injured and, save our horses, was the only thing left outside.

There were several dogs at the Walls, but all of them cut for tall
timber when the fighting began and did not show up for several days.
All our horses were killed or run off. The five horses that had been
left in the stockade were quickly shot down, the Indians poking their
guns between the cottonwood pickets. Four head tied to a wagon near
Rath's were cruelly killed. I saw the Indians when they first rode up
and tried to cut the rope with a butcher knife. One was a gray mare
that was notorious for her vicious kicking. She would not let the
Indians approach her, so all were shot. My own saddle horse, which I
had owned for years and highly prized, was among the first to be shot,
and still lay tied to the wagon when I found him.

The Indians were not without military strategy. They had planned to
put every man of us afoot, thereby leaving us without means of escape
and powerless to send for aid save as some messenger might steal away
in the darkness, to traverse on foot the weary distance and the
dangerous and inhospitable region that lay between us and Dodge City.
By holding us constantly at bay and keeping fresh detachments of
warriors rallying to the attack they probably thought it possible to
exhaust our strength, and then overwhelm us. It should be remembered
that Adobe Walls was scarcely more than a lone island in the vast
sea of the Plains, a solitary refuge uncharted and practically
unknown. For the time we were at the end of the world, our desperate
extremity pressing heavily upon us, and our friends and comrades to
the north ignorant of what was taking place.

At the first dash, the Indians had driven off all the horses they had
found grazing in the little valley, and which Billy Ogg had gone in
the dusk of dawn to round up preparatory to our departure for the
hunting grounds. We counted fifty-six dead horses scattered in the
immediate vicinity of the buildings, some with arrows sticking in
their bodies, and others bored with bullets. Of these ten head
belonged to the hunters. Added to this slaughter were the twenty-eight
head of oxen that belonged to the Shadler brothers. In nearly every
instance, a horse that had been wounded far from the buildings would
stagger in our direction, apparently to get as close as possible to
his friends. There they would stand in agony until the Indians shot
them down, which happened in every instance.

The last victim of their cruelty was a mustang colt owned by Mrs.
Olds. This colt had been captured by some of the hunters among a bunch
of wild mustangs, and given as a present to Mrs. Olds who had petted
the graceful, affectionate little creature until it followed her from
place to place like a dog. Some rather romantic stories have been
written about this mustang colt and the part it played in the fight at
Adobe Walls. The truth, however, unadorned, is the colt remained near
the buildings throughout the fight, and when I saw it a feathered
arrow was sticking in its back. I never knew whether the colt died of
this wound or was afterwards shot to put the poor little thing out of
its misery.

When we found that we could move around outside the buildings without
danger of immediate attack, we blanketed the bodies of Tyler and the
Shadlers and dug a single grave near the north side of the corral.
There they lie to this day, without a stone to mark the spot. Many a
spring and many a summer have come and gone, and many a winter has
sent its blinding snows across the Panhandle since that far-off day.
The Indians and the buffaloes have vanished from the scene, and the
plow is running over the land where they ranged. After all, the boys
are sleeping as quietly and as restfully as if they had been buried in
the village churchyard back at their old homes.

Despite the utmost efforts of our savage foes to carry away their dead
and wounded, thirteen dead Indians were left on the ground near the
buildings, so closely under the muzzles of our guns that it would have
been suicide for their comrades to have attempted their recovery. By
the time we had buried our three comrades, darkness had come, and we
abandoned further outside work and returned to the protection of the
buildings, completely exhausted by the strain and excitement of the
day's fighting.

What we had experienced ate into a man's nerves. I doubt if any of us
slept soundly that June night. Somewhere out there in the darkness our
enemies were watching to see that nobody escaped from the beleaguered
adobe buildings. Inasmuch as Indians rarely, if ever, attack at night,
preferring the shadows of early morning when sleep is soundest, and
when there is less chance of their being ambushed, we felt reasonably
certain of not being attacked before daybreak. As for myself I dreamed
all night, the bloody scenes of the day passing in endless procession
through my mind--I could see the Indians charging across the valley,
hear the roar of the guns and the blood-curdling war-whoops, until
everything was a bewildering swirl of fantastic colors and movements.

All my comrades at Adobe Walls that day showed much courage. It is
with pride that I can recall its many incidents without the feeling
that there was the slightest inclination on the part of any man to
show the "white feather." To be nervous or fearful of death is no sign
of weakness--sticking at one's post and doing the thing that is to be
done is what counts.

"Bat" Masterson should be remembered for the valor that marked his
conduct. He was a good shot, and not afraid. He has worked his way up
in the world, and has long been a successful writer for a New York
newspaper. He was sheriff of Ford county, Kansas, at Dodge City, in
1876-77. It has always seemed strange to me that finally he should
prefer life in a big city, after having lived in the west. I have been
told that he has said that he had no wish again to live over those old
days, that they no longer appealed to him, but I never believed it.
Such a thing is contrary to human nature.

All that long night after the first day's fighting not a sound was
heard nor did an Indian come near. Next morning the pet crow was the
only living object to be seen in the valley, where he was holding high
carnival on the dead horses, flying from one carcass to another.

By this time such an awful stench was rising from the dead Indians and
dead horses that we were forced to get rid of them. As we had no teams
with which to drag them away, we rigged up several buffalo hides and
tied ropes to them, then rolled the bodies onto the hides and pulled
them far enough away to prevent the evil smell from reaching the
buildings. In this way three or four men could move a horse.

At one place, between Rath's and Hanrahan's, twelve horses lay piled
together. We dug a pit close at hand and rolled them in. The other
horses and the Indians were dragged off on the prairie and left to the
coyotes and buzzards.

On the second day we saw only one bunch of Indians. They were on a
bluff across the valley east of us. Some of our men opened up on them
at long range; the Indians returned the fire and disappeared. It was
plain to them that there was still a lot of fight left in us.

Our situation looked rather gloomy. With every horse dead or captured,
we felt pretty sore all round. The Indians were somewhere close at
hand, watching our every movement. We were depressed with the
melancholy feeling that probably all the hunters out in the camps had
been killed. Late that afternoon our spirits leaped up when we saw a
team coming up the valley from the direction of the Canadian. This
outfit belonged to George Bellfield, a German who had been a soldier
in the Civil War.

A black flag was flying from one of the buildings, and when Bellfield
and his companions saw it they thought we were playing some kind of
joke on them. In broken English Bellfield remarked to his men, "Dem
fellers tink day's damn smart, alretty." But when he drew nearer and
began seeing the dead horses, he put the whip to his team and came in
at a dead run.

When asked if they had been attacked by Indians, Bellfield and his men
said that they had not seen a sign of one. That same day Jim and Bob
Cator came in from their camp north of Adobe Walls.

  [Illustration: _High Bluff East of Adobe Walls on Which Dixon
                  Killed Indian at 1200 Yards._]

It was of greatest importance that somebody should go to Dodge City
for help. Henry Lease, a buffalo hunter, volunteered to undertake this
dangerous journey, Bellfield furnishing a horse. Lease started after
dark on the second day. He carefully examined his pistols and his big
"50." filled his belts with plenty of ammunition, shook hands with us
and rode away in the night. I doubt if there was a man who believed
that Lease would get through alive. It was a certainty, however, that
there would be a pile of dead Indians where he fell, if he were given
a fighting chance for his life.

At the same time we sent out two men to visit the different camps, and
warn the hunters that the Indians were on the war path. They were to
bring back the news if the hunters were dead.

On the third day a party of about fifteen Indians appeared on the side
of the bluff, east of Adobe Walls Creek, and some of the boys
suggested that I try my big "50" on them. The distance was not far
from three-fourths of a mile. A number of exaggerated accounts have
been written about this incident. I took careful aim and pulled the
trigger. We saw an Indian fall from his horse. The others dashed out
of sight behind a clump of timber. A few moments later two Indians ran
quickly on foot to where the dead Indian lay, seized his body and
scurried to cover. They had risked their lives, as we had frequently
observed, to rescue a comrade who might be not only wounded but dead.
I was admittedly a good marksman, yet this was what might be called a
"scratch" shot.

More hunters came in on the third day, and as news of the Indian
outbreak spread from camp to camp the boys were soon coming in like
blackbirds from all directions--and they lost no time making the trip.
By the sixth day there were fully a hundred men at the Walls, which
may have given rise to the statement so frequently made in after years
that all these men were in the fight.

The lone woman who was at Adobe Walls, Mrs. Olds, was as brave as the
bravest. She knew only too well how horrible her fate would be if she
should fall into the hands of the Indians, and under such
circumstances it would have caused no surprise had she gone into the
wildest hysterics. But all that first day, when the hand of death
seemed to be reaching from every direction, this pioneer woman was
cool and composed and lent a helping hand in every emergency.

By the fifth day enough hunters had arrived to make us feel
comparatively safe, yet it was expedient that we should protect
ourselves as fully as possible, so the men began fortifying the
buildings. None of them had been finished, nor had any port-holes been
cut in the walls. Our shooting was done from the windows and transoms.
With port-holes we could have killed many more Indians. A little
inclosure with sod walls was now built on top of Rath's store, and
another on top of Myer's for lookouts. A ladder led from the inside to
these lookouts.

On the fifth day William Olds was stationed in the lookout on Rath's
store, to watch for Indians while the other men were at work. The
lookout on the other buildings shouted that Indians were coming, and
all of us ran for our guns and for shelter inside the buildings. Just
as I entered Rath's store I saw Olds coming down the ladder with his
gun in his hand. A moment later his gun went off accidentally, tearing
off the top of Old's head. At the same instant Mrs. Olds rushed from
an adjoining room--in time to see the body of her husband roll from
the ladder and crumple at her feet, a torrent of blood gushing from
the terrible wound. Olds died instantly. Gladly would I have faced all
the Indians from the Cimarron to Red River, rather than have witnessed
this terrible scene. It seemed to me that it would have been better
for any other man there to have been taken than the husband of the
only woman among us. Her grief was intense and pitiable. A rough lot
of men, such as we were, did not know how to comfort a woman in such
distress. We did the best we could, and if we did it awkwardly, it
should not be set down against us. Had we been called upon to fight
for her, we would not have asked about the odds, but would have sailed
in, tooth and toe-nail. When we tried to speak to her we just choked
up and stood still. We buried Olds that same evening, about sixty feet
from the spot where he was killed, just southeast of Rath's store.

