866 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Nov. 4, 1905. 
How I Found the Indians. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
About the middle of March, 1870, our cavalry troop 
was sent out from Fort Richardson, Texas, to. scout 
for a few weeks through the country west of that and 
look for Indians. I found there the Indians. 
We had with us as a guest an Knglish tourist, who 
was anxious to see all this country; he saw some of it 
before we returned. When I saw him ready to start 
I thought that about a week of this trip would be all 
he would need of it; but he roughed it with the rest 
of us and I never heard him complain. He messed with 
the Captain, a brevet-tnajor, the only officer we had 
With us. When he was in the field the captain lived ex- 
actly as we did; he carried no canned goods, but ate 
what we did“-bacon and bread, black coffee and bean 
soup and what game we could kill; buffalo were still 
very plentiful. The Captain carried no canvas, but 
slept as _we did under the saddle blanket. This would 
be no picnic, looking at it from an English point of 
view, I thought. 
We had been out a week when one afternoon we 
went into camp on a small creek that ran north and 
south, and across it to the west about a mile and a half 
away a low butte stood out on the prairie, and beyond 
it a mile still to the west was a rather high roll in the 
prairie that ran north and south. Before we had taken 
our saddles off, the Captain told me to ride over to 
the butte, stake my horse out at it; then stop on top of 
the butte until sundown and keep a good lookout for 
Indians. “We have seen no signs of them as yet,” he 
said, “but this is about where I expect to see them, if 
we see them at all.” 
I started, and found the ground between the camp 
and the butte to be badly cut up with narrow ravines, 
which the water in the wet season had made on its 
Way to the creek; and in getting to the foot of the 
butte_ I found another ravine here. It seemed to head 
at this ridge west of me and run straight to the creek. 
Crossing it, I staked out my horse here, leaving on the 
saddle and bridle. I rode with a snaffle bit that would 
not prevent the horse to graze; I might need him in 
a hurry. 
I had a short heavy Marlin rifle, that I carried in- 
stead of the Spencers we were armed with. Climbing 
up on the butte, 1 found a flat place of about two 
acres that ha:d & high coat of last year’s dry grass on 
it. I could lie down in it and not be seen. 
There was not a breath of air stirring, and the after- 
noon was warm for this time in the year. I had been 
lying here about half aii hour watching that ridge — it 
would be on it that I would first see the Indians if I 
saw any — when a buck and a doe climbed up the butte 
and began to graze not 100 yards from where I lay. 
They nevfcr noticed me at all. I had hard work to keep 
frorn shooting the buck; but dared not fire a shot here, 
for it would notify any Indians who might be in the 
country just where I was. So raising my head above 
the grass I spoke to the deer. They gave me one 
frightened look, then , left in about two jumps. I lay 
for another hour; then just after I had looked at my 
watch to note the time passing, I gave the ridge 
another look, and saw a man on a pony ride up on top 
of it from behind it and stop. In a moment another 
man joined him, then a third one, and they kept on 
corning until there were five of them. They sat on 
their ponies there, and seemed to be watching our 
camp, which was in plain sight over two miles away. 
Crawling through the grass and hugging the ground, 1 
made my way to the edge of the butte, then' slid down 
it in a hurry, got my rope tied to the saddle, and 
mounted; and now I was struck with an idea. The 
Major wanted Indians, but there were not enough of 
them here to bother the troop with, I would • fight 
these myself. With this rifle of mine and the horse I 
had under me, I did not think it a big contract to shoot 
the whole of them or try to. I got my horse down in 
the ravine, then rode up it. I meant to keep in it if 
it headed up at the ridge, as I thought it did; then, 
when I had got close enough turn the rifle loose. I 
had gone up the ravine 600 yards or more and had 
left the butte away behind we, when I noticed that the 
ravine ahead of me was about running out. If I kept 
on I would soon have to ride out in plain sight of the 
Indians. They were still where I had first seen them. 
I could; still see them; but they evidently had not seen 
me yet. 
I turned now, and going back at a gallop passed the 
butte, then kept on down in the ravine to where it 
entered the small timber that fringes the bank of the 
creek, then got into the timber and kept on to camp; 
but before I had got there I had to ride out into the 
open again in order to cross a ravine that I could not 
cross at the creek. 
Going into camp I found every one at supper, or 
dinner rather- — we only ate twice a day when, on the 
march this way. I told the Captain I had his Indians 
out here waiting for him. 
“Are you sure now that they are Indians, and not 
buffalo?” he asked. “You remember that stampede 
we had after the buffalo last fall?” 
“Yes, sir; but I did not send you after the buffalo. 
I know an Indian when. I see one.” This was a slap 
at the sergeant, who had sent him after the buffalo. 
The Indians were not in sight from here, but picking 
up his field glass he and I went up on higher ground 
and I pointed the Indians out to him. He just leveled 
his glass at them then called out, “Saddle up, and pack 
up! Do it in a hurry now!” 
