Matthew Kerns's Blog: The Dime Library, page 12

A Gift of Gold & Kindness

In the winter of 1887, Buffalo Bill Cody was with his Wild West show in England. A reporter from the Manchester Sunday Chronicle asked Bill how winters out west compared with winter in England, and Cody took the opportunity to tell a story about a frontier Christmas.The Sunday Chronicle, Manchester, England, December 25, 1887

Well, now, that’s rather a curious question to put to a fellow who’s faced the worst weather that is made in America, man and boy, for the best half of a lifetime. If you can fancy yourself thirty miles from everywhere, with the cold down to four degrees above zero, a tired horse under you, and nothing for dinner more substantial than a plug of tobacco and an extra pull on the waist-belt, I reckon you’ll get some notion of how you feel when you’re real cold. Yet I don’t know but what, on the whole, you feel your winters worse here [in England] than we do. The air of the plains is dry and clear and as exhilarating as a glass of old wine, while your English frost, slight as it is, seems to have a razor edge to it. There’s a wet-blankety feeling about it all the time. But comparisons are odious.

If you want a story I can tell you of a Christmas adventure of my own that I shall look back upon with pleasure to my dying day. Mine has been a stormy life and a perilous one…and incidents like the one I am going to describe are like shafts of sunshine bursting through the black ugly thunderheads of savage memories.

It was on the Western border in the rough old days, long before the railroad had penetrated the wilds, in the time of the gold-seekers of the sixties. I was putting in some time with a lot of daredevil fellows who had set up a mining camp at a place called Russell’s Gulch. The whole district was dotted with such little communities of young, strong men—a man had to be young and strong, you see, or he couldn’t stand the life—and the gold they wrested from the earth in the daytime was squandered with a lavish hand at night… [They were] a lawless lot, unkempt, unshorn, and hating all formality as they despised the foppery of a boiled white shirt. Yet honest, true, and brave—and tender-hearted as a woman if you only knew how to touch them on the soft spot. Such were the Western gold seekers of the early days.

Russell’s had been greatly vexed all through the fall of that year by the depredations of a gang of blackguards who belonged to nowhere in particular—a set of pariahs who had exhausted the patience of one camp after another until every man’s hand was against them…If a man met one of these desperadoes in daylight, it was considered a righteous deed to shoot him in his tracks, and some of the other boys would turn out and help to bury him. After dark, however, the tables were turned: they were minions of the moon, and no man’s belongings were safe…

The boys had made me chief of a small Vigilante Committee, and on Christmas Eve, I was about two miles out of town, kind of prospecting around in a haphazard fashion, hoping I might get a sight of the game I was after when I suddenly saw the glimmer of a light amongst some low sand hills right ahead.

“Cody,” I said to myself, “I reckon you’ve struck it rich at last. This must be the nest of your night birds, sure as you’re a sinner!”

I just felt to see if my pistol was where it ought to be and then stalked around, Indian fashion, till I got near enough to see that the light shone from the window of a log cabin standing out there alone in the wilderness. In less than a minute, I was standing by the door-post, with my ear glued to the crevice, to listen to what might be going forward. You could have felled me with a feather the next moment when I heard the sweet, soft voice of a little child—it was two long years since I’d last heard one—and it said, “Mamma, it is Christmas tomorrow. Does Santa Claus come here to bring toys and dolls and candy for little mites like me, as he used to do back home in the States?”

“Maybe God will grant it, my pet,” said a woman’s voice, “but I’m not at all sure whether Santa Claus will come to us now, we are so poor. Go to bed now, my darlings, and say your prayers, for God is out here in the West as well as ‘way back yonder.'”

Well, now, if you’ll believe me, I took off my hat at that, sir, for it was a kind of a set-back for a man who’d crept to that door with his teeth set, his hand on his pistol, and blood in his mind, to hear that sort of talk going on. I crept to the window and peeped in, and there was a woman kissing goodnight to two of the prettiest little tots you ever saw. When she turned my way, I recognized her as a widow woman who came to camp to see after a few of the boys’ woolen shirts and things and washed them now and again. A quiet, patient, faded-looking woman she was. I’d never known where she lived, and I don’t suppose there was a single galoot in camp who dreamed that she had children about her or ever gave her a second thought at all.