The Indians that had caused the alarm numbered between twenty-five and
thirty, and were up the valley of Adobe Walls Creek headed east.
Finally, they disappeared, and we did not see them again. They may not
have belonged to the attacking party, and were merely passing through
the country.

I always regretted that I did not keep the relics I picked up at Adobe
Walls. Mrs. Olds asked me for the lance when I returned to the
building, and I gave it to her. The other relics I took to Dodge City,
and gave them away to first one person and then another.

CHAPTER X.

The warriors that attacked Adobe Walls made an extensive raid. Writing
from Cheyenne Agency, at Darlington, in September, 1874, a Government
employee gave this information to the Commissioner of Indian Affairs:

"We are informed by Little Robe, White Shield, and other Cheyennes
that Lone Wolf, a Kiowa chief, was the first to commence the present
Indian trouble, by going with a band of his warriors on a raid into
Texas. Big Bow, a Comanche, soon followed. After these parties
returned the Kiowas, Comanches, and Cheyennes made the attack upon
Adobe Walls. After that fight the combined forces separated into a
number of war parties; some went into Texas, others into New Mexico
and Colorado, and still others along the Fort Sill and Wichita
Railroad and the Kansas border. We have had well-authenticated
accounts from Indians and from other sources that the number of
individuals killed in New Mexico amounted to 40; Colorado, 60; Lone
Wolf's first raid into Texas, 7; Big Bow's first raid into Texas, 4;
the Adobe Walls fight, 3; southwest from Camp Supply, buffalo-hunters,
3; between Camp Supply and Dodge, buffalo-hunters, 5; in the vicinity
of Medicine Lodge and Sun City, 12; on Crooked Creek, 2; on the trail
north from Cheyenne Agency, 5; on the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe
Railroad, 4; Washita and Fort Sill agencies and vicinity, 14; Dr.
Holloway's son, Cheyenne Agency, 1; Mr. Dougherty, beef contractor for
these three agencies reports at least thirty persons recently killed
in Texas, 30; total, 190.

"White Shield this day informed me that the Kiowa chief, White Horse,
on his last raid into Texas killed eleven persons and captured three
children. The children, he states, are now in the Kiowa camps. White
Shield says he has heard of several other captives with the Comanches
and Kiowas, but these three mentioned are all he has seen."

It has been said that the Indians abandoned the fight because of the
wounding of Quanah Parker, the Comanche chief, and again because the
"medicine" man found that his "medicine" was bad. To be more exact,
the Indians probably came to the conclusion that if they remained long
enough, charged often enough and got close enough, all of them would
be killed, as they were unable to dislodge us from the buildings.

In the fall of 1877, many of the Comanches became dissatisfied with
their life on the military reservation at Fort Sill and fled to their
old home on the Staked Plains. Chas. Goodnight was running his cattle
in the lower end of Palo Duro, and the Comanches were soon killing
beef. When he heard of it, he mounted his horse and rode down to where
they were and made a private peace treaty with them, agreeing to give
them two beeves a day as long as they remained, if they would not raid
his herd. His proposal was accepted, and the compact was kept until
the soldiers arrived and compelled the Comanches to return to their
reservation.

I met Quanah at that time, having gone out with the troops. As we were
riding along one day, he began talking about the fight at the Walls.
When I told him that I was one of the men that had fought against him,
he leaned over on his horse and shook my hand. We became good friends.

A number of different stories have been related about Quanah's mishaps
in the fight. A man who knew him well in later years said that Quanah
told him that early in the fight on the first day his horse was shot
and killed at a distance of between 400 and 500 yards from the
buildings. The horse fell suddenly, pitching Quanah headlong to the
ground his gun falling from his grasp and bounding away. When Quanah
saw that his horse was dead, he took shelter behind an old buffalo
carcass over which wood-rats had piled weeds and grass, making a heap
about waist high. Then something happened that Quanah was never able
to explain. He was struck a terrific blow between his shoulder blade
and his neck. He was badly stunned but managed to gain his feet and
ran and hid himself in a plum thicket. At first he thought somebody
had hit him with a heavy stone, but as only his own men could have
done this, he abandoned this notion and concluded that he had been hit
by a spent or deflected bullet. His right shoulder was useless most of
the day, and he could raise his gun with difficulty. He left the
battleground by riding behind another Indian.

Had it not been for the cracking of the cottonwood ridge pole in
Hanrahan's saloon, the Indians would have come upon us unawares and
all of us would have been killed, yet we never could find a single
thing wrong with the log. Every hunter that came in after the fight,
as well as every man at the Walls, examined that cottonwood ridge log
over and over to find the break, but it could not be found. The two
men who were sleeping in the building declared that the noise sounded
like the report of a rifle.

The fight at Adobe Walls broke up buffalo-hunting in that section just
as the Indians had planned. This was the last buffalo-hunting I ever
did as a business. Hanrahan owned a big outfit and lost everything.

We were now so strong in numbers and so many days had passed without
the coming of relief from Dodge that we organized a party of about
twenty-five men to go up there and find out why help was not coming.
Jim Hanrahan, the oldest man among us, was placed in command. It had
now been about a week since the fight.

A serious row was barely averted the night before we pulled out for
Dodge. Guns were scarce, and after the death of Olds "Bat" Masterson
had borrowed the Olds gun, a better gun than the one used by Masterson
who had lent his gun to another man. When it was learned that we were
going to Dodge, Mrs. Olds sent for her husband's gun. "Bat" sent back
word that he wanted to keep the gun until morning, promising that he
would promptly return it at that time. This was not agreeable to Mrs.
Olds, and she sent a man named Brown to Hanrahan's to get the gun
without further talk, as she feared that she might lose the gun.

Brown made a few mistakes in his language in discussing the matter
with Hanrahan, the latter having said several times that he would be
personally responsible for the gun and would guarantee that it was
returned to Mrs. Olds. Brown crowded matters until Hanrahan grabbed
him by the neck, shook him as a bulldog would a rabbit, and then threw
Brown out of the saloon, saying, "Get out of my building, you ----,
----"! Hanrahan drew his own gun and had Brown covered, ready to pull
the trigger, which I believe he would have done, if several of us had
not disarmed him, and then reasoned with him not to go any further,
because if shooting began there was no telling what might happen, as
both men had friends. Next morning "Bat" returned the gun to Mrs.
Olds.

The row spread ill feeling among a number of the men, and though blood
that had been spilt in fighting for each other was scarcely dry on the
ground, yet some were now ready to begin fighting each other. This was
the way of the west in those times--every tub had to stand on its own
bottom every minute of the day. It was the code that every able-bodied
man had to live by. If, however, a man should fall sick or be in bad
luck or crippled, the boys stuck to him until he was able to take care
of himself. The quarrel caused a little embarrassment to me, for as we
rode away next morning and were passing Leonard & Myers store, the men
there yelled out, "Goodbye, we don't care for any of you leaving,
except Billy Dixon."

We went up Short Creek until we got out on the Plains, where we left
the main-traveled freight road and bore more to the west, as we felt
that the Indians might be watching this main road. We made it to the
head of the Palo Duro the first day and went into camp. By making a
long ride our next camp was San Francisco Creek. Here we found where
buffalo-hunters had built a camp, and the body of Charley Sharp, who
had been killed by the Indians. He had been dead about a week, and the
body was shockingly mutilated. Sharp was a partner of Henry Lease, and
had remained in camp while Lease went to Adobe Walls for supplies.
Sharp bore the nickname "Dublin." Sharp's Creek in Beaver County,
Oklahoma, bears his name. We buried the body where we found it.

Bearing to the northeast, we came into the Dodge City and Adobe Walls
road at the Cimarron River. Another day's ride brought us to Crooked
Creek. We were now out of dangerous country, and reached Dodge City
safe and sound.

Ours was the first crowd to reach Dodge City after the fight at Adobe
Walls, and the whole town turned out to see us. Everybody was anxious
to learn the particulars, and we were asked thousands of questions.
News of what had happened at the Walls had driven most of the
buffalo-hunters to Dodge City, their camps stretching up and down the
Arkansas near town.

We learned that a relief party, composed of buffalo-hunters and
residents of Dodge, had started south in command of Tom Nixon. There
were about forty men in the party. Nixon was killed a year or two
later by "Mysterious Dave" Mathews. He was a well-known frontiersman.

We did not take life nor ourselves very seriously those days, and were
soon entering into the fun at Dodge with the greatest enthusiasm,
forgetful of the perils and hardships that so lately beset us. Things
at Dodge were run for the fullest enjoyment of the present--there was
not much material to occupy students of ancient history. The town had
changed little since we had gone away. Several of the men who had come
north from the Walls went straight to the depot and bought tickets for
their homes in the east. They had enough of the Indians to last them
several years, and were not ashamed to stand up and say so. Most of us
were "locoed" with the sports and pastimes of the land where the wool
was long and the customs wild. Drouth, scarcity of water-holes,
"northers," rattlesnakes, Indians, even the United States Army, could
not have driven us east of the ninety-ninth meridian of longitude.

The details of the fight at Adobe Walls were telegraphed to Fort
Leavenworth. Troops were not despatched at once to the scene of the
uprising, the Government taking the view that it would be best not to
move until an expedition large enough to whip the Indians to a
standstill could be sent into the field, General Miles reached Dodge
City about August, going south about ten days later.

My old friend Jack Callahan, of whom I have frequently spoken, had
just been employed as wagonmaster to go with the expedition. Meeting
me in the street, he offered to make me his assistant. I had made up
my mind to accept the position, but further down the street I came
across John Curley, whom I had known at Hays City in 1868, when he was
corral-master. Curley said that he believed he could get me placed as
scout and guide with General Miles, which exactly suited me. We went
at once to General Miles headquarters, where Curley introduced and
recommended me. After asking me a few questions, General Miles turned
to his adjutant and told him to put my name down. I held this position
from August 6, 1874, to February 10, 1883, a period of nine years.

The troops moved out of Dodge City to the Arkansas and camped. General
Miles assembled his scouts and tested their marksmanship by having
them shoot at a snag in the river, calling our names as he pointed out
the objects each was to shoot at. I never missed a single time.

Lieutenant Frank D. Baldwin, now a brigadier-general, was sent to
Adobe Walls with two scouts, six Delaware trailers and a troop of
cavalry to ascertain the situation of those who had remained at the
Walls. We got there in five days. Baldwin had not recently seen much
mounted service, and was very tired and saddle-worn by the time we
reached Adobe Walls Creek.

