, but r managed to get out occasionally and suc- 
ceeded in getting several fair shots at deer, but could 
not kill anything. I had never been used to the big 
guns, and nearly became disgusted with my luck. The 
worst disappointments were when Luke would send 
me out to get meat, and I would come home empty, 
which I always did, for I was envious of a reputation 
as a successful hunter. A ditch was being surveyed up 
in the mountains above Luke's by a stock rancih com- 
pany, in the latter part of the summer, in which Luke 
was interested; they were at work about three miles 
from the ranch, and Luke instructed me one morning 
to take a saddle horse and go up and help with the survey- 
ing, and to take along my rifle in the hope of getting 
some meat, as we were out of meat. When half way 
up I saw an antelope away up on a hill. I left the 
horse and slipped up through a thicket of jack-pines 
and got within 100 yards of it. I shot at it, with very 
little hopes of getting it, but was surprised to see it rear 
up, make a few plunges and fall, rolling several rods 
down the hill toward me. I went through the inter- 
vening thicket of quaking asp like a scared wolf, and 
found my antelope still and dead, with a shot through 
its heart. I dressed it and hid it in the bushes and 
went on to work; going home in the evening with the 
antelope tied on the horse behind the saddle, feeling 
much uplifted. 
Emerson Carney, 
[to be continued.] 
Lost on the Staked Plains. 
A WRITER in a late number of Frank Leslie's Monthly 
gives an account of a scout, as he calls him (he was 
really an enlisted man that was being used as a 
courier), who was lost "in the far Northwest"; the 
exact locality is not given, but it was probably up in 
the northwestern part of Montana, just south of the 
Missouri River. 
The man, mounted on a bronco, had started from 
some post there to carry a dispatch to an outpost. 
The story is all right, except the bronco part of it, 
he was not likely to have a bronco but a large Ameri- 
can horse that would have more horse sense and use 
it in an hour than a bronco would in a life time. 
The bronco was tried and found to be worthless as 
a cavalry horse thirty years ago, after our regiment, 
the Fourth Cavalry, had killed up about 2,000 of him. 
He is not heavy nor strong enough to carry what a 
cavalry horse has to carry, and has hardly sense enough 
to learn the drill. It may seem curious, but a good 
cavalry horse often knows more about the drill and 
trumpet calls than his rider does. 
This man had started early in the spring, "when the 
midday sun thaws the surface of the snow, and a 
light frost afterward hardens the surface of the ice to 
a glaze that had crushed the snow over the trail, and 
the scout had to keep a sharp lookout so as not to 
lose the trail altogether." But he did lose it, then be- 
came snow blind, and finding himself lost tried to get 
his horse to take the back trail, letting the horse find it 
for himself. 
This failed, and next the man, taking off the saddle, 
turned the horse loose, thinking he would find his way 
home, then cause a party to be sent out to hunt his 
rider. 
The horse refused to leave, but stood over the man 
as he lay there until he was found by a mail rider five 
days after this. Why the man did not freeze to death 
at night long before this is not explained. Most men 
who are sent out as couriers are men who are not likely 
to e;f>t lost in tfie first olace. and if they do happen to 
get Io3t, they have generally brains enough to find 
tnemselyes again. I .have often ridden as a courier, 
but would be ashamed to get lost so badly anywhere 
that it would need some one else to find me. A coun- 
try that is covered with snow looks far different, even 
to a man who knows it well, from what it does when 
covered with grass; but one must bear that in mind 
and keep his eyes open; if he does that and uses his 
brains he won't stay lost long. 
I once had a job hunting up a lost man, but this 
one left on foot and was a man who would be about as 
likely to get lost on Broadway, New York, as he would 
on the Staked Plains, where he did get lost. 
The Fourth Cavalry began to build Fort Concho in 
the_ fall of 1867, our troop H being the first one to start 
at it, but several other troops came soon after. That 
winter a few or our horses took what was called in after 
years the epizootic, we thought they had the glanders, 
and as no horse could be shot until it was sure that 
he had the disease, unless the officer who was charged 
with him wanted to have to pay for him, we tied the 
sick horses out in the timber away from the post, to 
observe the course of the disease, feed and take care of 
them. But we only had to do that one day; then the 
Indians relieved us of the job; for on the second night 
a small party of the Kohowdi Comanches made a raid 
on the horse hospital and lifted the whole of them. 
