Jan. % 1905.1 
FOREST AND ST'REAM. 
there then on the Pan-Handle; but it would have made 
no difference to us whether he had given the permission 
or not; we would have gone there anyhow. I told the 
chief we could go to Texas to-morrow if he wanted to 
go. Next morning the chief said as there were still a 
few buffalo he would stay here a day or two and give the 
squaws a chance to stretch the hides and dry the meat. 
Whenever a buffalo was killed all the meat and the hide 
was brought into camp, the meat cut into thin strips, 
then dried in the sun, or in wet weather on a platform 
over a fire; then put up in bales of about 80 pounds each, 
two of these bales making a load for a pony. The hides 
were stretched on the ground with the hair side do\vn, 
then when partly dried a squaw went all over them twice 
with a sharp scraper and planed off a part of the skin. 
To make these hides into robes, they would have to be 
turned. A squaw would rub them full of brains, then 
draw them back and forward across a line stretched be- 
tween two trees for hours at a time, until the hide was 
soft and pliable. They only finished up a few this way 
on this occasion; they had not time, but would keep the 
rest after drying them to make into robes the next spring. 
While there were buffalo to get the squaws had to work 
night and day. I have known them to work eighteen 
hours out of each twenty-four, and they never struck for 
eight hours a day, either. The men would do the striking 
if the squaws tried that. 
I took mv pony and calling my boys we rode over to 
visit the white men's camp again, but not to drive them 
now; they were the people over here. They had gone 
into camp two miles from the river on a small creek 
after I had sent them across the night before, and were 
getting ready to move again. They wanted to g«t as 
far away as possible from us, they said. 
"You are in Texas now," I told them, "and it is my 
business to see that these Indians don't trouble you, and 
they won't." 
Well, they did not care for that; they did not want to 
be near us; they had no use for Indians. 
"Then go south," I told them. "I am going west from 
here, but not for a day or two yet." 
Was I going to bring those Indians over here ? 
"Yes, in a day or two I am." 
Where was rny authority for doing that? 
"I don't need any. I am my own authority when out 
here," I told them. 
One of the men wanted to know what amusement K 
found in galloping all over this country at the head of a 
lot of blanked young Indians? 
The young Indians were seated on their ponies here 
puffing away at their corn shuck cigarettes. I had 
furnished the tobacco; the chief did not care how much 
of it they got, but he would not give them any; he 
wanted it for the men, he told them. 
"I am making soldiers out of these blanked young 
Indians," I told him. "And by the way it is just as well 
that the most of them don't understand what you say, or 
some of them might poke an arrow into you before I 
had time to stop him. I am drilling these fellows now, 
and some day when we get a little older I may take these 
and a lot more that I have, then ride down and run you 
fellows all out of western Texas. We don't need you 
here. This is the Comanches' country." 
The man looked at me as if he hardly knew whether 
I was trying to bluff him or not. We left them now 
and soon after saw a small bunch of buffalo quietly graz- 
ing way off to the west of us. My boys were about to 
go for them, when I stopped them and proceeded to put 
a plan into execution that I had heard of but had never 
seen tried. 
Just in front of us in the river was a steep bluff that 
was nearly opposite our camp. I meant to run these 
buffalo over the bluff and break their necks, if I could do 
it. Circling around them, we got in rear of them without 
their taking the alarm, then charged down on them, the 
boys yelling. . 
We did not quite run them over it, though; for when 
I had them within about a hundred yards of the bluft, 
the leader turned square to the left; he must have known , 
that the bluff was here, and his herd all followed him, 
running now parallel with the river. Seeing that they 
were all likely to get away from us, I rode in on them 
and shot down two, while some of my larger boys put 
arrows through three more, and the rest got away. 
• It may sound like a fairy story to tell of these boys 
putting arrows through a buffalo. Their fathers did it 
evei-y day. As these were all young animals, most of 
them cows, I wanted to get their meat into camp; so I 
sent a boy in to bring out the chief's mules and a squaw 
or two to help to pack them. 
The chief came out himself, and on seeing what we 
had— we were busy skinning them— said: "You boys do 
well. You get more buffalo than I and the men do. We 
onlv got two to-day." 