About 4 o'clock in the afternoon of the day in to the Walls, seeing
that night would come before we arrived, Baldwin ordered "Bat"
Masterson and myself to ride ahead and tell the boys that the troops
were coming. This precaution was taken lest the buffalo-hunters might
mistake us for Indians and fire into us. I rode up within speaking
distance and hollowed to the men and waved my hat, to let them know
who I was. Recognizing me, they gave me a hearty reception.

There were a dozen or more men in the buildings, where they had been
shut up for about two months. At no time had they ventured far away.
They had kept their horses in the stockade, fearful of an attack by
Indians; hay for the horses had been cut in the creek bottom. When Tom
Nixon and his men came down from Dodge, Mrs. Olds and the greater part
of the men went back with him. A number, however, preferred to remain
at the Walls, however great the risk, and did so. The boys cooked me a
hot supper and I was telling them stories of the outside world when
the soldiers arrived about 9 o'clock.

The water in Adobe Walls Creek was now so low that there was not
enough for the horses, so we pulled over on Bent's Creek, and camped
on a mesquite flat, just north of the old Adobe Walls ruins.

Next morning Lieutenant Baldwin asked me to walk over the battleground
with him. Practically all the men went with us, the distance being
about a mile. The coming of the soldiers had given a feeling of
security to the men at the Walls, who now turned out their horses to
graze. Everybody was laughing and talking and telling jokes, without
the slightest thought of danger. Some mischievous fellow had stuck an
Indian's skull on each post of the corral gate.

Tobe Robinson and George Huffman, civilians, rode down the valley
toward the Canadian River to hunt wild plums which at that time were
ripe and plentiful. They had been gone only a short time when our
attention was drawn to two horsemen riding at top speed from the
direction of the river toward the Walls. Behind them came ten or
fifteen Indians quirting their ponies at every jump. The two men were
Robinson and Huffman. They had unexpectedly run into this band of
Indians who were doing their best to circle and cut off the two white
men. There we stood a mile from camp where our arms lay, unable to
render these men any assistance in their desperate straits.

Robinson and Huffman were riding side by side and were able to
maintain this position until they were rounding a little knoll just
beyond the old ruins. Here an Indian managed to ride up near enough to
run his lance through Huffman's body. Huffman fell dead from his
horse.

The riderless horse continued running beside Robinson's, the Indian
still pursuing, grabbing again and again at the rein of Huffman's
horse. Finally, he seized the rein, checked the horse, and rode back
at full speed toward his companions. All the Indians now galloped away
and disappeared among the sand hills.

The tragedy had happened so quickly that we could hardly believe our
eyes. The Indians made no effort to mutilate or carry off Huffman's
body. Robinson reached us in safety, though shaking with excitement.
From the Indian standpoint, the warrior who had killed Huffman and
escaped with his horse had covered himself with glory. Sight of the
tents in the mesquite flat doubtless caused the other Indians to give
up the chase, or else both Huffman and Robinson would have been lanced
to death.

Considerable time was lost in rounding up our horses, which were
grazing in the valley, and getting into our saddles, to go in pursuit
of the Indians. Before we could reach the Canadian the Indians had
vanished in the sandhills of White Deer Creek. We found two fagged
ponies which the Indians had abandoned.

We carried Huffman's body to the Walls and dug a grave close beside
the others. This made five graves. Some day I hope a stone will be
erected to mark the spot. These men gave all they had--their lives--to
help make this a civilized country.

Next day the soldiers and the men we found at the Walls started south
to join the main command on Cantonment Creek. We crossed the Canadian
near the mouth of Tallahone, where J. A. King now has a cow ranch. On
Chicken Creek we found two Indians who had stopped for noon, and had
built a small fire. Their ponies were near at hand, tied to some
sagebrush, and their blankets had been spread out on the ground to
dry. We succeeded in killing one of them, but the other warrior
certainly had a fine quality of stuff in his "medicine" bag, for he
mounted his pony and got away, despite the bullets that split the air
around him. He was too hard-pressed to get his blanket and a butcher
knife which he left sticking in the ground.

The noise of our guns stampeded a big bunch of buffaloes further up
the creek. They kicked up such a cloud of dust that we thought a war
party of Indians, possibly the same that had attacked Adobe Walls, was
coming for us, and that we had stirred up the worst kind of trouble.
Happily, we were soon able to see the buffaloes, and the world looked
brighter.

"Old nigger" Clark, our cook, driving a six-mule team, with bedding,
provisions and cooking outfit, was a long way behind when the shooting
began. He raised a welt every time he hit a mule, and by the time he
drew near us he was making the fastest kind of time, his eyes sticking
out like white china saucers. When almost upon us, his mules took
fright and ran away, and could not be stopped until men rode to his
assistance.

Ours was the last party of white men ever to leave Adobe Walls. When I
passed that way the following fall with United States troops the
Indians had been there and burned the place to the ground. The walls
were still smoking.

General Miles was with us on this trip. We camped in sight of the
battleground. He asked hundreds of questions about the fight appearing
curious about every detail. The soldiers picked up everything they
could find in their hunt for souvenirs, even bones, which I am sure
were mostly horse bones. The Indians had gathered up all the bones of
their dead and wrapped them in new blankets, depositing them at the
foot of the hills on the east side of the valley of Adobe Walls Creek.
The soldiers threw away the bones and carried off the blankets. This
was in October. The Indians had not taken any of the provisions which
had been left in the buildings. They were a suspicious people, and
were fearful that the provisions might be poisoned.

While we were at Adobe Walls on this last trip, a dog that I had owned
at the time of the fight came into camp. Her appearance affected me
greatly, as I was fond of her and loved all dumb animals. She was a
highly intelligent setter bitch, named Fannie. She had disappeared
with the other dogs the day of the fight, and I was sure that she had
been killed by the Indians or had wandered away and starved. Seven
months had passed since I had seen her.

After we had petted her and fed her, Fannie disappeared. But her
absence was brief. She came back with something in her mouth and stood
wagging her tail, to attract attention. When we saw what she had
brought to us every man grinned and was as tickled as if he were a
boy. Fannie had brought a fat, bright-eyed little puppy in her mouth.
Dropping the little fellow gently on a pile of bedding, she frisked
about with delight as each of us tried to get hold of the pup and
fondle it. Fannie bounded away while we were "fussing" among ourselves
to see who should play with pup. She came with another pup in her
mouth, laying it beside the other one. She made two more trips, until
finally her family of four little ones were playing with each other on
our bedding. The father of these pups was the big Newfoundland that
belonged to the Shadler brothers, which the Indians killed while he
was trying to defend his masters at the very beginning of the Adobe
Walls fight. When we pulled out, Fannie and her babies were given a
snug place in the mess wagon.

CHAPTER XI.

The most perilous adventure of my life occurred September 12, 1874, in
what was known as the Buffalo Wallow Fight. My escape from death was
miraculous. The year 1874, as the reader doubtless may have observed,
brought me full measure of things I had dreamed of doing when a boy. I
came in contact with hostile Indians as frequently as the most devoted
warrior might wish, and found that it was serious business.

On September 10, 1874, General Nelson A. Miles, in command of the
troops campaigning against the Indians in the Southwest, was on
McClellan Creek, in the Panhandle, when he ordered Amos Chapman and
myself, scouts, and four enlisted men to carry dispatches to Fort
Supply. The enlisted men were Sergeant Z. T. Woodhull, Troop I;
Private Peter Rath, Troop A; Private John Harrington, Troop H; and
Private George W. Smith, Troop M, Sixth Cavalry. When General Miles
handed us the dispatches, he told us that we could have all the
soldiers we thought necessary. His command was short of rations. We
preferred the smallest possible number.

Leaving camp, we traveled mostly at night, resting in secluded places
during the day. War parties were moving in every direction, and there
was danger of attack at every turn. On the second day, just as the sun
was rising, we were nearing a divide between the Washita River and
Gageby Creek. Riding to the top of a little knoll, we found ourselves
almost face to face with a large band of Kiowa and Comanche warriors.
The Indians saw us at the same instant and, circling quickly,
surrounded us. We were in a trap. We knew that the best thing to do
was to make a stand and fight for our lives, as there would be great
danger of our becoming separated in the excitement of a running fight,
after which the Indians could the more easily kill us one by one. We
also realized that we could do better work on foot, so we dismounted
and placed our horses in the care of George Smith. In a moment or two
poor Smith was shot down, and the horses stampeded.

When Smith was shot, he fell flat on his stomach, and his gun fell
from his hand, far beyond his reach. But no Indian was ever able to
capture that gun; if one ventured near Smith, we never failed to bring
him down. We thought Smith was dead when he fell, but he survived
until about 11 o'clock that night.

  [Illustration: _Ermoke and His Band of Murderous Kiowa Raiders._]

I realized at once that I was in closer quarters than I had ever been
in my life, and I have always felt that I did some good work that day.
I was fortunate enough not to become disabled at any stage of the
fight, which left me free to do my best under the circumstances. I
received one wound--a bullet in the calf of my leg. I was wearing a
thin cashmere shirt, slightly bloused. This shirt was literally
riddled with bullets. How a man could be shot at so many times at
close range and not be hit I could never understand. The Indians
seemed to feel absolutely sure of getting us, so sure, in fact, that
they delayed riding us down and killing us at once, which they could
easily have done, and prolonged the early stages of the fight merely
to satisfy their desire to toy with an enemy at bay, as a cat would
play with a mouse before taking its life.

We saw that there was no show for us to survive on this little
hillside, and decided that our best fighting ground was a small
mesquite flat several hundred yards distant. Before we undertook to
shift our position a bullet struck Amos Chapman. I was looking at him
when he was shot. Amos said, "Billy, I am hit at last," and eased
himself down. The fight was so hot that I did not have time to ask him
how badly he was hurt. Every man, save Rath and myself, had been
wounded. Our situation was growing more desperate every minute. I knew
that something had to be done, and quickly, or else all of us in a
short while would be dead or in the hands of the Indians, who would
torture us in the most inhuman manner before taking our lives.

I could see where the buffaloes had pawed and wallowed a depression,
commonly called a buffalo "wallow," and I ran for it at top speed. It
seemed as if a bullet whizzed past me at every jump, but I got through
unharmed. The wallow was about ten feet in diameter. I found that its
depth, though slight, afforded some protection. I shouted to my
comrades to try to come to me, which all of them save Smith and
Chapman, commenced trying to do. As each man reached the wallow, he
drew his butcher knife and began digging desperately with knife and
hands to throw up the dirt round the sides. The land happened to be
sandy, and we made good headway, though constantly interrupted by the
necessity of firing at the Indians as they dashed within range.