The saddles were on hi a hurry, the men having to 
leave the rest of their dinner here on the grass. Then 
leaving the pack train . to follow up, we started. , 
I told the Captain that the column could not take 
the route I had taken, the ground was too much 
broken, so he bore off to the left through a lot of 
chaparral on our side of the creek, going through at 
■as fast a gallop as the bushes would let us. Then after 
going a mile we turned to the right, and after crossing 
the creek, he put us on front into line and we went 
to the ridge at a fast gallop; but the Indians had left. 
It was nearly dark, but a few of us scouted to the 
front but could see nothing of the Indians. Then going 
back to the nearest point on the creek, we went into 
camp again for the night, the Major saying that he 
would hunt up those fellows to-morrow; he knew now 
where to look for them. 
The men were in a bad humor. They had lost half 
of their supper. _ I had lost all of mine or thought I 
had; but the Major sent orders down for the cook to 
get me mine right away; and while I was eating it the 
men kept up their growling — they knew what was go- 
ing to happen when they saw me leave camp to-day. 
I never was sent anywhere but I found Indians, or their 
trail, or some other blanked thing. Why did I not fire 
a shot at the Indians when I saw them, then let them 
go to Hades and not get the troop out after them? 
We have not lost any Indians; we lost our supper all 
right though. 
I let them keep at this for a while, then said, “That 
will do now. Adjourn this debate and hunt your 
saddles for the night. I don’t want to have to hunt a 
rope and a tree for any of you. I foiund those Indians 
because I was sent to find them, an.<f had I not found 
them when I did they would have found you to-night, 
and you would have lost part of your horses, if you 
have not lost any Indians.” This settled it, I could run 
one of those men up to the nearesit tree, tie him up 
to it by the wrists, then report it to the Major when I 
had got ready to do it. I was senior corporal then, 
but did far less of this tying up than any non-com. we 
had did, and these men would obey me far quicker than 
they would some of the others who were continually 
tying them up for ^ny thing or nothing. 
Next morning, while we remained in camp here, the; 
Major sent a sergeant and detail over to examine the 
place where the Indians had been. They came back, 
in an hour and reported that there must have been at 
least thirty Indians there, judging from the trail they 
had made when leaving, and the men brought back an 
old broken rawhide lariat and a worn-out pistol holster 
These the Indians had thrown away; but the sergeant; 
had a new butcher knife and its sheath that had been 
lost by some of them. The troop going over now 
started to follow the trail, but after a few miles it ran. 
out, the Indians having split up. They were going in 
every direction now except toward us. This was done; 
to prevent us from following them; we might have fol- 
lowed any single pony track of course, but it would not; 
lead us anywhere. 
We scouted through that country for the next few 
days; but did not find their camp, although as their 
chief told, me years after this, the camp was only forty- 
miles away. 
I thought at the time that these Indians were the- 
Cohattie Comanches. They were about the only Indians- 
that ran loose at all times then, and these had never 
been on a reservation and did not go on one until two- 
years after this, when this troop of ours shot about; 
one-half of them and drove the rest on a reservation. 
Several year after this, when I had become well 
acquainted with the Comanches and was living with, 
them part of the time, I told the Cohattie chief about; 
this affair, and asked him if he , knew anything about; 
it. Yes, he knew all about it. It was he who had been, 
there. He had about thirty of his men out hunting,, 
when, one of his scouts saw us going into camp, andl 
riding back to him told him of it. Calling in his men,, 
he brought them behind, that ridge, meaning to stop- 
there until after dark, then jump our camp and run. 
off our horses, if he could do nothing else. 
“If you had jumped that camp, you would have found', 
a hornets’ nest in it,” I told him. “We had men enough; 
there to eat you up.” 
“You had about fifty men,” he replied. “I counted': 
you before I left, while you were mounting; and if I 
had had as many of my men there as you had I would 
have waited for you behind that ridge, then let you do- 
the charging. But when I saw you start and knew that; 
I had been seen out there, I left. My camp was only- 
two sleeps away, and you might find and destroy it.” 
When we did destroy it the chief was away on an- 
other hunt, that is what, saved him. 
I told the chief where I had been when I first saw- 
him, and asked him if he had seen me while I was. 
fooling around that ravine trying to get a shot at him.. 
No, the first he saw of me was when I rode out into- 
the open near my camp. Then he waited to see if I 
had seen him, and seeing us get ready to leave, he con- 
cluded I had seen him. So he left then; he could not 
surprise us now and had not men enough to fight us. 
Cabia Blanco. /■ 
On Climbing Mountains. 
The tragic death of Mr. Chas. Fenton, recorded in a 
recent number of Forest and Stream suggests a few 
thoughts. 
