Stage-drivers, express-riders, stock-tenders and ranchmen, forty in number, composed this party. All were well armed; all were good shots, and brave, determined men. "Wild Bill" Hick.o.c.k, another of the Western gunmen of whom I shall have something to tell later, was captain of the expedition. He had come recently to our division as a stage-driver and had the experience and courage necessary to that kind of leadership.

Twenty miles out from Sweet.w.a.ter Bridge, at the head of Horse Creek, we found an Indian trail running north toward Powder River. We could see that the horses had been recently shod, conclusive proof that they were our stolen stock. We pushed on as fast as we could along the trail to the Powder, thence down this stream to within forty miles of where old Fort Reno now stands. Farther on, at Crazy Woman's Fork, we saw evidence that another party had joined our quarry. The trail was newly made. The Indians could be hardly more than twenty-four hours ahead of us. And plainly there was a lot of them.

When we reached Clear Creek, another tributary of the Powder, we saw horses grazing on the opposite bank. Horses meant Indians. Never before had the redskins been followed so far into their own country. Not dreaming that they would be pursued they had failed to put out scouts.

We quickly got the "lay" of their camp, and held a council to decide on how to attack them. We knew that they outnumbered us three to one--perhaps more. Without strategy, all we would get for our long chase would be the loss of our scalps.

"Wild Bill," who did not know the meaning of fear, made our plan for us. We were to wait till nightfall, and then, after creeping up as close as possible on the camp, make a grand ride right through it, open a general fire upon them, and stampede their horses.

It was a plan that called for nerve, but we were full of spirit, and the more danger there was in an enterprise the more we relished it. At our captain's signal we rushed pell-mell through their camp. Had we dropped from the clouds the Indians could not have been more astonished. At the sound of our shots they scattered in every direction, yelling warnings to each other as they fled.

Once clear of the camp we circled to the south and came back to make sure that we had done a thorough job. A few parting shots stampeded the stragglers. Then, with one hundred captured ponies--most, if not all of them, stolen from the Express and State stations--we rode back to Sweet.w.a.ter Bridge.

The recovered horses were placed on the road again, and the Express was resumed. Slade, who was greatly pleased with our exploit, now a.s.signed me as special or supernumerary rider. Thereafter while I was with him I had a comparatively easy time of it, riding only now and then, and having plenty of opportunity for seeking after the new adventures in which I delighted.

Alf Slade, stage-line superintendent, frontiersman, and dare-devil fighting man, was one of the far-famed gunmen of the Plains. These were a race of men bred by the perils and hard conditions of Western life.

They became man-killers first from stern necessity. In that day the man who was not quick on the trigger had little chance with the outlaws among whom he had to live. Slade and "Wild Bill," with both of whom I became closely a.s.sociated, were men of nerve and courage. But both, having earned the reputation of gun-fighters, became too eager to live up to it. Eventually both became outlaws.

Slade, though always a dangerous man, and extremely rough in his manner, never failed to treat me with kindness. Sober, he was cool and self-possessed, but never a man to be trifled with. Drunk, he was a living fury. His services to the company for which he worked were of high value. He was easily the best superintendent on the line. But his habit of man-killing at last resulted in his execution.

Another man who gained even greater notoriety than Slade was "Wild Bill" Hick.o.c.k, a tall, yellow-haired giant who had done splendid service as a scout in the western sector of the Civil War.

"Wild Bill" I had known since 1857. He and I shared the pleasure of walking a thousand miles to the Missouri River, after the bull-train in which we both were employed had been burned by Lot Smith, the Mormon raider. Afterward we rode the Pony Express together.

While an express rider, Bill had the fight with the McCandless gang which will always form an interesting chapter in the history of the West.

Coming into his swing station at Rock Creek one day, Bill failed to arouse any one with his shouts for a fresh mount. This was a certain indication of trouble. It was the stock-tender's business to be on hand with a relief pony the instant the rider came in. The Pony Express did not tolerate delays.

Galloping into the yard, Bill dismounted and hurried to the stable. In the door he saw the stock-tender lying dead, and at the same instant a woman's screams rang from the cabin near by. Turning about, Bill found himself face to face with a ruffian who was rushing from the house, brandishing a six-shooter. He asked no questions, but pulled one of the two guns he carried and fired. No sooner had the man fallen, however, than a second, also armed, came out of the house. Hick.o.c.k disposed of this fellow also, and then entered the place, where four others opened a fusillade on him.

Although the room was thick with smoke, and Bill had to use extreme care to avoid hitting the woman, who was screaming in the corner, he managed to kill two of his a.s.sailants with his revolvers and to ward off a blow with a rifle a third had leveled at him.

The blow knocked the weapon from his hand, but his knife was still left him, and with it he put the man with the rifle out of the way. His troubles were not at an end, however. Another man came climbing in the window to avenge his fellow gangsters. Bill reached for a rifle which lay on the floor and shot first.