It was probably about noon before we reached the wallow. Many times
that terrible day did I think that my last moment was at hand. Once,
when the Indians were crowding us awfully hard, one of the boys raised
up and yelled, "No use, boys, no use; we might as well give it up." We
answered by shouting to him to lie down. At that moment a bullet
struck in the soft bank near him and completely filled his mouth with
dirt. I was so amused that I laughed, though in a rather sickly way,
for none of us felt much like laughing.

By this time, however, I had recovered from the first excitement of
battle, and was perfectly cool, as were the rest of the men. We were
keenly aware that the only thing to do was to sell our lives as dearly
as possible. We fired deliberately, taking good aim, and were picking
off an Indian at almost every round. The wounded men conducted
themselves admirably, and greatly assisted in concealing our crippled
condition by sitting upright, as if unhurt, after they reached the
wallow. This made it impossible for the Indians accurately to guess
what plight we were in. Had they known so many of us were wounded
undoubtedly they would have rode in and finished us.

After all had reached the wallow, with the exception of Chapman and
Smith, all of us thinking that Smith was dead, somebody called to
Chapman to come on in. We now learned for the first time that
Chapman's leg was broken. He called back that he could not walk, as
his left knee was shattered.

I made several efforts to reach him before I succeeded. Every time the
Indians saw me start, they would fire such a volley that I was forced
to retreat, until finally I made a run and got to Chapman. I told him
to climb on my back, my plan being to carry him as I would a little
child. Drawing both his legs in front of me, and laying the broken one
over the sound one, to support it, I carried him to the wallow, though
not without difficulty, as he was a larger man than myself, and his
body a dead weight. It taxed my strength to carry him.

We were now all in the wallow, except Smith, and we felt that it would
be foolish and useless to risk our lives in attempting to bring in his
dead body. We had not seen him move since the moment he went down. We
began digging like gophers with our hands and knives to make our
little wall of earth higher, and shortly had heaped up quite a little
wall of dirt around us. Its protection was quickly felt, even though
our danger was hardly lessened.

When I look back and recall our situation, I always find myself
thinking of how my wounded companions never complained nor faltered,
but fought as bravely as if a bullet had not touched them. Sometimes
the Indians would ride toward us at headlong speed with lances
uplifted and poised, undoubtedly bent upon spearing us. Such moments
made a man brace himself and grip his gun. Fortunately, we were able
to keep our heads and to bring down or disable the leader. Such
charges proved highly dangerous to the Indians, and gradually grew
less frequent.

Thus, all that long, hot September day the Indians circled round us or
dashed past, yelling and cutting all kinds of capers. All morning we
had been without water, and the wounded were sorely in need of it. In
the stress and excitement of such an encounter, even a man who has not
been hurt grows painfully thirsty, and his tongue and lips are soon as
dry as a whetstone. Ours was the courage of despair. We knew what
would befall us if we should be captured alive--we had seen too many
naked and mangled bodies of white men who had been spread-eagled and
tortured with steel and fire to forget what our own fate would be. So
we were determined to fight to the end, not unmindful of the fact that
every once in a while there was another dead or wounded Indian.

About 3 o'clock a black cloud came up in the west, and in a short time
the sky shook and blazed with thunder and lightning. Rain fell in
blinding sheets, drenching us to the skin. Water gathered quickly in
the buffalo wallow, and our wounded men eagerly bent forward and drank
from the muddy pool. It was more than muddy--that water was red with
their own blood that had flowed from their wounds and lay clotting and
dry in the hot September sun.

The storm and the rain proved our salvation. The wind had shifted to
the north and was now drearily chilling us to the bone. An Indian
dislikes rain, especially a cold rain, and these Kiowas and Comanches
were no exception to the rule. We could see them in groups out of
rifle range sitting on their horses with their blankets drawn tightly
around them. The Plains country beats the world for quick changes in
weather, and in less than an hour after the rain had fallen, the wind
was bitterly cold. Not a man in our crowd had a coat, and our thin
shirts were scant protection. Our coats were tied behind our saddles
when our horses stampeded, and were lost beyond recovery. I was
heart-sick over the loss of my coat, for in the inside pocket was my
dearest treasure, my mother's picture, which my father had given me
shortly before his death. I was never able to recover it.

The water was gathering rapidly in the wallow and soon had reached a
depth of two inches. Not a man murmured. Not one thought of surrender.
The wounded were shivering as if they had ague.

We now found that our ammunition was running low. This fact rather
appalled us, as bullets, and plenty of them, were our only protection.
At the fight at the Walls, not only was there plenty of ammunition,
but the buildings themselves gave confidence. Necessity compelled us
to save every cartridge as long as possible, and not to fire at an
Indian unless we could see that he meant business and was coming right
into us.

Late in the afternoon somebody suggested that we go out and get
Smith's belt and six-shooter, as he had been shot early in the fight
and his belt undoubtedly was loaded with cartridges.

Rath offered to go, and soon returned and said that Smith was still
alive, which astonished us greatly, as well as causing us to regret
that we had not known it earlier in the day. Rath and I at once got
ready to bring Smith to the buffalo wallow. By supporting the poor
wounded fellow between us, he managed to walk. We could see that there
was no chance for him. He was shot through the left lung and when he
breathed the wind sobbed out of his back under the shoulder blade.
Near the wallow an Indian had dropped a stout willow switch with which
he had been whipping his pony. With this switch a silk handkerchief
was stuffed into the gaping bullet hole in Smith's back.

Night was approaching, and it looked blacker to me than any night I
had ever seen. Ours was a forlorn and disheartening situation. The
Indians were still all around us. The nearest relief was seventy-five
miles away. Of the six men in the wallow, four were badly wounded, and
without anything to relieve their suffering. We were cold and hungry,
with nothing to eat, and without a blanket, coat or hat to protect us
from the rain and the biting wind. It was impossible to rest or sleep
in the two inches of water in wallow.

I remember that I threw my hat, a wide-brimmed sombrero, as far from
me as I could when our horses stampeded--the hat was in my way and too
good a target for the Indians to shoot at.

We were unable to get grass for bedding, as the whole country had been
burnt off by the Indians. It was absolutely necessary, however, that
the men should have some kind of bed to keep them off the cold, damp
ground. Rath and I solved the problem by gathering tumble-weeds which
in that country the wind would drive for miles and miles, until the
weeds lodged and became fast. Many of them were bigger than a bushel
basket, and their twigs so tough that the weeds had the "spring" of a
wire mattress. We crushed the weeds, and lay down on them for the
night, though not a man dared close his eyes in sleep.

By the time heavy darkness had fallen every Indian had disappeared.
Happily, they did not return to molest us during the night. There was
a new moon, but so small and slender that in the clouded sky there was
little light. While there was still light, I took the willow switch
and sat down on the edge of the bank and carefully cleaned every gun.

While I was cleaning the guns, we held a consultation to decide what
would be best for us to do. We agreed that somebody should go for
help. No journey could have been beset with greater danger. Rath and I
both offered to go. The task was squarely up to us, as all the other
men were injured. I insisted that I should go, as I knew the country,
and felt confident that I could find the trail that led to Camp
Supply. I was sure that we were not far from this trail.

My insistence at once caused protest from the wounded. They were
willing that Rath should go, but would not listen to my leaving them.
Once I put my hand on my gun with the intention of going anyway, then
yielded to their wishes against my better judgment, and decided to
remain through the night. The wounded men relied greatly upon my skill
as a marksman.

Bidding us goodbye, Rath disappeared in the darkness. After he had
been gone about two hours he came back, saying that he could not find
the trail.

By this time Smith had grown much worse and was begging us in piteous
tones to shoot him and put an end to his terrible sufferings. We found
it necessary to watch him closely to prevent his committing suicide.

There was not a man among us who had not thought of that same
melancholy fate. When the fight was at its worst, with the Indians
closing in on all sides, and when it seemed that every minute would be
our last, I was strongly tempted to take my butcher knife, which I
kept at razor edge, and cut off my hair. In those days my hair was
black and heavy and brushed my shoulders. As a matter of fact, I was
rather proud of my hair. Its luxuriance would have tempted any Indian
to scalp me at the first opportunity. I had a further and final
plan--to save my last bullet for self destruction.

Poor Smith endured his agony like a brave soldier. Our hearts ached
but we could do nothing to relieve his pain. About 10 o'clock that
night he fell asleep and we were glad of it, for in sleep he could
forget his sufferings. Later in the night one of the boys felt of him,
to see how he was getting along. He was cold in death. Men commonly
think of death as something to be shunned. There are times, however,
when its hand falls as tenderly as the touch of a mother's hand, and
when its coming is welcomed by those to whom hopeless suffering has
brought the last bitter dregs of life. We lifted the body of our dead
comrade and gently laid it outside the buffalo wallow on the mesquite
grass, covering the white face with a silk handkerchief.

Then the rest of us huddled together on the damp ground, and thought
of the morrow. That night is indelibly stamped in my memory; many a
time have its perils filled my dreams, until I awoke startled and
thrilled by a feeling of imminent danger. Every night the same stars
are shining way out there in the Panhandle, the winds sigh as
mournfully as they did then, and I often wonder if a single settler
who passes the lonely spot knows how desperately six men once battled
for their lives where now may be plowed fields, and safety and the
comforts of civilization.

Like everything else, the long night finally came to an end, and the
sun rose clear and warm next morning. By this time all the men were
willing that I should go for help, and I at once started. Daylight
exposed me to many dangers from which the night shielded me. By moving
cautiously at night, it was possible to avoid the enemy, but if
surprised, to stand a good chance of escape. In the daytime, however,
the enemy could lie in hiding and scan the country in every direction.
On the Plains, especially in the fall when the grass is brown, the
smallest moving object may be perceived by the trained eye at an
astonishingly long distance. I knew that I must proceed with utmost
caution, lest I fall into an ambush or be attacked in the open by
superior numbers.

I had traveled scarcely more than half a mile when I struck the plain
trail leading to Camp Supply. Hurrying along as rapidly as possible
and keeping a constant lookout for Indians, I checked myself at the
sudden sight of an outfit that seemed to cover about an acre of
ground, two miles or so to the northwest. The outfit at first did not
appear to be moving and I could not tell whether it was made up of
white men or Indians. I skulked to a growth of tall grass and hid for
a while. My nerves were too keen to endure hiding and waiting, so I
stole back and took another look. The outfit was moving toward me.
Shortly I was able to see that they were troops--Indians always
traveled strung out in a line, while these were traveling abreast.

