Bogus Indians. 
I WAS engaged as escort for a mail line in 1879, 
having charge of two men in each of three stations, 
the stations being about thirty miles apart. One of 
the men would accompany each mail wagon on a round 
trip, while I was supposed to boss the job and see that 
they did it. 
One of my men at the station at which I made my 
headquarters. Mountain Pass, was taken sick, I sent 
him in to the post; then took his place myself. 
The mail route ran from Fort Sill up in the Indian 
Territory to Fort Concho, Texas, and the mail was 
carried on buckboard wagons drawn by two half- 
broken bronco mules. Only the driver and his escort 
rode on the wagon. Some of these mules had not been 
broken at all. When a team of this kind had been 
hitched to a wagon and the ropes that held them to a 
post while they were being harnessed were taken off, 
the mules would start on the dead run and never stop 
short of the next station. The only way they could be 
stopped would be to knock them down with an ax. 
We had three drivers on this end of the route, two 
of whom should have been somewhere else. They 
were deathly afraid of Indians. Why they ever stayed 
here at all puzzled me. Pay of $35 or $40 a nionth and 
three meals a day, when they were where they could get 
it, of saleratus bread, fried bacon and black coffee, 
would be no inducement for me to do this work, 
whether I was afraid of Indians or not. I never wanted 
to go with these men if I could help it. 
There were Indians in this country at times. When 
thev came in here they generally came from the north 
or west, and after making a raid through here, went 
back there again. I did not expect the driver to fight 
Indians; that was what I had been sent here to do. 
Still I did not want him to get rattled, then let his 
team run into the Indians, or wherever it might take 
a notion to go, when I began firing. 
The third driver, Charley Parton, or as he was called 
Dutch Charley, was all right; he had served in our 
cavalry and was not afraid of Indians. 
The man I had with me at Mountain Pass was a 
new recruit that we had lately got from the East, and 
he also had no use for Indians then; he got over his 
fear of them later on. Dutch Charley would not let 
this recruit go with him. On some former trip, when 
he had the man with him, they had an Indian scare — 
there were no Indians at the end of it though — and 
the man had got rattled. Charley said the man had 
come near shooting him; that he was a coward. 
I told Charley what was wrong. These “smart 
Alecs” we had, had been stuffing the man with hair- 
raising stories of how the Indians would first burn 
him to death at the stake, then to make sure of it kill 
him some more, then scalp him. 
“You know the stuff we keep on hand to amuse a 
Rookie,” I told him, “you have been there yourself. 
That man is all right. Let a real Indian open on him 
and he will fight right enough.” 
Well, he would rather go alone than take him. 
I had just made a round trip with one of these tender- 
foot drivers who could see an Indian behind every rock 
and bush, and we had got into the station just as 
Charley was starting to go alone. That round trip 
had taken me two days and over 140 miles in a rough 
buckboard, and I did not much fancy jumping into 
another wagon nor tO' go over it again; but I would 
not let the man go alone. 
I could order the man that the driver did not want 
into his wagon, then tell the driver to pull out. I 
was in command here, and had it been one of the 
other drivers, that is what I should have done; but I 
did not want to do this with Charley. 
I swallowed my dinner, then started with Charley. 
We made the Concho, seventy miles, that day, and 
the next came as far as Old Fort Chatbourne on our 
way back. Here we were given a pair of these un- 
broken mules, about the meanest pair on the line. 
Charlej- always got them; the other fellows were afraid 
of them. 
The road out of Chatbourne for a mile or two ran 
through a grove of post oaks and was partly down-hill. 
Here our team began to jump and plunge, and the off 
mule got his left hind leg over the trace and tongue. 
He managed to get it back off the tongue, but still 
had it over the trace. He might keep it there now for 
the next thirty miles. If we tried to free him our 
heads would get kicked off. So we let the trace stay 
sawing there under his belly and against his leg; if it 
suited him, it ought tO’ suit us. 
The road ahead of us for the next twenty-five miles 
ran through a prairie thickly covered with bushes or 
chaparral. We had gone several miles over this road 
when I noticed two men off to the left and a mile or two 
ahead of us. They sat on their horses behind a bush that 
just showed their heads and shoulders above it, and were 
200 j'ards from the road. When we had got closer I saw 
that both of them had blankets pulled up around their 
shoulders. 
“Yonder are our Indians,” I told the driver. “But 
there is only one apiece for us.” 
We got our carbines up from where they lay under 
our feet, Charley standing his up between his legs while 
I held mine*. We were two miles away yet, but the mules 
were going over t-hes? two mileg very fast, J kept my 
eye on the men and also on the road in front of us. If 
they were Indians the two were not the only ones here. 
We were nearly opposite to them now, and, jumping- 
up, I braced my left leg against the seat to steady me, 
then sprung my lever. I had a Spencer and the driver 
had another one. 