There could not have been a horse doctor in the band, 
or they may have been in too great a hurry to start 
for home to call the doctor. The horses were missed 
next morning, and a detail was sent after them. About 
noon they overtook the Indians, who dropped the 
horses and lit out. All except one of them escaped; 
this one a sergeant ran down, and after having a 
running fight with him, shot him, then took his pony, 
bow and arrows and shield and a Colt pistol, and 
brought them back with him. This sergeant was a 
young, smooth-faced fellow twentv-two years old; he 
had come from a good family in the East, had been 
turned out of a law college for some scrape, and then 
had come to us; he had probably been the black sheep 
of his family, but he conducted himself all right here^ 
and on account of his being better educated and keep- 
ing himself neat and clean a great many of the men 
disliked him and gave it as their opinion that if an 
Indian would get after him the sergeant would faint. 
I had seen a good deal of him and thought that when 
the Indian did get after him it would not be the ser- 
geant who would do the fainting; and the result proved 
that I for once was right. 
When the sick horses were brought back, Major 
Cram, the commanding officer, announced that he would 
now proceed to drive these Indians to— well to a coun- 
try where the squaws would not need to pack in any 
wood if the climate of this country is as warm as it is 
claimed to be.. The major did not know then what a 
large contract he was giving himself and us. He 
never drove them anywhere in his time, though the 
rest of us kept on driving them on and off the Staked 
Plains for the next few years, until finally, on the 29th 
of September, 1872, our troop, F, of the Fourth Cav- 
alry, under Major Wirt Davis, single-handed and alone, 
drove them into the North Fork of the Red River, 
then after thinning them out drove them on a reserva- 
tion to stay on it. 
After I had got to be a part Comanche myself, I 
asked them about this affair of the sick horses, and was 
told that the young man we had shot was the chief's 
son, and that when his party had got home minus any 
horses the squaws had lamented his death in sack 
cloth and ashes, principally ashes. 
The major sent a troop after the Indians, and there 
not being men enough in this troop he detailed nine 
men and myself— I was a corporal then— to go with 
this troop. 
We traveled northwest up as far as the Double 
Mountains, then directly west to a fine creek known 
afterward among us as Catfish Creek. The Indians 
had been in camp here in several places; it was their 
favorite camping ground always, but they were not 
here now, they had no doubt seen us coming and had 
made a hurried march out on the Staked Plains that 
begin right here at the creek. 
We put in several days going up and down the creek, 
to make sure that the Indians were not on it, then went 
into camp here. I went as far out on the plains as it 
was safe to go, and wanted very much to get a chance 
to cross them clear to the Pecos. I got the chance 
several years after this, and saw a good deal of them, 
and while on them saw the only lunar rainbow I have 
ever seen; it was a beautiful one, too. 
After this, Catfish Creek got a visit from us at least 
once a year, but with one exception the Indians were 
never at home when we called. 
The exception was in the fall of 1869, Major Bacon, 
with a large command of colored troops and thirty-six 
of us white troops, paid them the annual visit and took 
in a few families that had been too slow about packing 
up; they were doing this when we called on them. We 
lay in camp a few days to rest the horses, we could not 
follow the Indians across the Staked Plains; in fact, 
it was supposed at that time that these plains could 
not be crossed without a good guide who knew where 
there was water. When we crossed them years after 
this, early in the spring, we found plenty" of water; 
later in the season most of these small ponds would 
be dry, no doubt, but these plains may be farms now, 
plenty of water could be found on them by going down 
deep enough. 
Our rations were running short, and the captain 
prepared to return, intending to go east of the Double 
Mountains, then south as far as an old post called 
Phantom Hill on the Clear Fork of the Brazos. 
This post had a curious history. It was built by a 
few companies of an infantry regiment about the year 
1859, and as soon as they had it finished they were 
ordered away, and when leaving they camped the first 
night only ten miles away. That very night the post 
was burned. The Indians got the credit of burning it, 
of course; but years after I learned from a man who 
♦This is the way the editor spells that tribe's name. I have 
al-ways made it Cohattie, and have never but once seen it in 
print when written by any one else until now, then it was spelled 
Quehada. I am not a good enough Spanish scholar to be alale 
to pronounce that properly. I called the name of the tribe as it 
sounded to me when they themselves pronounced it. 
had helped to build it how it had been burned. While 
the infantry were in camp this night, a man borrowed 
a Jiorse belonging to an officer, without going through 
the form of asking for it; and riding back to Phantom 
Hili set the whole place on fire. When I first saw it 
all that remained were the stone foundations and a 
small stone magazine. 
