The Second William Penn | Page 7

keep it from going
out, and my plan was complete.
I told the lieutenant to take his soldiers and drive on over the hill just
out of sight and to stop there. I sent one of my coaches ahead and all of
my passengers got into that coach. I told my driver to go up to the top
of the hill and stop the mules there, but to keep in sight of me. I had my
coach driven up the road about 100 yards, and on looking up the creek I
saw one Indian in war paint and feathers looking around the bluff at me.
That was the only one of their band I could see, so I got up on top of

my coach and motioned for him to come to me.
[Illustration: "Billy of the Stage Coach," Treating with the Indians.]
Two Indians came up to within 100 feet of me, stopped and looked all
around. (Indians are very cautious that they do not get caught in a trap).
They rode up closer, looking intently at me all the time and talking to
each other. I motioned with both hands while I was standing on top of
the coach to come and I made them understand that I was friendly.
They answered by Indian signs, then gave a big yell,--an Indian
whoop--that liked to have froze the blood in the veins of the passengers.
They gave this whoop three times, and in an instant, it seemed to me,
five or six hundred Indians came down and formed in a line about the
coach on top of which I stood. I bowed to them and pointed to the
supper I had prepared for them. "They came, they saw, and were
conquered." They bowed to me in their Indian language and signs
expressing their gratitude for this hospitality. One old Indian came
forward, laid his bow and arrow and spears upon the ground (the Indian
sign of peace) and motioned for me to come and eat with them. I
motioned to them that I must go on, so they said good-bye. When I got
to the top of the hill I had my coach brought to a standstill. I slapped
my hands together and again motioned them good-bye. All at once
these Indians raised their hands and bade me good-bye, saluting me.
These Indians were fierce looking creatures in their war-paint and with
their spears, which they do not carry unless they expect trouble. That
was the last time I saw those Indians on that trip.
We had no other excitement on our way to Fort Lyons, unless the
encounter with the buffalo herds could be so called. A large herd of
buffalo were grazing on the plains and was not an unusual sight for the
drivers and me. However, when we came in sight of them one
passenger cried out, "Stop the coach, stop the coach; see, there are a
thousand buffalo standing belly deep in the lake." "Oh," I said, "you do
not see any water--that isn't a lake." "What?" one said, "do our eyes
really deceive us out here on these infernal plains? If it is not water and
a lake those buffalo are standing in, what in the name of sense is it?" I
told them that what they saw was nothing more than merely buffalo at a

distance on the plain; that what they saw that resembled water was
simply an optical illusion, called the "mirage." Webster describes the
word as follows: "An optical illusion arising from an unequal refraction
in the lower strata of the atmosphere and causing remote objects to be
seen double, as if reflected in a mirror, or to appear as if suspended in
the air. It is frequently seen in the deserts, presenting the appearance of
water. The Fata Morgana and Looming are species of mirage." The
mirage is one of the most beautiful scenes I ever beheld and can only
be seen on the plains or in deserts in its complete beauty. It has to be
seen to be appreciated. It makes a buffalo look like it had two tails.
Everything looks double.
We had not much sooner spied the buffalo than they spied us and they
started on the run across the road ahead of us. We were compelled to
wait a half an hour until they had crossed the road. We passed ox trains
every day or so going to and from New Mexico. In a few days we were
in Fort Lyon, where we separated from the passengers, and we drivers
would take the incoming coach and its passengers and drive back along
the Long Route.
CHAPTER IV.
The Chivington Massacre.
There was a station on the Union Pacific Road called Kit Carson; near
this station is a