“Don’t fire,” the driver told me, “if they let us go, let 
them go. I am afraid of this team.” 
I sat down again. I knew that the driver was right. 
If this team began to plunge again — and they would — 
they might get tangled up worse than they were now or 
break the tongue. We had- another team do that later 
on; they broke the tongue short off at the neck yoke. If 
that should happen then we might stop here and fight 
Indians all day, and we would stand a poor show with 
them among these bushes. 
The men sat there looking at us but never moved, and 
in a minute or two they were far in our rear. 
“I hate to leave those fellows without letting them 
know we are alive, Charley.” 
“So do I ; but it is best. We may get plenty more of 
them yet. Those are not the only ones here. I can’t ex- 
actly understand their game, though.” 
I had on two pistols, the clriver had none. 
“If we get into a hot place, Charley, take my left pistol. 
I leave it for you,” I told him. 
“I hardly think those were Indians,” I told the driver. 
“Of course they were. Have we not both of us seen 
enough Indians to be able to tell one at 200 yards? White 
men would not be fools enough to try to play off Indian 
on us. Every man in this country knows that we carry 
arms, and knows that you can shoot him on sight if he 
tries any funny business. That mail is your warrant.” 
We kept a good lookout ahead, but saw no more 
Indians. We got in sight of Mountain Pass at last, and 
about two miles south of it a wide creek crossed the road. 
The banks had been cut down at the ford, and we could 
not see the creek until nearly on top of it. 
“If we don’t see Indians down there,” Charley said, 
“we won’t see any more this trip.” 
“I am not sure we have seen any yet. I think we saw 
two white men back yonder. If those were Indians and 
did not want us — and it seems they did not — why did they 
let us see them at all ? They had only to dismount there 
to be out of sight.” 
“Oh, they were Indians.” He knew that. 
We were close to the creek now and a band of coyotes 
came charging up from it; they had just heard us coming. 
Charley gave a whoop. “Put your gun up,” he told me, 
“no more Indians to-day or them fellows would not be 
here.” 
The Pass ran between two mountains here, the one on 
the left was not quite as high as its neighbor on the 
right, and the stage ranch was built at the northern end 
of it. Just as we had got to the ford I happened to look 
across the left mountain, and saw a column of smoke 
rising behind it. There was nothing to burn over there 
except the station. 
“That’s what it is,” Charley said. “Now what will 
we do? We can’t pass them if they are there yet. I’ll 
do as you say.” 
We could not pass there if they did not want us to 
pass. The station stood on the left ‘ of the road ; the 
ground between if on that side was covered with bushes; 
the ground op the right of the road clear to the moun- 
tain half a mile away was cut up into deep gullies. 
“Go right ahead,” I told him. “We can’t turn back. If 
they are there yet and have not got the road closed dash 
right on. You do the driving. I’ll do the shooting. 
Then keep on to Phantom Hill ; that team can stand it. 
If we see we can’t get" through I’ll shoot your mules; 
they shan’t get them. Then you and I each take a mail 
pouch and get up among the rocks there. We can stand 
them off until help comes.” 
We were in the Pass now. It ran from north to south 
and was nearly straight, but the canon here was full of 
bushes and trees and the road made several turns here to 
get past trees. 
When half way through it, just before coming to one 
of these turns, an Indian rode around the curve. I 
jumped up and had my gun up and my finger on the 
trigger. The Indian was only thirty yards away; in an- 
other moment he would be a dead Indian. 
“Don’t shoot !” the Indian sung out, calling me by 
name, then yelled “Tonkaway.” 
I dropped back in my seat. He was a Tonkaway In- 
dian, one of the scouts from Fort Griffin, and my favorite 
hunting companion. _ _He and I had slept together many 
a night on the prairie when out looking for trails or 
turkeys. These Indians all went under English names, 
and this young fellow had taken my middle name, An- 
derson. I ought to be able to recognize him a mile away. 
I must be as badly rattled now as that man of mine 
would be. We swept past him just as he called out, 
“Some more Tonka way back there.” 
“All right, Anderson, I won’t shoot them now.” 
In a, minute we met half a dozen more of them under 
the first lieutenant of our troop. He wanted me to stop. 
“We can’t, sir. You will have to come to the station,” 
Ttold him. Or where the station had been. I was sure now 
it had been burned; else what was he doing out here? 
The troop was probably miles in the rear of him; he 
commanded the scouts. 
We were out of the Pass now, and the station stood 
Itere with nothing wrong about it. The prairie behind 
it was on fire, though. Charley and I shook hands. 
'■ .“I |v,op’t jiave to ghoot your ipules aftei all,” I told 
him, “though that is about all they are fit for.” | 
I he lieutenant came after us. We could stop now aii(' 
talk to him. He -w-anted to know if we had met an;; 
men. ^ I told him about the two “Indians.” i 
“Did }mu not recognize those Indians ?” he asked me. 
