But the "noble" Indian, so often represented in heroic portraits--and always called a "brave" by writers who never saw an Indian of that period--was not there, at least not numerously. He was a sneaking sniper, hiding behind a sand hill or concealed in a clump of bushes in a creek or river bottom, with a good chance to get away if attacked. He seldom came out into the open to fight even a lone surveying party, but waited for the cover of night, hid behind a rock and took a pot shot and then rode his horse at top speed to a safe distance. He was a miserable coward, and dirty. Perhaps the next day he would come meekly into some camp where there were several hundred men, begging for sugar or bacon. Artists have painted him in all his glory in sight of his enemy discharging his arrows or his gun. Don't believe it. He didn't do it more than a half dozen times, and when he outnumbered the white from 50 or 100 to 1. It is too bad, I know, to destroy such beautiful fiction; but it is necessary in order to keep these chronicles straight. However, it is the truth that a crew engaged in track-laying in the vicinity of North Platte was one day almost overwhelmed by a band of Comanches that came up from the south following a herd of buffalo across the Republican River. There were less than fifty men in the gang, including a locomotive engineer, fireman, conductor, foreman and track-layers, among the rest two Chinese cooks. The Indians had come upon the crew unexpectedly, for the buffalo herd, in passing near at hand, kicked up such a cloud of dust that the crew was unseen until it was too late for the Comanches to retreat without a fight. The buffaloes rushed on past the right-of-way of the road, and when the Indians followed the first they knew of the locomotive was when the engineer sounded his whistle to bring the scattered crew to the shelter afforded by a train of flat cars and the engine. The country all about was flat. The Indians scattered in a circle and at a distance of perhaps 500 yards began to shoot. The crew was well supplied with guns and ammunition and the battle lasted for half an hour, resulting in the death of one Indian and the wounding of not one white man. Still it had all the elements of a movie show, and would have made a fine reel. In another hour track-laying proceeded as usual. Outside of a few clashes of this kind the U. P. went its glorious way without open battle with so-called redskins. Indians look good in pictures, and they are picturesque--in pictures and paintings; but when you were near them in those days you found them nearly always good-for-nothing, insect-infested, diseased, hungry and cowardly, with less nerve than a regular tramp.