I never felt happier in my life. I whanged loose with my old "50" to
attract the attention of the soldiers, and saw the whole command come
to a halt. I fired my gun a second time, which brought two soldiers to
me. I told them of our condition, and they rode rapidly back to the
command and reported. The commanding officer was Major Price, with a
troop, accompanying General Miles' supply train which was on its way
with supplies from Fort Supply to field headquarters.

The same Indians that we had been fighting had been holding this
supply train corralled for four days near the Washita River. Major
Price, luckily for the outfit, happened along and raised the siege.
The Indians had just given up the attack when we ran into them.

Major Price rode over to where I was waiting, bringing his army
surgeon with him. I described the condition of my comrades, after
which Major Price sent the surgeon and two soldiers to see what could
be done for the wounded. I pointed out the place, which was about a
mile distant, and asked the surgeon if he thought he could find it
without my going along, as Major Price wanted me to tell him about the
fight. The surgeon said that he could and rode away.

I was describing in detail all that had happened when I looked up and
saw that the relief party was bearing too far south. I fired my gun to
attract their attention, and then waved it in the direction which they
were to go. By this time they were within gunshot of my comrades in
the buffalo wallow. To my utter astonishment, I heard the roar of a
gun and saw a puff of smoke rise from the wallow--one of the men had
fired at the approaching strangers, killing a horse ridden by one of
the soldiers.

I ran forward as rapidly as possible, not knowing what the men would
do next. They were soon able to recognize me, and lowered their guns.
When we got to them the men said that they had heard shooting--the
shots I had fired to attract the attention of the troops--and supposed
that the Indians had killed me and were coming for them. They were
determined to take no chances, and shot at the surgeon and the two
soldiers the moment they got within range.

Despite the sad plight of the wounded men, about all the surgeon did
was to examine their injuries. The soldiers turned over a few pieces
of hardtack and some dried beef, which happened to be tied behind
their saddles. Major Price refused to leave any men with us. For this
he was afterwards severely censured, and justly. He would not even
provide us with firearms. Our own ammunition was exhausted and the
soldiers carried guns of different make and caliber from ours.
However, they said they would let General Miles know of our condition.
We were sure that help would come the moment General Miles heard the
news. At the time we were glad just to have seen these men and did not
think much about how they treated us.

We watched and waited until midnight of the second day after the
troops had passed before help came. A long way off in the dark we
heard the faint sound of a bugle. It made us swallow a big lump in our
throats and bite our lips. Nearer and clearer came the bugle notes.
Our nerves were getting "jumpy," so strong was our emotion. We fired
our guns, to let them know where we were, and soon the soldiers came
riding out of the darkness.

As soon as the wounded could be turned over to the surgeon, we placed
the body of our dead comrade in the wallow where we had all fought and
suffered together, and covered it with the dirt which we had ridged up
with our hands and butcher knives for breastworks. Then we went down
on the creek where the soldiers had built a big fire and cooked a meal
for us.

Next day the wounded were sent to Camp Supply where they were given
humane and careful treatment. Amos Chapman's leg was amputated above
the knee. Amos was as tough as second growth hickory and was soon out
of the hospital and in the saddle. All the men recovered and went
right on with the army. Chapman could handle a gun and ride as well as
ever, the only difference being that he had to mount his horse from
the right side, Indian fashion.

I should like once more to meet the men with whom I fought in the
Buffalo Wallow Fight, but I seldom hear from them. When I last heard
of Amos Chapman he was living at Seiling, Oklahoma. My last letter
from Sergeant Woodhull was dated Fort Wingate, New Mexico, 1883. This
was shortly after Colonel Dodge had published his book, "Our Wild
Indians," in which he attempted to give a circumstantial account of
the Buffalo Wallow Fight. Sergeant Woodhull was displeased with the
statement of facts, and resented the inaccuracies.

  [Illustration: _Drew Dixon, Son of "Billy" Dixon._ Like His Father,
                  a Sure Shot.]

I guess I am partly to blame in the matter. When Colonel Dodge was
writing his book, he wrote and asked me to send him an account of the
fight. I neglected to do so, and he obtained his information from
other sources. If my present narrative differs from that of Colonel
Dodge, all I can say is that I have described the fight as I saw it.
In saying this I do not wish to place myself in the attitude of
censuring Colonel Dodge. However, it should be reasonably apparent
that a man with a broken leg cannot carry another man on his back. In
correcting this bit of border history I repeat that every one of my
comrades in that fight conducted himself in the most heroic manner,
bravely doing his part in every emergency. Below will be found the
text of the report which General Miles sent to Washington:

    Headquarters Indian Territory Expedition,
    Camp on Washita River, Texas,
    September 24, 1874.

    Adjutant General, U.S.A.,
    Thro Offices Asst. Adjt. Gen., Headquarters
    Department and Military Division of the Missouri and of the Army.

    General:

    I deem it but a duty to brave men and faithful soldiers to bring
    to the notice of the highest military authority, an instance of
    indomitable courage, skill and true heroism on the part of a
    detachment from this command, with the request that the actors may
    be rewarded, and their faithfulness and bravery recognized, by
    pensions, medals of honor, or in such way as may be deemed most
    fitting. On the night of the 10th inst. a party consisting of
    Sergt. Z. T. Woodhull, Co. I; Privates Peter Rath, Co. A; John
    Harrington, Co. H. and George W. Smith, Co. M, Sixth Cavalry;
    Scouts Amos Chapman and William Dixon, were sent as bearers of
    despatches from the camp of this command on McClellan Creek to
    Camp Supply, I.T.

    At 6 a.m., of the 12th, when approaching the Washita River, they
    were met and surrounded by a band of Kiowa and Comanches, who had
    scarcely left their Agency; at the first attack all were struck,
    Private Smith mortally, and three others severely wounded.
    Although enclosed on all sides and by overwhelming numbers, one of
    them succeeded, while they were under a heavy fire at short range,
    and while the others, with their rifles, were keeping the Indians
    at bay in digging with his knife and hands a slight cover. After
    this had been secured, they placed themselves within it, the
    wounded walking with brave and painful efforts, and Private Smith,
    though he had received a mortal wound, sitting upright within the
    trench, to conceal the crippled condition of their party from the
    Indians.

    From early morning till dark, outnumbered 25 to 1, under an almost
    constant fire and at such short range that they sometimes used
    their pistols, retaining the last charge to prevent capture and
    torture, this little party of five defended their lives and the
    person of their dying comrade, without food, and their only drink
    the rain water that collected in a pool mingled with their own
    blood.

    There is no doubt but that they killed more than double their
    number, besides those that were wounded. The Indians abandoned the
    attack on the 12th at dark.

    The exposure and distance from the command which were necessary
    incidents of their duty, were such, that for thirty-six hours from
    the first attack, their condition could not be known, and not till
    midnight of the 13th could they receive medical attendance and
    food, exposed during this time to an incessant cold storm.

    Sergt. Woodhull, Private Harrington and Scout Chapman were
    seriously wounded. Private Smith died of his wounds on the morning
    of the 13th. Private Rath and Scout Dixon were struck but not
    disabled.

    The simple recital of their deeds, and the mention of the odds
    against which they fought, how the wounded defended the dying, and
    the dying aided the wounded by exposure to fresh wounds after the
    power of action was gone, these alone present a scene of cool
    courage, heroism and self-sacrifice which duty, as well as
    inclination prompts us to recognize, but which we cannot fully
    honor.

    Very Respectfully,

    Your obedient servant,

    (Signed) NELSON A. MILES,
    Col. and Bvt. Maj. Gen'l. U.S.A., Commanding.

    Headquarters Indian Territory Expedition,
    Camp on Oasis Creek, I.T.,
    Oct. 1, 1874.

    Official copy respectfully furnished William Dixon.
    By command of Bvt. Maj. Gen'l. Miles.

    G. W. BAIRD,
    Asst. Adjt. 5th Inf., A.A.A. Gen'l.

General Miles had both the heart and the accomplishments of a soldier,
and Congress voted to each of us the Medal of Honor. He was delighted
when the Medals came from Washington. With his own hands he pinned
mine on my coat when we were in camp on Carson Creek, five or six
miles west of the ruins of the original Adobe Walls. The text of the
official correspondence concerning the award of the Medals of Honor is
appended:

    Headquarters Indian Territory Expedition,
    Camp near Fort Sill, I.T.,
    January 24th, 1875.

    General Order No. 28:

    The Commanding Officer takes pleasure in announcing to the troops
    of this Expedition that his recommendation that the distinguished
    heroism displayed on the 12th of September, 1874, by Sergeant Z.
    T. Woodhull of Co. I, Private John Harrington, Co. H, and Peter
    Rath Co. A, 6th Cavalry, and Scouts Amos Chapman and William Dixon
    be recognized, has been approved by the highest military
    authority, and that the Congress has bestowed upon each of these
    men a Medal of Honor. It is now his pleasing duty to bestow upon
    men who can worthily wear them, these tokens of the recognition
    and approval of their Government.

    By Command of Bvt. Maj. Gen'l. N. A. Miles.

    (Signed) G. W. BAIRD,
    1st Lieut. and Adjutant 5th Infty.,
    A.A.A. General.

    Headquarters Ind. Ter. Expedition.
    Camp on Canadian, Texas.
    December 24, 1874.

    Mr. William Dixon,

    Sir:

    I take pleasure in presenting to you a Medal of Honor, as a
    recognition by the Government of your skill, courage and
    determined fortitude, displayed in an engagement with (5) others,
    on the 12th of September, 1874, against hostile Indians, in
    overwhelming numbers.

    This mark of honor, I trust, will be long worn by you, and though
    it in a small degree compensates for the hardships endured, yet it
    is a lasting emblem of distinguished services, well earned in a
    noble cause. It will ever recall the fact to you and yours, of
    having materially aided in clearing this fair country of ruthless
    savages, and freeing it from all time to civil settlements. This
    must be an ever increasing gratification to you.

    This badge of honor is most worthily bestowed.

    Respectfully, &c.,

    NELSON A. MILES,
    Bvt. Maj. Gen'l. U.S. Army,
    Commanding.