It is very extraordinary that a man of Mr. Fenton’s 
age (he was seventy-six) should have attempted climb- 
ing Whiteface. I am acquainted with that mountain, 
and while the trail may be said to be good, it is long 
and steep. It is probable that Mr. Fenton in a mo- 
ment of reminiscent exuberance undertook the feat 
which resulted in his death. The obvious moral is, 
that in men of mature or advanced years such exuber- 
ances are to be sternly dealt with. 
Now, mountain climbing is the hardest sort of hard 
w^ork. It puts a tremendous strain upon the heart. 
Unless you are experienced, before you have got over 
the foothills you will be tempted to turn back. For 
you^will find your heart thumping in a most alarming 
fashion. If you are not quite sure that the organ is 
sound, you ought to turn back. If it is sound, and vou 
. are young,_ you ought to go on, for there is great 'ex- 
hilaration in store for you. 
Mountain climbers are never tired of dwelling upon 
the moment when they _ reached the summit. It is 
indeed a moment of exquisite sensations, but it is brief. 
When you have taken in the view and rested a while, 
you will say to yourself that after all you -would not 
want to live there. It would be too lonesome — too 
isolated. (Let us, by the way, pity those poor mortals 
who have reached the summits of fame.) 
Facilis descensus Averno it has been written, and so it 
may be said that coming down a mountain is a very 
different thirig from going up. Yet it is not without its 
labor and risks. (It was coming down, indeed, that 
Mr. Fenton met his death.) The constant bending of the 
knees, being contrary to habit, is not a little irksome, 
and then if you don’t watch out you are in constant 
danger of stumbling. And if you do on a steep grade 
it may go ill with you. But, however, the heart is at 
rest and that makes all the difference in the world. If 
the mornent when one reaches the summit is one of 
extraordinary gratification, the moment of reaching the 
base is not without its gratification either. We feel 
that we are safe at last, and while this may be a prosaic 
sentiment, I am apt to think that the greatest hero is 
not unmoved by it. 
It is very amusing to observe the climbing ardor which 
some of the new arrivals at a mountain resort exhibit. 
There is the stout man who will take a car if he has only 
to go a block and a half in the city, he will ask airily, 
“How high is so and so?” He is told a matter of three or 
four thousand feet. “Pooh ! is that all ?” he exclaims, “I , 
guess I’ll manage that all right, all right.” Or there is his 
equally stout lady, who regards the mountain patroniz- 
ingly, while she bedecks her alpenstock with ribbons, 
and dreams complacently of jumping from crag to 
crag like a young gazelle. Or there is the frail youth 
with the cigarette heart, who speaks as if he were going 
to make the summit in a couple of bounds. Or there 
is the pale consumptive school teacher, who says she 
has come to the mountains, and she is just going to get 
on top of that hill, and don’t you forget it ! Or there is-^ 
but wherefore extend the list? We all know them— at 
least all of us who have been to the Catskills or Adir- 
ondacks. Well, they make their essays and then — then 
our amusement is apt to be mixed with pity or commis- 
eration, if indeed we have not to mourn a tragedy. 
For those who are in fit condition, mountain climbing 
is to be highly commended._ It hardens the muscles 
and expands the lungs and gives an agility which noth- 
ing else will. But of course we must go to the Rockies, 
'or the Andes, or the Alps for real mountain climbing. 
Compared to this, the climbing, of peaks in the Catskills 
or Adirondacks is mere child’s play. The perusal of the 
Books of Conway or Fitzgerald will often make one’s 
Breath come short, so full are they of thrilling situa- 
tions. Now ’tis scaling an almost perpendicular rock; 
again ’tis creeping over a glacier at an angle of forty- 
five degrees. Now ’tis tumbling into a snow-covered 
■crevasse; again ’tis hanging over a precipice by the 
eyelids. But these hazards only seem to whet the 
appetite for more of the same kind, and our adven- 
turer, after he has conquered Mt. Hope, say, will pine 
to be at Aconcagua. 
It seems that the enthusiasm of mountain climbing, 
when once contracted, can never be wholly gotten rid of. 
The case of Mr. Fenton is one in point. But it be- 
hooves men of mature or advanced years to restrain their 
enthusiasm. Some enthuse about love, and others about 
mountain climbing. The former, though rugged and 
slippery and arduous enough, is far less so than the lat- 
ter. Let all concerned take warning by poor Mr. Fen- - 
ton. A safe rule for any man past forty-five will be to 
stick to the level. Frank Moonan. 
New York, Octoher, 1905. 
National Park Game. 
Gardiner, Mont., Oct. 26. — I counted 450 antelope in 
front of town on the alfalfa field. The little creatures 
are getting quite indifferent to what is going on in town 
There are anywhere from fifty to 250 mule deer at Fort 
Yellowstone, and a few white-tails. Not enough snow 
to bring down the sheep yet. It is worth a trip here for 
anyone who has the time. E. H. 
