Thirty One Years on the Plains and In the Mountains

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Robert Rowe, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

THIRTY-ONE YEARS ON THE
PLAINS AND IN THE MOUNTAINS

OR,

THE LAST VOICE FROM THE PLAINS.
AN AUTHENTIC RECORD OF A LIFE TIME OF HUNTING,
TRAPPING, SCOUTING AND INDIAN FIGHTING IN THE FAR WEST

BY

CAPT. WILLIAM F. DRANNAN,

WHO WENT ON TO THE PLAINS WHEN FIFTEEN YEARS OLD.

PREFACE.

In writing this preface I do so with the full knowledge that the
preface of a book is rarely read, comparatively speaking, but I
shall write this one just the same.

In writing this work the author has made no attempt at romance, or
a great literary production, but has narrated in his own plain,
blunt way, the incidents of his life as they actually occurred.

There have been so many books put upon the market, purporting to
be the lives of noted frontiersmen which are only fiction, that I
am moved to ask the reader to consider well before condemning this
book as such.

The author starts out with the most notable events of his boyhood
days, among them his troubles with an old negro virago, wherein he
gets his revenge by throwing a nest of lively hornets under her
feet. Then come his flight and a trip, to St. Louis, hundreds of
miles on foot, his accidental meeting with that most eminent man
of his class, Kit Carson, who takes the lad into his care and
treats him as a kind father would a son. He then proceeds to give
a minute description of his first trip on the plains, where he
meets and associates with such noted plainsmen as Gen. John
Charles Fremont, James Beckwith, Jim Bridger and others, and gives
incidents of his association with them in scouting, trapping,
hunting big game, Indian fighting, etc.

The author also gives brief sketches of the springing into
existence of many of the noted cities of the West, and the
incidents connected therewith that have never been written before.
There is also a faithful recital of his many years of scouting for
such famous Indian fighters as Gen. Crook, Gen. Connor, Col.
Elliott, Gen. Wheaton and others, all of which will be of more
than passing interest to those who can be entertained by the early
history of the western part of our great republic.

This work also gives an insight into the lives of the hardy
pioneers of the far West, and the many trials and hardships they
had to undergo in blazing the trail and hewing the way to one of
the grandest and most healthful regions of the United States.
W. F. D.

CHICAGO, August 1st, 1899.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER 1. A Boy Escapes a Tyrant and Pays a Debt with a Hornet's
Nest--Meets Kit Carson and Becomes the Owner of a Pony and a Gun

CHAPTER 2. Beginning of an Adventurous Life--First Wild Turkey--
First Buffalo--First Feast as an Honored Guest of Indians--Dog
Meat

CHAPTER 3. Hunting and Trapping in South Park, Where a Boy,
Unaided, Kills and Scalps Two Indians--Meeting with Fremont, the
"Path-finder"

CHAPTER 4. A Winter in North Park--Running Fight with a Band of
Utes for More than a Hundred Miles, Ending Hand to Hand--Victory

CHAPTER 5. On the Cache-la-Poudre--Visit from Gray Eagle, Chief of
the Arapahoes.--A Bear-hunter is Hunted by the Bear--Phil, the
Cannibal

CHAPTER 6. Two Boys Ride to the City of Mexico--Eleven Hundred
Miles of Trial, Danger and Duty--A Gift Horse--The Wind River
Mountains

CHAPTER 7. A Three Days' Battle Between the Comanches and the Utes
for the Possession of a "Hunter's Paradise"--An Unseasonable Bath.