I waited there a good while, for it was a pretty sight to see her tuck the little things up to rest, though heaven knows the rags that covered them were poor enough. And presently, she kneeled down to pray, and that sort of fetched me again, for praying was a bit out of fashion in the Gulch just then. And when she got up I saw she was crying and wringing her hands, and I heard her say, “Father of mercy, but this is a bitter cup! I couldn’t bear to cross them, but they’ve hung up their little stockings, and God help me! I’ve neither a slice of bacon nor a crust of bread left to put in our lips. Thy will be done!” she said, with a sudden burst, “but oh, what shall I do without a stick of wood to burn after tomorrow and this bitter weather so cruelly gnawing at us all?”

And then that woman knelt down again and prayed for firewood and clothes and bread for the children till, I tell you, my heart went sick inside me. I was crying like a child myself, so I just crept away to where I’d tethered my horse and struck the back trail for camp. I rode straight in amongst the shanties and raised a war-whoop that would have made your hair curl. In less than a jiffy every mother’s son of them was out on what we called the street, with their guns in their hands.

“What’s got you, Buffalo Bill?” says Long Jake, the fellow that run the biggest gambling hall in the Gulch. “You’re generally a quiet sort.”

“That’s all right,” says I, “but I guess I’m loaded tonight, so wake up, all you fellows. I want you to ante up with me for once. Come along, the whole crowd of you, and I’ll show you how to gamble!”

With that, about half the population gathered around, and I made them a little speech about what I’d seen that set a good half of the brawny-armed, black-muzzled reprobates crying. I wound up by spinning a twenty-dollar piece and challenging the best rustler in camp to match it for the benefit of the little ones yonder. In less than ten minutes, every poker table in that saloon was heaping with gold dust and coin. The idea caught on like a raging fever, and all around you could hear them shouting, “I’ll go you one and raise you two!” “I’ll stay with you or die!” and the excitement was tremendous for more than an hour.

I had to ask them to shut down presently, for if the whole of Russell’s was to go into the Santa Claus business, it would be as well to be on time. So I took round my hat and the boys who’d been winning chipped in their pile, and then we formed a procession with torches and a bugler in front and went into all the saloons and gambling dens in camp one after the other. You bet that was no scrimping crowd, either—we just cleaned out the whole community of their night’s winnings, and I’m proud to say that not a living soul stood out.

You see, there was many a man there who had left wife and children behind him in the States: some because they thought to make a fortune for them, and some—well, for other reasons. But there was never a ‘tough’ yet who hadn’t his tender moments.

I’ve known a few hard-shell blackguards in my time, but they’re men, after all, if you can only persuade them to remember it. And if you want to squeeze the milk of human kindness out of a hard man, my advice is—get him in a crowd.

We went down to the store next, and the boys bought up enough dry goods and provisions to freight a small ship. And a curious thing happened right then, for we’d all clean forgotten about dolls and toys for the children. Then Amos Green, about the ugliest kind of devil in the camp—a fellow who’d killed two men for certain and was known to be divorced from at least one wife—allowed that there ought to be some toys in the outfit or the bottom would drop out of the whole thing. As luck would have it, the storekeeper remembered of a few dusty boxes of dolls and other contraptions he’d had on hand for a long while. Amos bought up the lot, and then the procession passed on.

And I tell you, sir, that I never led the way in front of the proudest military expedition it has been my fortune to scout for with half the joy that I felt in leading that file of rough, half-drunken miners, each one carrying his load, that marched out of the gulch, silently and in the darkness that night. We took the shortest cut to the widow’s cabin, and without a whisper or a footfall that you could hear, the boys crept up to the door and piled up their burdens against it. To crown the business, they left a buckskin sack of virgin gold a’top of the heap, which had a letter tied to its neck to mention that Santa Claus had just happened along and would have called in as usual to pay his respects, only he was in a bit of a hurry.

The boys went back to camp then, but somehow I felt as if I was bound to see this thing through, and of course, there was just a chance of some horse thief or other interfering with the program. So I lit a cigar and sat down on a stump well under the shelter of the bushes, within range of the cabin, with my rifle across my knees, and I’d have felt sorry for any sneaking prowler who so much as smelt at the widow’s property that morning.