"Yes, and we would get them all only our ponies were 
not fast enough. I meant to run them down over that 
bluff and kill them all close to camp. Maybe so, that is 
good?" 
The chief grinned and said: "After this you ride one 
of my buffalo ponies. That pony no good you got. Get 
fast one. I got plenty." , , . , < 
The buffalo ponies were kept for hunting alone, and 
not ridden every day then. They were ridden every day, 
though, before we got home again. 
The chief was, the only Indian who could speak iuig- 
lish. though most of the men and some of the boys could 
understand it if it were spoken slowly, and if I used 
Indian English and began each sentence with a "Mebbe 
so " The chief for some reason or other never cared to 
speak to me in English when in camp, but when we were 
out by ourselves he would talk it all day. Even after I 
had learned his language and could speak it as well as he 
could mine, he would still use English, for practice, 
probably. I knew some Comanche now, and meant to 
learn it thoroughly this winter, and did so, and before I 
left their country some years after this I could get up and 
address them in council. . ■ 
The chief had a colored boy about sixteen years old, 
a full blood negro whom he had raised since he was a 
small boy. This negro was as much an Indian as any 
of them, and far less intelligent than any of the Indian 
boys of his age. He wore the breech cloth as the rest 
did He spoke English, of course, and Comanche as 
well I learned most of my Comanche from him. The 
chief used him to help the squaws and herd ponies when 
the Cheyennes were around, but never, would let him 
have a gun. He said he was too clumsy and would shoot 
some of us. The boy seemed to have no ambition _ to 
learn anything I tried to teach him, while the Indian 
boys were quick to learn. 
My ability to speak Comanche has often since stood me 
in good stead. Nothing pleases a Comanche more than 
to have a white man address him in his own tongue ; any- 
thing that white man wants he will get. These Comanches 
are the only tribe in the Southwest — and I know them 
all — that I would trust any further than I could reach 
one of them with a pistol ; but let a white man make a 
friend of a Comanche and he has always a friend, if he 
conducts himself as he should. 
We stayed in this first camp a few days after this, still 
getting a few buffalo each day. I and the boys put in 
most of our time across the river. I knew the country 
very well, and had been pretty well all over it at different 
times. Just above here on the north fork of the Red 
River the troop of the Fourth Cavalry that I then be- 
longed to^ — Troop F— had wiped out a band of hostile 
Comanches in September, 1872. They were the Quehada, 
or as we pronounced them, the Cohattie, Comanches. We 
surprised them in camp, killed nearly all of the men who 
were in it, and took 135 squaws and children prisoners, 
and had tAvo of our men killed, two badly and several 
slightly wounded. .A.fler the fight, General Mackenzie 
had given me charge of the prisoners. I was a sergeant 
then. I had them in charge for some time, but had not 
seen any of them for years now. The first night that we 
were in this camp an old squaw came up to me, and 
holding out her hand to me, said: "I am a Cohattie, my 
brother." She had been one of my prisoners, and knew 
me again. "I am in for it now, with you, at least," I 
thought. I had treated these squaws well, of course, but 
had expected this one to avoid me. We had shot their 
people. But she seemed to think that she never could 
do enough for me. She would come to me each week 
when we were in camp and get my clothes to wash for 
me, and she made me all the moccasins I could wear; I 
wore them in place of boots out here. 
While the Comanche squaw is clean with everything 
that she handles, and washes any of her clothes that can 
be washed (she don't wear much clothing, anyhow), the 
men and boys seldom have any washing done. They put 
on a shirt when it is new, then wear it out. 
There was a salt lake on this side of the river some- 
where. I knew it was here, but had never seen it; but 
1 now got its bearings from the chief, and I and the boys 
found it. It was a marsh rather than a lake, and salt 
could only be got when the water was low. As it was 
now, the salt lay in thin sheets on the mud. It was mixed 
with clay, but the Indians gathered and used it. When 
out prowling around here we sometimes knew where we 
were, and as often did not; but were never badly lost. 