CHAPTER 8. Kit Carson Kills a Hudson Bay Company's Trapper, Who
Was Spoiling for a Fight--Social Good Time with a Train of
Emigrants

CHAPTER 9. Marriage of Kit Carson--The Wedding Feast--Providing
Buffalo Meat, in the Original Package, for the Boarding-house at
Bent's Fort

CHAPTER 10. Robber Gamblers of San Francisco--Engaged by Col.
Elliott as Indian Scout--Kills and Scalps Five Indians--Promoted
to Chief Scout

CHAPTER 11. A Lively Battle with Pah-Utes--Pinned to Saddle with
an Arrow--Some Very Good Indians--Stuttering Captain--Beckwith
Opens His Pass

CHAPTER 12--Col. Elliott Kills His First Deer, and Secures a Fine
Pair of Horns as Present for His Father--Beckwith's Tavern--
Society

CHAPTER 13--Something Worse than Fighting Indians Dance at Col.
Elliott's--Conspicuous Suit of Buckskin I Manage to Get Back to
Beckwith's

CHAPTER 14. Drilling the Detailed Scouts---We Get Among the Utes--
Four Scouts Have Not Reported Yet--Another Lively Fight--Beckwith
Makes a Raise

CHAPTER 15. A Hunt on Petaluma Creek--Elk Fever Breaks Out--The
Expedition to Klamath Lake--A Lively Brush with Modoc Indians

CHAPTER 16. More Fish than I Had Ever Seen at One Time--We
Surprise Some Indians, Who Also Surprise Us--The Camp at Klamath
Lake--I Get Another Wound and a Lot of Horses

CHAPTER 17. Discovery of Indians with Stolen Horses--We Kill the
Indians and Return the Property to Its Owners--Meeting of Miners--
In Society Again

CHAPTER 18. Trapping on the Gila--The Pimas Impart a Secret--
Rescue of a White Girl--A Young Indian Ages--Visit to Taos--Uncle
Kit Fails to Recognize Me

CHAPTER 19. A Warm Time in a Cold Country--A Band of Bannocks
Chase Us Into a Storm that Saves Us--Kit Carson Slightly Wounded--
Beckwith Makes a Century Run

CHAPTER 20. Carson Quits the Trail--Buffalo Robes for Ten Cents--
"Pike's Peak or Bust"--The New City of Denver--"Busted"--How the
News Started

CHAPTER 21. A Fight With the Sioux--Hasa, the Mexican Boy, Killed
--Mixed Up With Emigrants Some More--Four New Graves--Successful
Trading With the Kiowas

CHAPTER 22. A Trip to Fort Kearney--The General Endorses Us and We
Pilot an Emigrant Train to California--Woman Who Thought I Was "no
Gentleman"--A Camp Dance

CHAPTER 23. Bridger and West Give Christmas a High Old Welcome in
Sacramento--California Gulch--Meeting with Buffalo Bill--Thirty-
three Scalps with One Knife

CHAPTER 24. Face to Face with a Band of Apaches--The Death of
Pinto--The Closest Call I Ever Had--A Night Escape--Back at Fort
Douglas

CHAPTER 25. Three Thousand Dead Indians--A Detective from Chicago
--He Goes Home with an Old Mormon's Youngest Wife and Gets into
Trouble--The Flight

CHAPTER 26.--Through to Bannock--A Dance of Peace Fright of the
Negroes--A Freight Train Snowed in and a Trip on Snow-shoes--Some
Very Tough Road Agents

CHAPTER 27. Organization of a Vigilance Committee--End of the
Notorious Slade--One Hundred Dollars for a "Crow-bait" Horse--
Flour a Dollar a Pound.

CHAPTER 28. Twenty-two Thousand Dollars in Gold Dust--A Stage
Robbery--Another Trip to California Meeting with Gen. Crook--Chief
of Scouts

CHAPTER 29. Find Some Murdered Emigrants--We Bury the Dead and
Follow and Scalp the Indians--Gen. Crook Is Pleased with the
Outcome--A Mojave Blanket

CHAPTER 30. A Wicked Little Battle--Capture of One Hundred and
Eighty-two Horses--Discovery of Black Canyon--Fort Yuma and the
Paymaster

CHAPTER 31. To California for Horses--My Beautiful Mare, Black
Bess--We Get Sixty-six Scalps and Seventy-eight Horses--A Clean
Sweep

CHAPTER 32. Some Men Who Were Anxious for a Fight and Got It--Gen.
Crook at Black Canyon--Bad Mistake of a Good Man--The Victims

