The Arkansaw traveler., 1888-08-11
Indians adniIe Bravery.

During the fall and summer prior to the escape of the northern Chey- ennes from their reservation in the Indian territory when they made their historical and thrilling flight to the north under the leadership of the famous and bloodthirsty chief, Dull Knite, eluding all the efforts of Uncle Sam's cavalry to- overtake them, although but a lad of seven- teen, was entrusted with the duty of carrying the mail between Fort Reno and Fort Supply. I was con- pelled to lie in the saddle continu- ously for thirty-six hours, making the entire distance without rest, merely stopping at the relief stations long enough to change horses and get bite to eat. The stations were To- cated about every twenty five or thirty miles apart, and consisted of small corrall and a dug out or a log cabin, where the station keeper lived, whose duty it was to take care of the five or six horses, which was about the number left at each station, and to have one ready to saddle as soon as carrier arrived. There was no road, and not even trail for me to follow, my only guide being familir land- marks, such as high hills, or a lone cottonwood or grove of timber, and frequently on dark, stormy nights I would lose my course and wander about for hours, entirely oblivious to my whereabouts, trusting en- tirely to the sagacious mustang to take me to the next sta- tion. They always proved equal to the emergency with the exception of one or two occasions when they turned and took me back to the sta tion from which we had started.
 Part of my route passed through the Cheyenne reservation, and as the Cheyennes were known to be uneasy, and very much dissatisfied with their reservation and reports were being re- ceived at the fort almost daily that they were preparing to go on the warpath, I naturally felt very ner- vous while in their vicinity, but as I was fortunate in not running across any of them for long time, began to think that there was nothing to fear. My first introduction to them, however, was an experience that I shall not forget to my dying day.
 It was near the close of beautiful October afternoon. My horse was carrying me at swinging lope through picturesque valley of the Canadian river, with range of low, grassy hills at my right and the broad Canadian with its glistening sand flats to my left, and still beyond arose some high hills that might almost be called mountains, covered to their summits with growth of scrubby oak trees, that furnished secure hiding places for game of all kinds. Occa- sionally deer or flock of turkeys that had come down to the river to drink, would be surprised as l emerged from behind some slight em- thence, and make off toward the cover as fast as they could go, frequently affording capital opportunities for me to try my Winchester, but as I could not stop to do anything with the game I considered it wanton cruelty to kill merely for the sport of the thing.
 had just started up a magnificent doe with two pretty spotted lawns, and was laughing to see them scamper away, when suddenly I was startled by rife shot and a bullet whistled uncomfortably close to my head. This was followed by a cry that came from host of savage throats and actually seemed to freeze the very blood in my veins. It was the awful, piercing terrible war cry of the northern Cheyennes, which once heard will never be forgotten. Glancing hastily back, I saw what happened to be about flfty Indians in full pursuit yelling and shooting, changing what had but Q second before been a quiet and peaceful scene into a perfect pan- demonium. tell you I was scared even my horse, although he had been ridden at a rapid gait for twenty miles was so badly frightened that he redoubied his speed. at once headed him for the hills beyond the river nearly a mile distant; my only thought being to reach some place where could either hide or success fully defend myself, but l soon saw that the race would be a short one for although I was mounted on . good horse he was badly blown, whilt