Ottumwa tri-weekly courier. [volume] (Ottumwa, Iowa) 1903-1916, 1914-07-18
1ryAprrR x1v-(Continued)

went in and. presently, found my man
He had retired to an upper room OF
the house. When 1 got through with
him. he did not have much in the way
Of clothes on. or unbroken skin, FOR
that matter.
But I recovered my eight hundred
dollars.
Returning to the street and my sue
cess reported to the policeman, ne sug.
eested that perhaps his advice might
possess the value OF drink and We
strolled away together.
But suddenly, when he came WITHIN
the shadows OF the town hall and no
one near. he pushed his pistol in my
face and told me he believed he could
take care of my roll better than |
could.
The sheer cold nerve Of the man
nearly took my breath away for Sec
ond but came to in time to knock
him down, and snatched his pistol.
Then I legged it for the train in jack
rabbit jumps.
Following, he caught me just as l
was hopping aboard freight, but a
shot tumbled him off on one side and
a lump landed me in the darkness ON
the other side-whence I kept on go
ing without stopping to make any in
ouiries about the policeman, until l
reached the vicinity of Salt Lake.
And there I wintered in Bingham
Canon.
The year of 1875 and the spring
Of 1875 I passed woltlng and trading
again In Montana And l suppose 1t
was only my absence in the remote
Whoop-up country that kept me out OF
the Rosebud and Little Big Horn bat
ties. one or both, for would sure have
been out scouting for the troops II
had known the campaign was on.
Before midyear I had again dropped
down river from Fort Benton to Bis
rnarcks where joined bull train
bound for the Black Hills, into which
mad rush of gold-seekers was then
on, pouring in over the Cheyenne, Sid
new and Bismarck stage roads.
When I reached Deadwood, the
deep pine-clad gulch that held the
camp was seething with Wild roist-
ering throng that carried me back to
the best of the old California days.
The slopes were pitted by prospect
holes and dotted with yellow dumps.
Those were the days of Wild Bill
Hickok In fact, a few days later that
indomitable gun artist met the tate
few d. the trigger squeezers escaped.
The camp was wide open.
That autumn the Cheyennes were
raiding through the hills, sometimes
almost into the camp. None of the
outlying camps was safe and few
wood chopping or hay cutting outfits
got back unscarred.
One brush ] had was busy one.
Four Of us we're on trip down White
wood Gulch, below Crook City, pros
pecting for hay claim, when hi-yi-ing
past us came small Cheyenne war
party driving thirty horses they had
looted from Crook.
We took a chance and went into &C
ton; and finally stampeded the Indians
and captured the stolen horses. But,
as usual the Cheyennes took their toll,
for they we're fighters you could never
be sure were dead until you saw the
buzzards eating them. We lost half
of our little party Of four
When the Indians were finally in
full flight and we following and she'll
Inc them, one We had bowled over
with both legs and one arm broken
was crawling toward cover as we
passed. He rolled fiat on his back,
and resting his gun on an up-drawn
knee. shot and killed two Of our mates.
His scalp decorated Ed Morran's sa-
loon for I don't know how long there
artef.
During the two years remained in
the Black Hills I was kept busy at
good jobs, first as deputy sheriff un-
der Seth Bullock, later as stage mes
senger. or treasurer guard, principally
on c. w. Carpenters stage route be-
tween Deadwood and Bismarck, whose
coaches we're usually laden with thous.
ands in gold bullion.
Many were the affairs I had with
the bandits that swarmed about such
rich picking. but not once, l can truth
fully say, did lose to them dollar of
my charge.
Just good luck, probably. for num-
Der Of times they jumped me under
conditions it was mighty hard to beat.
With the incidents of these affairs
shall not weary the reader, for Of
their general nature my fight while
guarding the South Pass stage, already
described, is sufficiently typical
Early in 1873 l left the Bismarck
route and served with Boone May on
the Cheyenne stage line. I was with
him il February of that year in one of
his hottest fights when, with a heavy
cargo OF treasure aboard, old Gene Bar
nett, pulling the ribbons over six, and
the author of this book on the box
alongside of Gene, we were jumped in
the brush lining the Old Woman's Fork
OF the Cheyenne River, south of Jen-
ny's Stockade. But Boone Mays part
in that show the author has told else
where, and I'll not tire the reader with
mine.
MY old rascally hunting partner,
Jack Watkins. turned thoroughly bad,
was then operating on that line, but
the hope l nursed of whack at him
to even our old score was not realized.
Shortly thereafter Watkins disap-
peared out of the ken Of all Of us who
had known him in the Northwest.
Years later, heard he had been recog,
nized in Tombstone, Arizona, but this
l have always felt sure was mistake.