CHAPTER 33. The Massacre at Choke Cherry Canyon--Mike Maloney Gets
Into a Muss--Rescue of White Girls--Mike Gets Even with the
Apaches

CHAPTER 34. Massacre of the Davis Family--A Hard Ride and Swift
Retribution--A Pitiful Story--Burial of the Dead--I am Sick of the
Business

CHAPTER 35. Black Bess Becomes Popular in San Francisco--A Failure
as Rancher--Buying Horses in Oregon--The Klamath Marsh--Captain
Jack the Modoc

CHAPTER 36. The Modoc War--Gen. Wheaton Is Held Off by the
Indians--Gen. Canby Takes Command and Gets It Worse-Massacre of
the Peace Commission

CHAPTER 37-The Cry of a Babe--Capture of a Bevy of Squaws--
Treachery of Gen. Ross' Men in Killing Prisoners--Capture of the
Modoc Chief

CHAPTER 38. Story of the Captured Braves--Why Captain Jack
Deserted--Loathsome Condition of the Indian Stronghold--End of the
War--Some Comments

CHAPTER 39. An Interested Boy--Execution of the Modoc Leaders--
Newspaper Messengers--A Very Sudden Deputy Sheriff--A Bad Man
Wound Up

CHAPTER 40. In Society Some More--A Very Tight Place--Ten Pairs of
Yankee Ears--Black Bess Shakes Herself at the Right Time--Solemn
Compact.

CHAPTER 41. We Locate a Small Band of Red Butchers and Send them
to the Happy Hunting Grounds--Emigrants Mistake Us for Indians--
George Jones Wounded

CHAPTER 42. "We Are All Surrounded"--A Bold Dash and a Bad Wound--
Mrs. Davis Shows Her Gratitude--Most of My Work Now Done on
Crutches

CHAPTER 43. Poor Jones Makes His Last Fight--He Died Among a Lot
of the Devils He Had Slain--End of Thirty-one Years of Hunting,
Trapping and Scouting

CHAPTER 44. A Grizzley Hunts the Hunter--Shooting Seals in Alaskan
Waters--I Become a Seattle Hotel Keeper and the Big Fire Closes Me
Out--Some Rest--The Old Scout's Lament

CHAPTER I.

A BOY ESCAPES A TYRANT AND PAYS A DEBT WITH A HORNET'S NEST--MEETS
KIT CARSON AND BECOMES THE OWNER OF A PONY AND A GUN.

The old saying that truth is stranger than fiction is emphasized
in the life of every man whose career has been one of adventure
and danger in the pursuit of a livelihood. Knowing nothing of the
art of fiction and but little of any sort of literature; having
been brought up in the severe school of nature, which is all
truth, and having had as instructor in my calling a man who was
singularly and famously truthful, truth has been my inheritance
and in this book I bequeath it to my readers.

My name is William F. Drannan, and I was born on the Atlantic
ocean January 30, 1832, while my parents were emigrating from
France to the United States.

They settled in Tennessee, near Nashville, and lived upon a farm
until I was about four years old. An epidemic of cholera prevailed
in that region for some months during that time and my parents
died of the dread disease, leaving myself and a little sister,
seven months old, orphans.

I have never known what became of my sister, nor do I know how I
came to fall into the hands of a man named Drake, having been too
young at that time to remember now the causes of happenings then.
However, I remained with this man, Drake, on his plantation near
The Hermitage, the home of Gen. Andrew Jackson, until I was
fifteen.

Drake was a bachelor who owned a large number of negro slaves, and
I was brought up to the age mentioned among the negro children of
the place, without schooling, but cuffed and knocked about more
like a worthless puppy than as if I were a human child. I never
saw the inside of a school-house, nor was I taught at home
anything of value. Drake never even undertook to teach me the
difference between good and evil, and my only associates were the
little negro boys that belonged to Drake, or the neighbors. The
only person who offered to control or correct me was an old negro
woman, who so far from being the revered and beloved "Black
Mammy," remembered with deep affection by many southern men and
women, was simply a hideous black tyrant. She abused me
shamefully, and I was punished by her not only for my own
performances that displeased her, but for all the meanness done by
the negro boys under her jurisdiction.