It was always my intention to go back and mark the spot where the
Buffalo Wallow Fight took place and where George Smith still lies
buried. Procrastination and the remoteness of the spot have prevented
my going.

CHAPTER XII.

In civilized surroundings a Plains blizzard is bad enough; in a wild
country, a blizzard is more appalling than a tornado, for the latter
may be dodged, but the blizzard is everywhere and sets its teeth into
a man's vitals, wherever he may be. A blizzard brings a feeling of
terror that even the strongest man can hardly resist. I have seen men
moaning and trembling in a blizzard, as if the last drop of courage
had oozed from their bodies. They were not cowards. Their distress was
due to an instinctive, animal-like feeling that death was everywhere
about them, invisible, dread and mysterious. In time, however, this
fearfulness wears away, but not until death itself has begun fastening
upon the freezing body. As in drowning, death by freezing is
comparatively painless. In their last hours, natural death usually is
kind to all creatures.

In going from the Canadian River to Camp Supply, March 17, 1875, with
a company of soldiers, I met with an experience in a blizzard that I
never forgot. The snow had drifted so deep that the horses soon grew
exhausted. My own horse was badly jaded. The men were suffering with
the cold so intensely that they were unruly and hard to control. It
was my duty to keep the lead. I was sure that I was going in the right
direction, though it was impossible to see more than ten steps ahead.

Occasionally, one of the men would ride ahead of me, contrary to
orders, and finally I told the lieutenant who was in command that the
men would have to keep back or we would lose our way. He forced them
to stay behind. My horse became so fatigued that he began staggering,
and I knew that it was no longer safe to ride him, as he could not be
trusted to hold his course, so I dismounted and led him. A soldier,
compelled to remain in his saddle, said that he was afraid he was
freezing, and asked me to mount his horse that he might have an excuse
for walking. I then turned my horse loose.

Pretty soon we came to the forks of a draw. I took the one that I
thought led to camp and, luckily, was right. Had we turned up the
other prong we would have frozen to death. We had gone only a short
distance from the forking when I noticed that the soldier on foot was
not in sight. I asked the lieutenant if it might not be well to go
back and look for the straggler.

The lieutenant merely shook his head and motioned for me to keep
going. His manner displeased me, until I learned that he was so cold
that he could not open his mouth--his jaws were set and practically
locked.

After riding a few miles, we struck camp. There was plenty of timber,
and we soon had a roaring fire, and thawed out. The soldier on foot
was not with us. Three or four of us went back to where the draw
pronged, and by the light of a lantern could plainly see his tracks in
the snow, and where he had taken the wrong route, going off down the
east prong, instead of following us.

We hunted and hunted for him, but could not find him. To our
amazement, he came into camp next morning, more dead than alive. His
feet were frozen solid, and had to be amputated.

Panhandle weather in the very early spring is the most unreliable in
the world. We crawled into our blankets that night, numb and
shivering, the wind howling in the timber, and the snow drifting and
drifting around our tents. How about next morning? Well, the sun came
up next morning, smiling and warm; a soft wind was whispering from the
south, and by noon the hills were running with water from the melted
snow. When the snow melted from the wild plum bushes we saw that they
were in full bloom, and there was not a prettier sight in the
Panhandle. There were worlds of plums that year. In two weeks the
grass was green everywhere on the Plains, and spring came with a rush.

All old-timers in the southwest remember Jack Stilwell, scout, guide
and good fellow. One of his exploits was to escape at night from the
island where Major Forsythe, in the Battle of the Arickaree, was
surrounded by Indians, and go to Fort Wallace for relief. Once Jack
and I were out on the Staked Plains with nothing to eat. Jack
persuaded me to kill a wild horse for meat. A large herd was grazing
at the edge of a lake, and I shot a two-year-old filly. We built a
fire and cooked some of the meat. Doing my level best, I was never
able to swallow a single mouthful--always it stuck in my throat. I
preferred to go hungry rather than try to eat it. The meat looked
good, but the name was too much for me.

Stilwell was a frolicsome fellow and played many pranks. One time we
were going from Camp Supply to Dodge City. Just to make fun on the
trip, Jack told me that when we stopped for dinner he would dare me to
shoot at his ears, to see what the army officers would do. Noon came
and while the officer in charge was looking in our direction, Jack
said:

"Billy, I'll bet you can't hit my ear with your '50' rifle."

"All right," I answered, "stand out there where you will not be in the
way of the other gentlemen, and I'll see what I can do."

The old army officer looked at us with disgust and later with horror.
I was a crack shot, and Jack knew he was safe. Taking careful aim, I
fired just as close to his ear as I dared with safety. Jack dodged and
scratched his ear as if a hornet had stung him.

"You come pretty close. Try again," he said.

I shot a second time, and Jack repeated his scratching performance,
declaring that he was sure I barely missed breaking the skin.

The old army officer scowled at us as if we were devils. He told the
men at the next station that we were the toughest bunch he was ever
with, and that we had been shooting at each other all day. When the
corral master wanted the old officer to ride the rest of the way with
us, he positively and emphatically, even profanely refused, saying
that we were the wrong kind of roosters for him to be with.

The rescue of the four Germain sisters who had been captured by the
Indians was a romantic incident of the Miles expedition to subdue the
hostile tribes in 1875. The circumstances surrounding their capture by
the Indians shocked the whole country and inflamed the border
settlements with a spirit of vengeance that would have wrought the
destruction of every Indian west of the Mississippi had it been
possible to attack the marauders at close quarters. From time to time
news came from the Indian country that the girls were still alive, and
mothers everywhere were praying for the restoration of the captives to
their friends.

The fate of the Germain family was not unlike that of others in those
troubulous times. John Germain was a poverty-stricken farmer at Blue
Ridge, Fannin County, Georgia, when he returned from service in the
Confederate Army in the Civil War. Contending armies had pillaged and
devastated his neighborhood. Germain decided that he would recruit his
broken fortune by moving west. With a yoke of oxen and his wife and
children, he set out in April, 1870, halting for a time in central
Tennessee, where he remained until the following September. Southern
Missouri invited him further westward, and he moved to that State,
where he took a homestead and lived three years. He was sick and
discouraged, and continued his way to Elgin, Kansas. Unrelenting
misfortune met him at every turn. His children, as he believed, were
predisposed to tuberculosis. On the other side of the Plains was
Colorado with its mountain air and its pure water. Germain yoked his
oxen and once more started for the promised land.

Catherine Germain, the oldest of the four captured sisters, has
related the incidents of that journey and its final catastrophe in
these words:

"We left Elgin August 10, 1874. We journeyed along till we came to the
Smoky Hill River. Here we were told by the people living along the
line that we had better keep along the river, so we could get water.
They said we could not get water if we went along the railroad. And if
we took the old trail by the river we would not see a house for over a
hundred miles. We took the river road and everything seemed perfectly
quiet. We met several persons on our several days' journey up the
river.

"Father said we would start early and make Fort Wallace the last day.
I knew that he felt uneasy all that lonely way, but we had no
indications of danger, and now we were so near to the settlement he
seemed more at ease.

"It was September 11. We were just starting as the sun began to peep
over the hills. Father took his gun and started on ahead of the wagon.
My brother and I had gone to drive the cows along. We were driving two
cows and two yearlings. We had just turned them toward the moving
wagon when we heard yells.

"On looking we saw Indians dashing down upon the wagon and father. We
were about a hundred yards off and we started to run in a northeastern
direction. We got something like a half mile but we were followed by
the Indians. Brother was killed and I was taken back to the wagon,
only to see that father, mother and my oldest sister had been killed.
Then they killed my sister younger than me. They thought they were
taking the four youngest because I was smaller than my sister they
killed last. This was all done in a very short time.

"Leaving the wreck behind, they then started south, and took the
cattle along some distance; then they killed them, ate what they
wanted and left the carcasses lay. That afternoon a thunderstorm came
up and the rain poured down, but we had no shelter. When they stopped
for the night they tried to fix blankets up for shelter, but made a
poor attempt at it. There were nineteen Indians, seventeen men and two
squaws. The little squaw (we called her) seemed very sorry for us and
would try to prepare something for us to eat, but the big one was of a
different nature and not much inclined to do anything for our benefit.
If anything was done to make our distress greater, she seemed to enjoy
it hugely.

"These Indians had left their main tribe on the plains of Texas and
come on a raiding tour. There was a raiding party of about a hundred
in the country at that time. We did not see the big party."

When an Indian war party moves rapidly over long distances in
dangerous country, they become fagged just as do white men. When this
band reached the Arkansas, a halt was made to forage for meat. Cattle
were killed wherever they could be found, and the carcasses abandoned
to wolves after the Indians had eaten their fill. The party seemed
fearful that soldiers were following them.

"We travelled at a lively gait and I know they were expecting to be
followed," wrote Catherine. "They scarcely spoke above a whisper. We
travelled speedily till toward morning, then stopped till daylight. We
were pretty hungry some days, for we did not have our meals very
regular; once a day and sometimes not that often. Julia and Addie, the
little ones, were kept together. Sophia and I were not allowed to be
together, only now and then we got together for a while. When we came
to the Canadian River the Indians seemed very uneasy, and hid in the
hills, hollows and brush for three days. The troops had been that way
only a short time before we got there. The wagon trails were fresh
yet. They left the Canadian on the third night and travelled nearly
all night. Then for several days we travelled across the highland
between the Canadian and Red rivers.

"When we came to the hills of the Red river they took to traveling at
night again. We had been traveling on this night about two hours, and
I should think it was somewhere about 11 o'clock, when all of a sudden
they became confused and held a whispered consultation. Whatever their
fright was, they went around it, and travelled at a very lively rate
for a while. When they stopped to rest a little I was given permission
to get off my horse. I was so tired I threw myself on the ground. When
I lay there I thought I heard the distant barking of a dog and it made
me feel glad to think that there might soon be a chance for the
deliverance of us four helpless girls. We resumed our traveling till
nearly day and stopped in a canyon. When I awoke the sun was shining
around. They went up the canyon some distance, then came out on the
prairie where thousands of buffaloes were feeding. The buffaloes did
not seem to be very much afraid of any one. We were probably a mile
from where we came out of the canyon. The Indians became greatly
alarmed, saddled fresh horses and started in the direction we came,
only a little more northwest.