When he took count a few minutes later he discovered that he had killed five men and wounded a sixth, who escaped in the thick of the fight.

The woman, who had been knocked unconscious by one of the desperadoes, was soon revived. She was the stock-tender's wife, and had been attacked the by gang as soon as they had slain her husband.

The pa.s.sengers of the Overland stage, which rolled in as Bill was reviving the terrified woman, were given a view of Western life which none of them ever forgot.

Bill was the hero of the occasion, and a real hero he was, for probably never has a man won such a victory against such terrific odds in all the history of the war against the ruffians of the West.

It was at Springfield, Missouri, that Bill had his celebrated fight with Dave Tutt. The fight put an end to Tutt's career. I was a personal witness to another of his gun exploits, in which, though the chances were all against him, he protected his own life and incidentally his money. An inveterate poker player, he got into a game in Springfield with big players and for high stakes. Sitting by the table, I noticed that he seemed sleepy and inattentive. So I kept a close watch on the other fellows. Presently I observed that one of his opponents was occasionally dropping a card in his hat, which he held in his lap, until a number of cards had been laid away for future use in the game.

The pot had gone around several times and was steadily raised by some of the players, Bill staying right along, though he still seemed to be drowsy.

The bets kept rising. At last the man with the hatful of cards picked a hand out of his reserves, put the hat on his head and raised Bill two hundred dollars. Bill came back with a raise of two hundred, and as the other covered it he quietly shoved a pistol into his face and observed:

"I am calling the hand that is in your hat!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: HE SHOVED A PISTOL IN THE MAN'S FACE AND SAID "I'M CALLING THE HAND THAT'S IN YOUR HAT"]

Gathering in the pot with his left hand, he held the pistol with his right and inquired if any of the players had any objections to offer.

They hastened to reply that they had no objections whatever and we went away from there.

"Bill," I said, when we were well outside the place, "I had been noticing that fellow's play right along, but I thought you hadn't. I was going to get into the game myself if he beat you out of that money."

"Billy," replied Hick.o.c.k, "I don't want you ever to learn it, but that is one of my favorite poker tricks. It always wins against crooked players."

Not all of the gunmen of the West began straight. Some of them--many, in fact--were thieves and murderers from the beginning. Such were the members of the McCandless gang, which Hick.o.c.k disposed of so thoroughly. All along the stage route were robbers and man-killers far more vicious than the Indians. Very early in my career as a frontiersman I had an encounter with a party of these from which I was extremely fortunate to escape with my life.

I employed the leisure afforded me by my a.s.signment as an extra rider in hunting excursions, in which I took a keen delight. I was returning home empty-handed from a bear hunt, when night overtook me in a lonely spot near a mountain stream. I had killed two sage-hens and built a little fire over which to broil them before my night's rest.

Suddenly I heard a horse whinny farther up the stream. Thinking instantly of Indians, I ran quickly to my own horse to prevent him from answering the call, and thus revealing my presence.

Filled with uneasiness as to who and what my human neighbors might be, I resaddled my horse, and, leaving him tied where I could reach him in a hurry if need be, made my way up-stream to reconnoiter. As I came around a bend I received an unpleasant shock. Not one horse, but fifteen horses, were grazing just ahead of me.

On the opposite side of the creek a light shone high up the mountain bank--a light from the window of a dugout. I drew near very cautiously till I came within, sound of voices within the place, and discovered that its occupants were conversing in my own language. That relieved me. I knew the strangers to be white men. I supposed them to be trappers, and, walking boldly to the door, I knocked.

Instantly the voices ceased. There ensued absolute silence for a s.p.a.ce, and then came-whisperings, and sounds of men quietly moving about the dirt floor.

"Who's there?" called someone.

"A friend and a white man," I replied.

The door opened, and a big, ugly-looking fellow stood before me.

"Come in," he ordered.

I accepted the invitation with hesitation, but there was nothing else to do. To retreat would have meant pursuit and probably death.

Eight of the most villainous-appearing ruffians I have ever set eyes upon sat about the dugout as I entered. Two of them I recognized at once as teamsters who had been employed by Simpson a few months before.

Both had been charged with murdering a ranchman and stealing his horses. Simpson had promptly discharged them, and it was supposed that they had left the country.

I gave them no sign of recognition. I was laying my plans to get out of there as speedily as possible. I was now practically certain that I had uncovered the hiding-place of a gang of horse-thieves who could have no possible reason to feel anything but hostility toward an honest man.

The leader of the gang swaggered toward me and inquired menacingly:

"Where are you going, young man, and who's with you?"

"I am entirely alone," I returned. "I left Horseshoe Station this morning for a bear hunt. Not finding any bears, I was going to camp out till morning. I heard one of your horses whinnying, and came up to your camp."

"Where is your horse?"

"I left him down the creek."

They proposed going for the horse, which was my only means of getting rid of their unwelcome society. I tried strategy to forestall them.

"I'll go and get him," I said. "I'll leave my gun here."