Naturally these negro boys quickly learned that they could escape
punishment by falsely imputing to me all of their mischief and I
was their scape-goat.

Often Drake's negro boys went over to General Jackson's plantation
to play with the negro boys over there and I frequently
accompanied them. One day the old General asked me why I did not
go to school. But I could not tell him. I did not know why. I have
known since that I was not told to go and anyone knows that a boy
just growing up loose, as I was, is not likely to go to school of
his own accord.

I do not propose to convey to the reader the idea that I was
naturally better than other boys, on the contrary, I frequently
deserved the rod when I did not get it, but more frequently
received a cruel drubbing when I did not deserve it, that, too, at
the hands of the old negro crone who was exceedingly violent as
well as unjust. This, of course, cultivated in me a hatred against
the vile creature which was little short of murderous.

However, I stayed on and bore up under my troubles as there was
nothing else to do, so far as I knew then, but "grin and bear it."
This until I was fifteen years old.

At this time, however ignorant, illiterate, wild as I was, a faint
idea of the need of education dawned upon me. I saw other white
boys going to school; I saw the difference between them and myself
that education was rapidly making and I realized that I was
growing up as ignorant and uncultured as the slave boys who were
my only attainable companions.

Somehow I had heard of a great city called St. Louis, and little
by little the determination grew upon me to reach that wonderful
place in some way.

I got a few odd jobs of work, now and then, from the neighbors and
in a little while I had accumulated four dollars, which seemed a
great deal of money to me, and I thought I would buy about half of
St. Louis, if I could only get there. And yet I decided that it
would be just as well to have a few more dollars and would not
leave my present home, which, bad it was, was the only one I had,
until I had acquired a little more money. But coming home from
work one evening I found the old negress in an unusually bad
humor, even for her. She gave me a cruel thrashing just to give
vent to her feelings, and that decided me to leave at once,
without waiting to further improve my financial condition. I was
getting to be too big a boy to be beaten around by that old
wretch, and having no ties of friendship, and no one being at all
interested in me, I was determined to get away before my tormentor
could get another chance at me.

I would go to St. Louis, but I must get even with the old hag
before starting. I did not wish to leave in debt to anyone in the
neighborhood and so I cudgeled my brain to devise a means for
settling old scores with my self-constituted governess.

Toward evening I wandered into a small pasture, doing my best to
think how I could best pay off the black termagant with safety to
myself, when with great good luck I suddenly beheld a huge
hornet's nest, hanging in a bunch of shrubbery. My plan instantly
and fully developed. Quickly I returned to the house and hastily
gathered what little clothing I owned into a bundle, done up in my
one handkerchief, an imitation of bandanna, of very loud pattern.
This bundle I secreted in the barn and then hied me to the
hornet's nest. Approaching the swinging home of the hornets very
softly, so as not to disturb the inmates, I stuffed the entrance
to the hornet castle with sassafras leaves, and taking the great
sphere in my arms I bore it to a back window of the kitchen where
the black beldame was vigorously at work within and contentedly
droning a negro hymn.

Dark was coming on and a drizzly rain was falling. It was the
spring of the year, the day had been warm and the kitchen window
was open. I stole up to the open window. The woman's back was
toward me. I removed the plug of sassafras leaves and hurled the
hornet's nest so that it landed under the hag's skirts.

I watched the proceedings for one short moment, and then, as it
was getting late, I concluded I had better be off for St. Louis.
So I went away from there at the best gait I could command.

I could hear my arch-enemy screaming, and it was music to my ears
that even thrills me yet, sometimes. It was a better supper than
she would have given me.

I saw the negroes running from the quarters, and elsewhere, toward
the kitchen, and I must beg the reader to endeavor to imagine the
scene in that culinary department, as I am unable to describe it,
not having waited to see it out.

But I slid for the barn, secured my bundle and started for the
ancient city far away.