"My little sisters were sitting on the ground. Two Indian men were
there. These two Indians often carried them on their horses, and I
thought that was what they would do now; but I wanted to see, so I
held my horse back. They saw me lagging behind, so they came up and
drove me on, but blamed the horse because he was lame and they thought
he stayed of his own accord. After a while I saw those two Indians who
were last with Julia and Addie, and also that my little sisters were
not with them. I felt that we would all be better off if we were out
of our misery, but I did not like to think of their little bodies
being left out there for the buffaloes to tramp over and the wolves to
eat. As soon as I got a chance I told Sophia that they had killed
Julia and Addie, and all she said was, 'they are better off than we
are.' But God had a hand in that work, and I believe you will agree
with me when I say He wrought a miracle and those little girls were
taken care of. I never saw the little ones any more till June, 1875,
when I met them at Fort Leavenworth."

After abandoning these two little girls, each of whom was less than
ten years old, the Indians began pressing forward more rapidly than
ever, to reach the vast solitudes of the Panhandle plains country,
where the main body of Cheyennes had gone, and which the raiders
reached after a three days' flight. The Cheyennes now divided into
small parties, each going in different direction, to confuse the
trails, and make pursuit by the soldiers laborious and difficult.
Sophia and Catherine became separated, each going with a different
band. Sophia was first in discovering that her two little sisters were
alive--they had been found by other Indians. Julia said that she and
Adelaide cried when they saw the Indians ride away, because they were
afraid to be alone in such a strange wild place, and did not know
where to find water or anything to eat. They stood in dread of the
buffaloes, hundreds of which were near at hand. As the Indians rode
away, they motioned to the little girls to follow them. This they
tried to do, but finally lost the trail. They were abandoned September
25. Sophia scarcely had time to embrace the little ones before she was
carried away by the band that held her captive.

Julia and Addie were with Chief Gray Beard's band of Cheyennes.
General Miles was pressing the Indians upon all sides. His command was
superior to the combined forces of all the hostiles in the southwest
and the latter could have been annihilated in a single engagement had
it been possible to attack them in a position where their only
alternative would have been to fight their way out. But the Indians
were too shrewd to be caught in a trap, and were running and dodging
in every direction--their trails crossed and re-crossed and doubled
back and turned aside until they were a confused jumble. The Indians
knew the country as accurately as a stream follows its own windings.
The only fact plain to the scouts was that the hostiles were trying to
escape to the Staked Plains. In this uninhabited and practically
waterless region a large body of troops would have been badly
handicapped in its pursuit of small bands of the enemy, as the latter
could move more rapidly and with greater comfort, and in time exhaust
the endurance of troops traveling in more or less compact formation.

General Miles embraced every opportunity to employ the tactics of the
Indians, and it was the result of this kind of strategy that brought
Lieutenant Baldwin and his scouts within striking distance of Gray
Bear's band on McClellan Creek. The Indians were so hard-pressed that
they were forced to abandon Julia and Adelaide and much camp
equipment. I remember vividly the appearance of the deserted camp. We
had ridden almost past it when somebody noticed that a pile of buffalo
hides seemed to be moving up and down. Pulling the hides aside, we
were astonished at finding two little white girls, who proved to be
Julia and Adelaide. They were pitiable objects. Hunger and privation
had reduced them to mere skeletons, and their little hands and fingers
were so thin that they resembled bird's claws. The children were
trembling with fright, but upon seeing that we were white men their
terror changed to a frenzy of joy, and their sobs and tears made
hardened frontiersmen turn away to hide their own emotion. The
children said that they had not been mis-treated by the men. The
squaws, however, had forced them to work beyond their strength. The
little girls were sent to Fort Leavenworth. Their rescue took place
November 8, 1874.

Catherine and Sophia Germain were now far out on the Staked Plains. We
had fought the Indians--principally Cheyennes, with a few Kiowas--at
Tule Canyon on Red River, but without capturing them. General Miles,
fearful that the two captives might be wantonly killed by the Indians,
when the latter found themselves in increasing danger of attack or
capture, employed a Mexican mixed-blood at Fort Sill to go to the
hostile camp in the Staked Plains with a secret message to the Germain
girls telling them Julia and Adelaide were safe and in the hands of
friends, and not to become discouraged. This message fell into the
hands of Catherine. It was written on the back of a photograph of
Julia and Adelaide that had been made by W. P. Bliss, shortly after
they were found by Lieutenant Baldwin's command.

The Cheyennes that had fled to the Staked Plains were under the
redoubtable Chief Stone Calf. General Miles sent a formal demand for
surrender to Stone Calf, with the specific provision that Catherine
and Sophia Germain should be brought back alive. Stone Calf and his
followers surrendered March 1, 1875, about seventy-five miles west of
the Darlington Indian Agency.

"Just before the sun set," wrote Catherine Germain, "we came to the
soldiers' camp. They stood at the side of the trail cheering. We
stopped, but I could hardly say anything, and when I think of it now a
lump rises in my throat. Oh, I was so glad. I thought I had never seen
such white people. They looked as white as snow, but of course they
were no whiter than the average people, but my being accustomed to the
red people was why they seemed so white and pretty. I just lacked a
few days of being 18 years old when we were re-captured, and Sophia
was past twelve. We were at the Cheyenne Agency (Darlington) three
months."

The warriors who surrendered with Stone Calf were stood in a row by
General Miles, and the Germain girls asked to point out those who had
engaged in the murder of the other members of the Germain family, or
who had mistreated the captives. They pointed out seventy-five
Indians, all of whom afterwards were sent to Florida as prisoners of
war.

General Miles induced the United States government to appropriate the
sum of $10,000 for the benefit of the four girls. He was their
guardian for two or three years. They were educated at the expense of
the military branch of the Government. All the girls married, and some
of them are still living.

The Miles Campaign demonstrated that if there should be further Indian
outbreaks it would be well to move a garrison within easy striking
distance of the route that led to the Staked Plains. Fort Elliott was
established as a permanent garrison in the spring of 1875. I was with
the party that selected the site. I was attached as scout at Fort
Elliott, and remained in service at that place until 1883. I was the
last scout to be relieved of duty at that post, and when I went away
the buffalo was becoming a rare animal on the Plains and the Indian
was down and out.

Cattlemen began going into the Panhandle as the Indians went out. I
remember how greatly I was surprised when I arrived at the Goodnight
ranch one day in 1877, and found two white ladies--Mrs. Goodnight, who
had joined her husband the previous year, and Mrs. Willingham, whose
husband was afterwards superintendent of the Turkey Track outfit. Both
were refined, educated women. I often think how helpful such women as
Mrs. Goodnight and Mrs. Willingham have been to Panhandle communities.
It required some grit for men to live there in those days, and for
women the trials and burdens must have been disheartening.

The Staked Plains, by reason of the scarcity of water in summer,
opposed great danger to troops in moving through that part of the
country. I was with Captain Nicholas Nolan, in command of Troop A,
Tenth United States Cavalry, in that memorable experience in August,
1877, in which the detachment barely escaped death from thirst.
Captain Nolan was in pursuit of the Quohada band of Comanches, who had
slipped away from their reservation at Fort Sill, Indian Territory.
Far out on the Staked Plains we joined forces with a party of
buffalo-hunters who had organized to fight the Indians. Captain Nolan
told the buffalo-hunters that if they would help him find the Indians
he would agree to do all the fighting, and assured them that he would
do the work to their satisfaction.

Reports were brought in that the Indians were only a short distance
away, and that it might be possible to overtake them by moving
quickly. In the excitement, many of the soldiers as well as the
buffalo-hunters forgot to fill their canteens with water. The Indians
eluded us, the men were soon out of water, and a difference of opinion
arose as to where the nearest water could be found. Some were in favor
of trying for the Double Lakes and some for the Laguna Plata. I had
been over this country from the north, not from the direction we were
traveling. The men and horses were in a deplorable condition.

Captain Nolan told Lieutenant Cooper to take the course with his
compass, which was set east by south ten degrees. The buffalo-hunters
feared the distance was too great, and started in another direction,
for Laguna Plata. Captain Nolan thought the Double Lakes were further
west than I did. We argued over the route until about 3 o'clock in the
morning, when he told me to go the way I thought was right. I at once
turned more to the northeast. About 5 o'clock I waived my hat to
attract the attention of the command, and an orderly came forward. I
sent word to Captain Nolan that I thought I saw the Double Lakes.
Happily, I was not mistaken. We had to dig for water, and 11 o'clock
had passed before the horses were able to quench their thirst.

The sufferings of both men and horses were terrible, and all the way
to the Double Lakes our trail was strewn with cast-off clothing and
equipment. The buffalo-hunters were in no less desperate straits, many
of them, like the soldiers, dropping down to die along the way. Horses
were killed that their blood might be drank to assuage the fever of
burning throats and tongues. The buffalo-hunters finally reached water
at the Casa Amarilla. Both outfits carried water back to fallen
comrades and revived them.

CHAPTER XIII.

Returning to civilian life in 1883, I struck north from Fort Elliott
and went over on the Canadian River, in what is now Hutchinson county,
Texas, and hired to a big cow outfit that became widely known as the
Turkey Track Ranch, owned by a Scotch syndicate, and then managed by
C. B. Willingham. That same year I filed on two sections of land on
Bent Creek, taking in the site of the original Adobe Walls ruins. I
built my house right at the west edge of the old sod building which by
that time stock had rubbed to the ground. In the front yard, however,
when the south wind swept the dirt clear, could still be seen the
foundations of the old ruins. Whoever built those walls certainly
built them well.

When I homesteaded my two sections of school land and built my house
at Adobe Walls, I expected to live there the balance of my days,
contented and happy. Everything was to my liking--pure air, good
water, fruitful soil, game, and room enough for a man to turn round
without stepping on some fellows toes. It was the land of my boyhood
dreams, and I was satisfied.

  [Illustration: _"Billy" Dixon, as He Appeared in Recent Years._]

I improved my ranch in many ways. I diverted the course of Bent Creek
until its clear, swift waters flowed almost at my doorstep, and was
able to undertake extensive irrigation. I planted an orchard of 200
carefully selected trees, consisting of apples, peaches, pears, plums,
apricots and cherries, together with a small vineyard. I am confident
that this was the first orchard ever planted in Hutchinson county,
perhaps in the northern Panhandle. It was well irrigated, and the
orchard thrived astonishingly. There was not a better orchard in the
southwest, and some of the trees are still standing. In my yard I set
out a number of cottonwoods which grew rapidly and became big, strong
trees, affording generous shade in hot summer. I am sure that my
thirty acres of alfalfa was the first ever seen in that section. For
many years it produced an unfailing and profitable crop.