I carried a map of Texas and New Mexico, a good 
pocket compass, and a field glass. The glass belonged 
to the chief, but he never used it; in fact, did not know 
how to use it until I taught him. When we happened 
not to know just where we were, the boys would say, 
"Ask the little box" — the compass. They had great faith 
in this compass. 
My watch was another curiosit}^ to them. They would 
sit for an hour at night passing it from one to another, 
so that each one could hold it to his ear in turn, then 
exclaim, "It still talks !" Then I could read the talking 
leaves and make them, and in a short time every man 
and boy here had a talking leaf of his own. I would 
tear a leaf out of my note-book and write: "This is a 
Comanche. He will not rob you nor steal your horses. 
He is out on a hunting pass. You need not be afraid of 
him." Then I signed my name, company, and regiment to 
it, and a man who held one of these passes would hand it 
out ten times a day if he met white men. I have known 
one of them to gallop after white men to show the pass. 
One of our men had an old pass that some joker had 
given him to carry around; it said, "Keep an eye on this 
Indian. Don't let him hang around your corral Look 
out for your horses when he is about you." I read it for 
him. "Well," he said, "I don't want his horses. I have 
found one of that man's horses many moons ago and 
took it to him." 
"Throw that talking leaf in the fire," I told him, "and 
the next time you find one of his horses, keep that horse. 
Then maybe this man won't be so funny next time." 
We stayed in this camp several days longer, then 
crossed the north fork to Texas and went into camp on 
a creek two miles back from the river. Our camp was 
in a wide bottom among some heavy timber, and this 
evening while down along the creek I saw a curious mark 
on a tree, and going to it examined it. The tree was of 
some soft wood, cottonwood or poplar, and someone 
years ago had cut off the bark on one side for a space of 
about a foot wide and two feet high, and the bark here 
had grown around the cut edges in a roll something like 
an oval picture frame. Cut deeply in the tree in the place 
that had no bark on, were the figures of three women 
that were dressed as squaws, and to the right of them 
stood three Indian men figures. One of the men held 
out something in his hand ; the other two had their hands 
empty. Below the men were two parallel marks that had 
several inverted Vs between them, and below these again 
were two arrows figured, one of them without a head on 
it. I studied this affair for some time, but could only 
make out that these women were prisoners; their hands 
were tied. I called a boy down and asked, "Does this 
talk to you?" 
"No," he said, "but the chief can make it talk. That 
is Cheyenne, I think. I don't know." 
I brought the chief down and he studied it, then said : 
"Yes, it is Cheyenne, but it talks to me. Many moons 
ago three Cheyennes came here from that way [pointing 
east] ; they camp here one sleep then go that way [point- 
ing west] ten sleeps [200 miles] ; then they shoot two 
Mexicans and scalp them. There are the Mexicans 
[pointing to the marks], and here are their scalps [point- 
ing to the first man's waist [I saw them now]. This 
man has a gun — you see it? [pointing to the thing the 
man held out]. These two had no guns; they had bows; 
there they are [pointing to the bow cases that showed 
above their shoulders]. The squaws are prisoners; their 
hands are tied; they take these squaws when they kill 
these Mexicans. That is all." 
"The Cheyenne is a dog, chief. Shall I cut his tree 
down?" 
"No, jet it stand. It has stood here many moons now, 
so let it stay. The Cheyenne is a dog, but I am a 
Comanche. I do not fear him; he fears me. I have 
whipped him and can whip him again. I say it." 
Had this tree been near a railroad where I could have 
sent it north, I should have cut out the section that held 
this picture, then sent it, together with the chief's transla- 
tion of it, to some museum. 
Some of our men had been out west of this to-day and 
one of them named Co-Mo-Cheat came in this evening 
with a report to the chief. Whenever any of them saw 
anything of interest he brought in a report of it; generally 
making his report at night. I listened to this report, but 
all I could make out of it was that there was a campo 
of divo that had a Pe Arivo in it somewhere west of this. 