All night, on foot and alone, I trudged the turnpike that ran
through Nashville. I arrived in that city about daylight, tired
and hungry, but was too timid to stop for something to eat,
notwithstanding I had my four dollars safe in my pocket, and had
not eaten since noon, the day before.

I plodded along through the town and crossed the Cumberland river
on a ferry-boat, and then pulled out in a northerly direction for
about an hour, when I came to a farm-house. In the road in front
of the house I met the proprietor who was going from his garden,
opposite the house, to his breakfast.

He waited until I came up, and as I was about to pass on, he said:
"Hello! my boy, where are you going so early this morning?"

I told him I was on my way to St. Louis.

"St. Louis?" he said. "I never heard of that place before. Where
is it?"

I told him I thought it was in Missouri, but was not certain.

"Are you going all the way on foot, and alone?"

I answered that I was, and that I had no other way to go. With
that I started on.

"Hold on," he said. "If you are going to walk that long way you
had better come in and have some breakfast."

You may rest assured that I did not wait for a second invitation,
for about that time I was as hungry as I had ever been in my life.

While we were eating breakfast the farmer turned to his oldest
daughter and said:

"Martha, where is St. Louis?"

She told him it was in Missouri, and one of the largest towns in
the South or West. "Our geography tells lots about it," she said.

I thought this was about the best meal I had ever eaten in my
life, and after it was over I offered to pay for it, but the kind-
hearted old man refused to take anything, saying: "Keep your
money, my boy. You may need it before you get back. And on your
return, stop and stay with me all night, and tell us all about St.
Louis."

After thanking them, I took my little bundle, bade them good-bye,
and was on my journey again. I have always regretted that I did
not learn this good man's name, but I was in something of a hurry
just then, for I feared that Mr. Drake might get on my trail and
follow me and take me back, and I had no pressing inclination to
meet old Hulda again.

I plodded along for many days, now and then looking back for Mr.
Drake, but not anxious to see him; rather the reverse.

It is not necessary to lumber up this story with my trip to St.
Louis. I was about six weeks on the road, the greater part of the
time in Kentucky, and I had no use for my money. I could stay at
almost any farm-house all night, wherever I stopped, and have a
good bed and be well fed, but no one would take pay for these
accommodations. When I got to Owensboro, Ky., I became acquainted
by accident with the mate of a steamboat that was going to St.
Louis and he allowed me to go on the boat and work my way.

The first person that I met in St Louis, that I dared to speak
with, was a boy somewhat younger than myself. I asked him his
name, and in broken English he replied that his name was Henry
Becket.

Seeing that he was French, I began to talk to him in his own
language, which was my mother tongue, and so we were quickly
friends. I told him that my parents were both dead and that I had
no home, and he being of a kind-hearted, sympathetic nature,
invited me to go home with him, which invitation I immediately
accepted.

Henry Becket's mother was a widow and they were very poor, but
they were lovingly kind to me.

I told Mrs. Becket of my troubles with Mr. Drake's old negro
woman; how much abuse I had suffered at her hands and the widow
sympathized with me deeply. She also told me that I was welcome to
stay with them until such time as I was able to get employment. So
I remained with the Beckets three days, during all of which time I
tried hard to get work, but without success.

On the morning of the fourth day she asked me if I had tried any
of the hotels for work. I told her that I had not, so she advised
me to go to some of them in my rounds.

It had not occurred to me that a boy could find anything to do
about a hotel, but I took Mrs. Becket's advice, and that morning
called at the American hotel, which was the first one I came to.

Quite boldly, for a green boy, I approached the person whom I was
told was the proprietor and asked him if he had any work for a
boy, whereupon he looked at me in what seemed a most scornful way
and said very tartly:

"What kind of work do you think you could do?"

I told him I could do most anything in the way of common labor.

He gave me another half-scornful smile and said:

"I think you had better go home to your parents and go to school.
That's the best place for you."