In those days our nearest postoffice was Zulu, on Palo Duro,
twenty-five or thirty miles distant. One day L. B. Miller, then
district attorney, now practicing law at Allenreed, Texas, was at the
Turkey Track Ranch. He heard about the way we had to go for mail, and
said that he would have a postoffice established at the ranch and make
me postmaster. I received my commission and was postmaster at Adobe
Walls for nearly twenty years, first at the ranch and later at my
home. When I moved down to my own place I opened a little store,
carrying in stock such simple things as would supply cowboy trade. It
may cause a smile when I say that my two most important articles of
merchandise were candy and chewing gum. No schoolgirl could be as
foolish as a cowboy about candy and chewing gum. The boys seemed to
crave such things, and bought more candy and chewing gum than they did
tobacco.

The little log house, to be seen in an accompanying illustration,
stands on the ruins of the first Adobe Walls. I built the house in
1883, shortly after I filed on my claim. It is fourteen feet square,
and stands a mile south of where the fight took place.

The illustration showing the bluff on the east side of Adobe Walls
Creek is a excellent view of the landscape. In coming to attack Adobe
Walls in the early morning, the Indians rode up the valley from the
right, and were first discovered near the grove of trees.

Mine was a happy life in my cabin at Adobe Walls, without fret or
worry, and with abundance of everything for my simple needs. During a
greater part of the year wild ducks and geese frequented the Canadian
and its tributaries, literally by thousands, and deer and turkey were
commonly found along the creeks.

The meat of the buffalo, in my opinion, had a much better taste than
beef, and was more easily digested. I was always a big meat eater, and
often long for a good fat buffalo steak broiled over a camp-fire in
the way "Frenchie," my old cook, used to broil it. When we were camped
on a creek where wild turkeys were plentiful, we would kill fifteen or
twenty and stew a potful of gizzards, hearts and livers. This was best
of all, a dish fit for a king, and a man who never ate it can have no
idea how good it was.

I lived here as a bachelor until I married in 1894, after which I
continued at Adobe Walls until about 1902, when I sold my ranch and
moved to Plemons, Texas. There I lived two years, and found living in
town worse than it could have been in jail. I decided to go still
further west, and in 1906 homesteaded a claim in what was then known
as Beaver County, Oklahoma, once called "No Man's Land." My place was
in sight of Buffalo Springs, and on the north line of the Panhandle.

A change in local conditions began in 1887. In that year a good many
"nesters," small farmers began coming in and taking up the land. They
were bitterly opposed by the big cow outfits, none of which wanted to
see the country fenced, and felt that the settlers were intruding into
a country where they did not belong and where they certainly were not
wanted. I rather think that the cow outfits felt that they had won the
country from the Indians and were entitled to it by right of conquest
and occupancy. But the "nesters" forced the cow outfits to leave, just
as the buffalo-hunters and the soldiers had made the Indians depart.
Today the despised "nester" is the bone and sinew of the Panhandle
country, and whatever social and material advancement the country had
made should be credited mostly to those who built homes and school
houses and churches, and tamed the wild land to the crops of
civilization. I do not wish to say anything against the cow-men. They
were big-hearted, generous fellows, who followed their own way as they
saw it. Between the two classes there was much conflict; time,
however, solves its problems, and solved them in the Panhandle.

Among the small stockmen who moved their families to the Panhandle in
1887 were the Lards, Ledricks and Walstads, all coming down from
Kansas. The Lard and Ledrick families located on Chicken Creek. The
Walstad family lived first on Wolf Creek, moving later to the "flats"
in Ochiltree County. The Walstads were sturdy Norwegians and not
afraid to work. To improve their place on the "flats", they cut cedar
pickets in Government Canyon, ten miles away, and "snaked" them up the
steep bluffs with a horse--the place was too rough for a team to
descend. Nevertheless, they constructed a good-sized, comfortable
dwelling out of these pickets, and covered it with dirt. Water was
scarce on the "flats," the Walstads hauling it ten or fifteen miles
the first year. Mr. Walstad undertook to dig a well by hand, something
that no man before nor since has ever tried in that country. He was
not financially able to bore a well, and did not know that it was
anywhere from 300 to 400 feet to water. He got down about 200 feet and
threw up the sponge--the sponge was dry.

The girls in the Walstad family were all splendid riders, as good as
could be found in the Panhandle, and could rope a cow or a horse as
easily as a man. They rode long distances after stock in all kinds of
weather.

The Lards and Ledricks prospered on Chicken Creek. Henry Ledrick had
been a post-trader in Kansas, and had lost all his property as the
result of Indian raids. The Government afterwards compensated him for
his losses. By intermarriage these families have established
themselves in many of the Panhandle counties.

  [Illustration: _Dixon Orchard at Adobe Walls._]

For years I was justice of the peace in Hutchinson County. The hardest
job I ever tackled was to perform a marriage ceremony, though I
married many couples. Ministers were as scarce as buffaloes, and when
a couple decided to get "spliced" they went to the nearest justice of
the peace or county judge. My usual embarrassment in marrying a couple
was once increased beyond measure. I had grown to be very fond of a
young lady who lived with Mrs. Willingham on the Turkey Track, but had
never been able to muster courage to tell her how much I thought of
her and to ask her to marry me. Well, a pesky cowboy did what I had
not been able to do, and the two came to have me tie the conjugal
knot. I thought that it was hard enough to lose the girl, but to be
asked to marry her to another fellow was certainly tough.

Some of the large outfits controlled entire counties for range
purposes--and the Panhandle counties were big counties. The Hansford
Land & Cattle Company (the "Turkey Track" outfit) run 50,000 head of
cattle at one time, and ranged over thousands of acres of land.

The Turkey Track outfit tried to escape the inevitable by buying out
"nester" who came into the country in the late 80's, and in this way
held all the land, save mine at Abode Walls. The Texas legislature
opened up the land to purchase and settlement, and in the 90's the
settlers began coming and could not be stopped. They settled first
along the creeks and then spread to the uplands. I was State land
commissioner for Hutchinson County and did a thriving business.

The people petitioned the Legislature that Hutchinson County be
detached from Roberts County, and given a separate organization. Their
petition was granted. An election was called for the election of
County officers. Much ill feeling had grown up between the settlers
and the cow outfits, especially the Turkey Track people who had
opposed the making of a new county. The election was bitterly
contested, the Turkey Track outfit taking an active part, to control
the results. I was elected sheriff, not because I sought the office,
but because I had lived in the country so long that I was widely
known. I was ignorant of politics and the ways of politicians. I
became disgusted and resigned my office, rather than be forced into
strife that was not to my liking, and went back to the quietude of
Abode Walls. The County Judge also resigned. When a man gets mixed up
in politics he is soon traveling a rocky road.

However, I do not hold enmity against anybody. Many changes have taken
place in Hutchinson County since that time, and today it is settled
with law-abiding, prosperous stock-men and farmers. The Turkey Track
sold out to a Kansas company, who also bought my place at Abode Walls.

I married Miss Olive King in 1894. She had come from Virginia to visit
her brothers, Albert and Archie King, and the winter before we were
married she had taught school on the south side of the Canadian,
between Reynolds and Tallahone Creeks. This school house was built of
round cottonwood logs, covered with dirt, and was about ten feet
square.

I had always been rather bashful in the presence of women, rarely
having had opportunity to meet them in a social way. Merely the sight
of a good-looking woman coming in my direction made me feel like
leaving the trail. How I ever managed to ask my wife to marry me has
always been a mystery, made even more remarkable by the fact that she
consented. I have always insisted that she did the proposing, but
could say no more when she reminded me of the time we were riding
together and watered our horses at Garden Springs one September
afternoon, and of the promise I made her at that time.

We were married October 18, 1894, on Reynolds Creek at the home of a
Portuguese family named Lewis, where my wife had boarded during the
winter. The Lewis's were running about 200 head of cattle and had a
comfortable home. Mrs. Lewis was a cultivated woman. She spoke English
brokenly, and to make herself more familiar with the language had
induced my wife to live with her. Mrs. Lewis had been a good friend of
mine for several years, and I suspect that it was largely through her
influence that I got the girl I so greatly admired.

  [Illustration: _An Adobe Corral Built by "Billy" Dixon._]

We have been living together nearly nineteen years. She has borne me a
family of which I feel that I am justly proud, and has stood by me in
all my ups and downs. It is largely through her efforts that these
reminiscences are published. I never took the interest that I should
in setting down these matters, and realize that the work should have
been done years ago, in obedience to the requests of life-long
friends.

We were married by a Methodist minister, the Rev. C. V. Bailey, who
drove seventy-five miles from Mobeetie to perform the ceremony. After
our marriage, my wife for a period of three years, was the only woman
who actually lived in Hutchinson County. She may have grown a bit
lonesome, but if she did she never said anything about it. I had the
advantage of being able to say, without making any other man angry,
that I had the best looking woman in the County. It was not every
woman who had lived in a thickly settled community all her life that
would have been willing to settle down at Abode Walls.

When Patten, Price & Hyde, the Kansas cattlemen, bought the Turkey
Track range and stock, I sold my place at Abode Walls to them. My
older children by this time were in need of schooling. The settlers
were so few that there was no neighborhood school, so we moved to
Plemons and lived there for two years before locating in Cimarron
County, then Beaver County, which is settled by the best type of
rugged American citizenship. They are temperate, law-abiding,
industrious people. Most of them were poor at the beginning, and many
have had a hard time getting started. All have the true western
spirit. If a settler is in trouble, caused by sickness, death or other
unavoidable misfortune, his neighbors are always ready to help him,
even putting in his crops for him.

I am often questioned about my experiences on the frontier, as if the
life had been filled with unbearable hardships, to be shunned and
forgotten. Gladly would I live it all over again, such is my cast of
mind and my hunger for the freedom of the big wide places. I would run
the risks and endure all the hardships that were naturally ours just
for the contentment and freedom to be found in such an outdoor life. I
should be unspeakably happy once more to feast on buffalo meat and
other wild game cooked on a camp-fire, sour dough biscuit and black
coffee, that latter drank from a quart cup.

But those days are gone and forever, and we must content ourselves
with the present and make the best of our opportunities. Coming
generation will never know the trials and hardships we endured. We
helped build a great empire in the west.

Let it be governed justly and made to serve the needs of humanity.

THE END.