I have always had a horror of opiates of all kinds. They are so seductive and so still in their operations. They steal through the blood like a wolf on the trail, and they seize upon the heart at last with their white fangs till it is still forever.
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[This is the story of a young frontiersman, whom I knew, myself.]
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Jackson’s Hole, Wyoming, was named after one Jackson, a pioneer, explorer, ranchman, and horseman. Jackson’s Hole was also the home of horse thieves who, gathering up their captured steeds, would run them into this peaceful valley to feed them on the rich, natural hay until they could be driven out at a different angle and sold to some one who knew nothing of their former ownership. Jackson’s Hole was also the home of desperadoes who had fled from justice. Jackson’s Hole was the place that I was going to in the summer of 1899.
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One day a young fellow was hunting deer near Pinto Creek, twelve miles from Fort Clark in Texas. His name was Henry Shane, and, although a German by birth, he had early emigrated to the Lone Star State, where he had joined the United States army and had fought in the more important battles of the Mexican War.
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It was the year 1840. Texas was still a wild country, but the white settlers were pressing forward to farm and to raise cattle and horses. The redskins did not like it.
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In 1781 was born in Frederick County, Maryland, a pioneer who was truly entitled to the name of “The Mighty Hunter.”
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“You will do, boy, I will need you!”
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There are no really wild Indians left in the United States. Formerly there were many tribes of them, but some have disappeared, and others have lost their old-time spirit.
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When “Mad Anthony” Wayne was furiously battling with Little Turtle at Fallen Timbers, a daring adventurer was with him who was subsequently to play a most important part in the exploration of the then unconquered and unexplored West. Hardy, utterly fearless, and possessed of wonderful agility,—such was Robert McLellan, one of the most noted scouts that ever operated upon the border, and a rifleman whose aim was both quick and marvellously true.
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What one of the plainsmen did not know “Bill” Bent; “Bill,” the fellow who had battled so often with the Comanches, Kiowas, and other Indians that they called him “The Red Panther:” “Bill,” who had killed innumerable braves in open conflict; and “Bill” who had often just escaped the scalping-knife by a mere hair’s breadth? The old fellow was a true plains’ hero, and after you have heard some of the stories about his escapades with the redskins I’ll warrant that you will agree that he was a marvellously lucky scout.
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“Boys, watch your mother and grandfather for a few hours, because I am going out fishing. There is no danger of attack from redskins, for none have been seen for six months. If, however, any one comes to our cabin with news of prowling bands, shoot off your rifles three times. This will warn me of any danger to you, and I will hasten home.”
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About the year 1839, a Waco Indian chieftain lived in the State of Texas, whose feet were of such giant proportions that he was called “Big Foot.” He was a bold and daring fellow. Often, when darkness hid his movement, he would sneak into the frontier town of Austin, would kill whom he could, and would carry off horses and other property. In vain the settlers tried to dispatch him, for he was a veritable scourge to the settlements.
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Two red men paddled down the White River, far in the western portion of the state of Virginia, one bright morning in the month of May, 1765. As they rounded a bend in the stream, before them was a little trapper’s son, apparently with no one with him. He was throwing pebbles into the water and was laughing as they splashed upon the surface of the stream.
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One of the foremost of the pioneers: one of the noblest of men: one of the most daring of fighters: such was George Rogers Clarke of Virginia. Like Daniel Boone of Kentucky, Clarke was not only a brave warrior in the rough and ready armies of the Middle West, but was also a potent factor in the destinies of the American people.
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The mountaineers were pushing, adventurous and fearless men who thought nothing of laying down their lives in the service of a friend. They usually carried very little with them. A few ponies transported their meagre supplies, and, with only enough provisions to last them a few days, they often set out to journey through a vast wilderness.
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Daniel Boone—the founder of Kentucky—was revered, respected, and admired by the early pioneers. He was, as you know, a man of much skill in woodcraft, and was also an unexcelled rifle shot. Another early settler of this border state was James Harrod, of whom we have but little record, for he was a lover of solitude and his expeditions into the wilderness were usually taken alone.
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“Mother, I know that the law allows me to have all of the property which my father left, but I do not want it. You can have your share, and to my brothers and sisters I give the remainder. I, myself, will move further West, into the wilderness.”
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“I hate every Indian that I ever saw and would just as lief take a shot at one as eat!”
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No more famous plainsman ever lived upon the Wyoming prairies than Uncle Job Witherspoon: a veteran of many an Indian battle: of several tussles with grizzly bears; and of frequent brushes with desperadoes and bad men who had taken to the hills in order to escape jail.
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In the lower corner of the mighty state of Wyoming is a town named after one of the most noted of the trappers of the West—Jim Bridger—who not only fought Indians but also traded and trapped in many an unexplored portion of the once unknown regions near the Rocky Mountains.
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When Lewis and Clark were on their way to the Pacific coast they had with them two trappers, one of whom was to meet with extraordinary adventures.
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Daniel Morgan was a famous Virginian rifleman.
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