This was discouraging, but instead of explaining my position, I
turned to go, and in spite of all that I could do the tears came
to my eyes. Not that I cared so much for being refused employment,
but for the manner in which the hotel man had spoken to me. I did
not propose to give up at that, but started away, more than ever
determined to find employment. I did not want to impose on the
Beckets, notwithstanding that they still assured me of welcome,
and moreover I wished to do something to help them, even more than
myself.

I had nearly reached the door when a man who had been reading a
newspaper, but was now observing me, called out:

"My boy! come here."

I went over to the corner where he was sitting and I was trying at
the same time to dry away my tears.

This man asked my name, which I gave him. He then asked where my
parents lived, and I told him that they died when I was four years
old.

Other questions from him brought out the story of my boy-life;
Drake, Gen. Jackson, the negro boys and the brutal negress; then
my trip to St. Louis--but I omitted the hornet's-nest incident. I
also told this kindly stranger that I had started out to make a
living for myself and intended to succeed.

Then he asked me where I was staying, and I told him of the
Beckets.

Seeing that this man was taking quite an interest in me, gave me
courage to ask his name. He told me that his name was Kit Carson,
and that by calling he was a hunter and trapper, and asked me how
I would like to learn his trade.

I assured him that I was willing to do anything honorable for a
living and that I thought I would very much like to be a hunter
and trapper. He said he would take me with him and I was entirely
delighted. Often I had wished to own a gun, but had never thought
of shooting anything larger than a squirrel or rabbit. I was ready
to start at once, and asked him when he would go.

Smilingly he told me not to be in a hurry, and asked me where Mrs.
Becket lived. I told him as nearly as I could, and again asked
when he thought we would leave St. Louis. I was fearful that he
would change his mind about taking me with him. I didn't know him
then so well as afterward. I came to learn that his slightest word
was his bond.

But visions of Mr. Drake, an old negro woman and a hornet's nest,
still haunted me and made me overanxious. I wanted to get as far
out of their reach as possible and still remain on the earth.

Mr. Carson laughed in a quiet and yet much amused way and said:

"You must learn to not do anything until you are good and ready,
and there are heaps of things to do before we can start out. Now
let's go and see Mrs. Becket."

So I piloted him to the widow's home, which, as near as I can
remember, was about four blocks from the hotel. Mr. Carson being
able to speak French first-rate, had a talk with Mrs. Becket
concerning me. The story she told him, corresponding with that
which I had told him, he concluded that I had given him nothing
but truth, and then he asked Mrs. Becket what my bill was. She
replied that she had just taken me in because I was a poor boy,
until such time as I could find employment, and that her charges
were nothing. He then asked her how long I had been with her, and
being told that it was four days, he begged her to take five
dollars, which she finally accepted.

I took my little budget of clothes and tearfully bidding Mrs.
Becket and Henry good-bye, started back to the hotel with my new
guardian, and I was the happiest boy in the world, from that on,
so long as I was a boy.

On the way back to the hotel Mr. Carson stopped with me at a store
and he bought me a new suit of clothes, a hat and a pair of boots,
for I was barefooted and almost bareheaded. Thus dressed I could
hardly realize that I was the Will Drannan of a few hours before.

That was the first pair of boots I had ever owned. Perhaps, dear
reader, you do not know what that means to a healthy boy of
fifteen.

It means more than has ever been written, or ever will be.

I was now very ready to start out hunting, and on our way to the
hotel I asked Mr. Carson if he did not think we could get away by
morning, but he told me that to hunt I would probably need a gun,
and we must wait until he could have one made for me, of proper
size for a boy.

The next day we went to a gun factory and Mr. Carson gave orders
concerning the weapon, after which we returned to the hotel. We
remained in St. Louis about three weeks and every day seemed like
an age to me. At our room in the hotel Mr. Carson would tell me
stories about hunting and trapping, and notwithstanding the
intense interest of the stories the days were longer, because I so
much wished to be among the scenes he talked of, and my dreams at
night were filled with all sorts of wonderful animals, my fancy's
creation from what Mr. Carson talked about. I had never fired a
gun in my life and I was unbearably impatient to get my hands on
the one that was being made for me.

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