Campo is Comanche for camp; it is also Spanish for 
camp ; in fact, about half the Comanche language as now 
spoken is corrupt Spanish. They have an older language 
than this, but seldom use it. Divo is a white man or 
men, while pe-arivo is a chief ; a big chief is a parivo ; 
but any white man who has horses or wagons is a pe- 
arivo. I was always a pe-arivo with these boys after 
the chief had turned them over to me; the boys never 
failed to address me as pe-arivo. The Indian told his 
story, winding it up with, "I have spoken." He was 
through, or that is all. 
The chief sat in a brown study for a while, then turn- 
ing to me he said in English — something that was unusual 
for him, he hardly ever used English to me here in camp — 
"If white men come here and shoot at my camp, what 
you do then?" 
"Oh," I told him, "white men don't come here. They 
must not. If they do, then I say, 'Go,' and then they go." 
"Yes; but mebbe so they don't go; then they shoot." 
"I must find out what this is all about," I said to myself, 
and going out I called the negro boy. He came in and 
the chief gave him a long string of Comanche; I could 
make out part of it 
"The chief says that there is a big camp of white men 
ten miles from here, and he thinks that they watch this 
camp. He thinks they don't want him here. This is the 
white man's country now. It was his once. These white 
men told Ho-mo-ko and Co-mo-cheat when they saw 
them to-day that we would be driven out of this. They 
don't want us here." 
"Ask the chief if he knows who the Texas Rangers 
are?" 
"Yes, they are the Texas soldiers," he says, "but you 
are the Great Father's soldier. He obeys you, not the 
Texas soldiers. The chief says he is one of the Great 
Father's soldiers now hintself when the Great Father 
needs him." 
"Well, then, tell him that the Governor of Texas said 
that we might hunt in his country, and if he don't want 
us here, then he will send his Rangers to tell us so. But 
they won't shoot. The chief of the Rangers will say, 
'Take the Indians across to their own country.' Then I'll 
take you across, but not before, and the Rangers won't 
come, I know it. And if any other white man comes here 
I'll tell him to go. Then if he don't go I'll take these 
Comanches and make him go ; and if he shoots then I'll 
stop here and shoot at him just as long as a Comanche 
does." 
"The chief says his heart is easy now; he only wanted 
to know if you would help him. Let the white men come 
now. He will be here. He won't run away. He has 
fought white men before, and can do it again. But he 
don't want to do it. The Great Father tells him not to." 
"Yes, I'll help him. Tell him that this camp is my 
camp now. I sleep in his lodge, I eat his bread and 
meat, and any white man who shoots at a Comanche 
shoots at me, and I'll kill that white man. I have said it." 
The next morning I concluded to find out, if possible, 
just who these men were. So taking my boys I had the 
fathers of the larger ones give them guns, and giving my 
pet boy, "The An^felope," mine to carry, I started over to 
where the camp was supposed to be. I meant to drop 
my boys under cover short of it where I could get them 
if I wanted them, ride myself into the camp and take 
notes of things, and if these men wanted to drive us out 
I plight give them a chance to drive some of us without 
them having to go all the way to camp to find us. I was 
not traveling around here with a chip on my shoulder, 
but I did not propose to let a lot of skin-hunters bluff 
us, and these boys of mine could make some of them 
look like thirty cents if I turned them loose on those 
skin-hunters. 
I left the boys where I could find them when wanted, 
then rode over to the camp and found the men just pull- 
ing out to go south. They were going home they said. 
"One of my Indians told me last night that you pro- 
posed to run us across the river," I said. < 
"Oh, that was only a joke.". 
"I thought as much. Now, we are here by permission 
of your Governor, and unless he tells us to go, we mean 
to stay here. Tell your friends that when they get ready 
to run us out, they will find us ready to run them." 
"Oh, we ain't hunting a fight," he replied. 
"Very well, then, neither am I. But I have been sent 
with these Indians to keep them in order and to keep 
white men from raiding them, and I mean to do both." 
Riding back behind the ridge to where I had left my 
boys, I had them mount now _ and follow this ridge in 
plain sight of the hunters a while. I wanted to convince 
them that I had the necessary material here to conduct 
our end of a row, and that I had not been talking 
through my hat. Cabia Blanco. 
[to be CONTINUED.] 
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