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 WestDrannan, William F.
History
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
Drannan, William F.
Frontier and pioneer life -- West (U.S.); Indians of North America -- Wars
As soon as the last Indian had passed over the ridge out of sight
we made a charge, and that black mare went like she was shot out
of a cannon. The Indians were all armed with bow and arrows, but
they did not attempt to use them. They did not suspect anything
wrong until they heard the clatter of our horses' feet within a
few yards of them and when they turned to look back we all had our
revolvers ready and turned loose to firing and yelling, and for
the next half mile we had a lively race. I had thought up to that
time that there wasn't a man on the plains or in the Rocky
Mountains that could beat me shooting with a pistol while on the
run, but I must confess that Lieut. Jackson on his black mare
could shoot more Indians in the same length of time than any
person I was ever out with, and it seemed that as fast as the
Lieutenant would shoot one Indian down his mare would turn and
take after the next nearest. The Lieutenant fired six shots and
killed five Indians and wounded the sixth one, while riding at
full speed, and in this country in places the sage brush is waist
high to a man. In this engagement I got four Indians, having to
shoot one Indian three times before I got him down, and George Jones
killed three. Not one of them escaped. Lieut. Jackson said he
could not see why it was that they did not offer to defend
themselves, when they had four to one to start with, for the
Apaches have always been considered the bravest tribe of Indians
in the entire West, and they had been known at different times to
fight soldiers man to man. The last Indian I killed was beyond
doubt the best horseman I had ever seen among the Indians, for he
was first on one side of his horse and then on the other. It
seemed as though he could almost turn under the horses belly while
on the dead run, and he would swing himself around under his
breast, rendering it almost impossible to deal him a fatal shot,
for he frisked around so fast that a person could not get a bead
on him.
We arrived at camp that evening just at dark. During our absence a
train of emigrants consisting of twenty-one wagons had camped near
our quarters. They wanted an escort of twenty or twenty-five men
to accompany them to Fort Yuma, which they were willing to board
free of charge while on the trip.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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