The captain meant. to send a courier in from Phantom 
HiJl to the Concho and have rations and forage sent 
out to meet us; then we started and had got back as far 
as this small California creek and were in camp on it 
when, one afternoon, soon after going into camp, a 
corporal and half a dozen men went off hunting on foot 
ihey came in again about an hour before sunset and 
reported that they had shot a buffalo three miles west 
of camp, and had left a man named Caldwell to keep 
the wolves off from it until they had brought out a 
mule, if the meat was wanted. The capt..in did not 
want It, as the corporal ought to have known; we were 
then getting as many buffalo as we wanted without 
hunting for them. He told the corporal to go and 
bring the man m, but on learning that the man had 
orders to come m before sunset, he told the corporal 
that he need not go. But Caldwell did not come in- 
and early next morning the corporal was sent out to 
where he had left him to see what had become of him 
J he corporal could not find him. Soon after this the 
first sergeant of the troop told me to report to the 
captain. "He wants to send out and see what has be- 
come of that man, and I told him that you knevv? the 
coiuitry, don't you?" said the sergeant. 
"1 know it no better than the rest of you. This is 
the first time I have been in it. But I have kept my 
eyes open while we have been in it. I can find him 
unless the Indians got him ahead of me." 
The captain asked me what I thought had become of 
the man. "I hardly think he would desert here do 
you? 
"No, sir ; he has got lost. He may have remained out 
there until after dark, then has missed the camp. There 
is no telling where he is now, all I can do will be to 
find his trail if I can, then follow it." 
"Go and do it, then, and when you have found him 
or are satisfied that you cannot find him, join me at 
Phantom Hill. I will remain there a few days Now 
in what direction is Phantom Hill from here?" 
I gave him the direction. 
"Yes, that is right. You won't get lost, I think. 
Co and do the best you can; I am not to blame for the 
man getting lost, but I hate to lose a man; we all do." 
I wont get lost, sir; I can travel by the map and 
compass; I have both of them here." 
I had a copy of the same map the captain had and a 
good pocket compass, and never left camp without 
taking them with me. 
I filled my horse's nose bag with wheat biscuit and 
raw bacon to carry as rations. I always carried a small 
bag of coffee, one of sugar and another with salt in it 
in my saddle pockets, along with a lot of extra ammuni- 
tion, a small camp hatchet, and a pair of front shoes 
for my horse with the nails to put them on. I shod him 
myself, never letting the blacksmith touch him; he 
M^ould want to put on heavy Burden shoes, then let 
th^m stay on until worn out; I wanted light Good- 
enough shoes on him and wanted them re-set or re- 
placed once in every six weeks, and the quickest way 
to have that done was to do it myself. Any time that 
I was a troop quartermaster-sergeant no horse had to 
wear his shoes out before having them reset, but I was 
not one now. 
I had a young greyhound. Spot, with me here, he 
went along also, and it was he who found Caldwell I 
first went to where the buffalo had been killed, to try 
for the man's trail; but the corporal had been here on 
his horse to-day and had ridden and tramped all over 
the place and I could not now tell one man's trail from 
another. Next, going back on the prairie toward camp, 
I rode slowly around in a half-circle, but found no trail. 
Then trying the prairie to the west of this, I at last 
struck a trail, but it led straight west, and I followed it. 
This country out here has a number of large creeks, 
most of them running south, while their branches came 
in from the west. Most of them were nearly dry now; 
what water was in them stood in pools; the most of 
it was brackish, to begin with; and the buffalo that 
used it did not improve it any. 
I followed the trail at a walk for a mile or two; then 
It crossed a dry water course, and after a short time 
crossed it again. He had been going here in a circle, 
and his trail led out on the grass again. He was go- 
ing east now at last. 
Just now Spot, who had run ahead of me, stopped, 
and after smelling at something on the grass, began to 
eat It; going to him I found about ten pounds of that 
buffalo's tenderloin. I had noticed it missing when at 
the buffalo, but did not know which of the men had 
taken it. When we shot a buft'alo we would take the 
tongue and tenderloin, even if we left everything else. 
I picked up the' trail here again, and soon after it 
led back to this dry creek, going directly west, and 
following the bed of the creek. I could follow it at 
a gallop, and at the same time keep a good lookout 
all around the country for Indians. It was true that 
we could not find any of them out here, but they were 
here, that I know, and could find me without any 
trouble. The trouble would commence when they had 
found me. 
At last I came to the head of this dry creek, and here 
the trail took the grass again, still going west, and it 
was quite fresh now. I kept following, and when I 
had gone several miles further the trail led into another • 
creek that had a pool of water in it here, and stopping 
I watered my horse, while Spot, who had drank al- 
ready, ran on and up on a small rise, then stopped 
and began to wag his tail — he never barked at any- 
thing. I galloped to him, but the dog, instead of going 
on as he generally did, stood there looking up the 
creek; and looking up it myself I found my man, 
about 300 yards away on the side I had just left. He 
was kneeling with his back to a low bank, and his car- 
bine up and pointed at me. I had heard of men who. 
when lost, had gone crazy, but I hardly expected a man 
would lose his mind in less than twenty-four hours. 