“No, sir; they were too> far away. Who are they?” 
“Graham and Finney. They have deserted. Do yot; 
think they will go through Chadbourne?” 
“No, sir, they won’t. Graham is not fool enough to d( 
it. I know I would not. He knows the country. Ht 
will go around Chadbourne.” 
“Well, I’ll get him, if I have to follow him to the Gul; 
of Mexico,” he said, and left. 
He would have followed them there, too, but he di(' 
not have to do it ; he caught them in a cornfield belo-y 
Fort Mason and brought them back. 
Graham did .go through Chadbourne, though. The pos' 
had been abandoned, but a sergeant of the Ninth Cavalr;^ 
(colored) and a party of men were here. Graham toll' 
him that a lot of Indians were after him, then kept on 
He took care not to tell the sergeant that the Indian; . 
were Tonkaways; and when the Indians got up here tH 
sergeant had his men out in this post oak grove deployed 
as skirmishers, and he sent the Tonkaways back in ij 
hurry. It took the lieutenant half an hour to hamme' 
into the. sergeant’s head that these Indians did not wan 
him or the post. 
This Graham was a friend of mine. I had known hin 
for years ; and had he come down to the road to-da;. 
where I could have seen who he was I should havi 
thrown the lieutenant off. his trail and let. him go; hi 
was one of but .very few men that I would do it for 
though. He belonged to my troop, and had been a ser 
geant in it, but had been broken for selling some oh 
carbines, then thrown into the guard house. He escapes 
from there. The other man, Finney, I knew little abou 
and cared less ; but I should have helped Graham off. H< 
told me after he was brought back that this was the onh 
wrong move he had made. He knew who I was an( 
knew I would not give him away. 
But I have begun this tale at the wrong end and wil 
have to begin again. 
Several months before this a large emigrant train g0‘ 
ing to California pulled into pur post, Fort Griffin, anc 
went into camp on the North Fork of the Brazos, belov 
the post, stopping here for several days to rest theii 
teams. They had over twenty wagons, part of them oj 
wagons and a good bunch of loose horses along. Thej 
were from Arkansas, and most of the older men had beet 
Confederate soldiers. These men were then general!} 
only rebels up at the North, but I had long ago found ou 
that it did not take me much longer to call a man a Con^ 
federate and his army the Confederate Army than it die 
to call him a rebel ; and it did not hurt his feelings quite 
so much. When these men had quit fighting sO' had I! 
and had not kept it up since in the papers and with my 
mouth. I always got along with them without having tc 
tell them that they were right and we were wrong. I did 
not have to take anything back, we had whipped them: 
but it was not necessary to tell them all about it once g 
day. I put in some time in their camp and got quite 
well acquainted with them. 
Their leader had been a Confederate captain. He had 
lost his left arm. He had brought it home from the army 
with him, but had since blown it off with a shotgun ; it 
can be done that way easy enough if you only know how 
to do it. That shotgun had to stand the blame for the' 
loss of several arms belonging to men I know. One iff 
particular had served with me in the Army of the Poto- 
mac three years, had been shot at times without number, 
and not hit; then, had come home and in less than al 
month had lost his arm by the shotgun route. 
Two or three days after this train had pulled out again 
our quartermaster found out that he was short about a' 
dozen old Spencer carbines that he had to arm his citizen 
teamsters_ with. A wagon never left here without the 
driver being armed, he carried his carbine in the front 
box. These guns had about outlived their usefulness, but 
would cost that quartermaster $22 a piece if he did not 
find them or have a board of survey sit on them. He 
most likely would get that board of 'survey. If we had 
lost them we would find them on the pay roll; and he, 
could swear them off. He was doing some swearing 
now, but it did not get him his guns. I got them, after- 
ward, though, without doing any swearing. 
The only Government property that I ever lost was an 
old condemned horse,_ saddle and bridle, that a Mexitan 
stole. The whole affair was worth $50, but I expected to 
have to pay $200. I had no more right to take this outfit 
than I would have had to take the captain’s horse. I 
was riding the plug to save a race horse I had. When I ; 
had about made up my mind to serve a year and pay for, 
it, the commanding officer sent for me, wrote but an affi-,' 
davit and told me to swear to it, then let the condemned' j 
horses alone after this and ride my own. Not every com-' 
mander would do that, though. This is called “swearing, : 
the horse off the papers.” Nobody has to pay for him ; 
now. The taxpayer paid for him when he was bought.;; ; 
We let it go at that. i 
Two or three days after the emigrant train had left us; 
a big detail under the same officer who was after Graham' 
now, had been sent after it to find those guns. ; 
As soon as we were clear of the post the lieutenant told 
me to start off, keep up a slow gallop and go on until; 
I overtook the train. If I did not get up to it before’ 
sunset, then rest a while, then keep on. When I found 
the train I -was to hold it until he came up. It wouH 
I 