I stayed then till the dawn came up, with a great red flush that set the cabin windows blazing like rubies, and presently, a little curl of smoke from the roof showed that the widow had got up and lighted the fire with her last few sticks of wood. And presently, she opened the door, and the whole Christmas avalanche went tumbling into the house with a rattle that sounded better than any bells I ever heard. And the two little cubs came leaping out, screaming, “Santa Claus, Santa Claus!” at the top of their childish voices. I waited till I saw the widow kneel down again at the threshold to thank heaven for her luck, and then I slung the gun over my shoulder and vamoosed.

In half an hour I had reported progress to the subscribers. I regret to record that every man with a spark of respect for himself in Russell’s Camp got drunk as Old Noah that Christmas Day.

Parts 1 & 2 of my series on Buffalo Bill Cody for Legends of the Old West are available here:https://open.spotify.com/episode/65NfDyDoosnqUphtM6qiUZ

and here:https://open.spotify.com/episode/5fHBjPD2YJfWAgy7nUdMlG

Part 2 - Buffalo Bill: Legends of the Old West

https://youtu.be/B9cNRqIwFG8?si=JRpnxhpzB2T3TjZQ

Part 2 of 6 in a series on Buffalo Bill Cody I wrote for Legends of the Old West.

In Episode 2 of "Buffalo Bill – Frontier Hero" we explore the dramatic shift in William Cody's life from a lucrative but unstable career as a bison hunter to a renowned scout and eventual showman. Facing personal and financial hardships, including the loss of his job and the strain on his marriage, Cody finds a new direction under the influence of Wild Bill Hickok. His remarkable skills as a scout gain recognition, leading to a profoundly impactful friendship with Texas Jack Omohundro and a fateful meeting with Ned Buntline. These encounters set the stage for Cody's transformation into the legendary Buffalo Bill, blurring the lines between real-life frontier exploits and the sensationalized tales of dime novels. Join us as we trace Buffalo Bill's journey through fame, adventure, and the making of a Wild West icon.

Also available on Spotify:

And Apple:

All of Legends of the Old West's podcasts are available at ,https://blackbarrelmedia.com/legends-of-the-old-west/ 

Texas Jack: America's First Cowboy Star by Matthew Kerns is available at:

https://amzn.to/48fptvR

Part 1 - Buffalo Bill: Legends of the Old West

https://youtu.be/oIwYzofDuNE?si=YSC9z4gkQO6ZD7WP

Part 1 of 6 in a series on Buffalo Bill Cody I wrote for Legends of the Old West.

This is episode one, Tragedy and Transformation. Delve into the tumultuous world of Kansas in the 1850s. Discover the intense debate over slavery that divides a community and leads to a brutal attack on Isaac Cody, the father of William Cody, who later becomes the legendary Buffalo Bill. This attack propels young William on a path of hardship and adventure, marking the beginning of a life that would turn him into an icon of the Wild West. Join us for a journey through a critical moment in American history, where personal tragedy intertwines with the nation's turbulent struggle over freedom and statehood.

Also available on Spotify:

And Apple:

All of Legends of the Old West's podcasts are available at https://blackbarrelmedia.com/legends-of-the-old-west/

Texas Jack: America's First Cowboy Star by Matthew Kerns is available at:

https://amzn.to/48fptvR

Talking About Texas Jack in Leadville

Special Event: An Evening with Matthew Kerns - Celebrating Texas Jack in Historic Leadville

We warmly invite you to an enthralling evening with award-winning author Matthew Kerns at the Two Dog Market in Leadville, Colorado, on Friday, December 29, 2023. This event is not just a book talk; it's a journey into the heart of Leadville's rich history through the story of John B. "Texas Jack" Omohundro, America's first cowboy star.

Matthew Kerns, honored with both the Spur Award and the Western Heritage Award, will delve into the life of Texas Jack, whose story is deeply woven into the fabric of Leadville. It's here, in our historic town, that Texas Jack's extraordinary journey came to an end in 1880, and where his memorable funeral was held at the nearby Tabor Opera House. Just steps away from this iconic venue, Two Dog Market provides the perfect setting to explore Texas Jack's legacy and Leadville's place in the annals of the Wild West.

Kerns' book, "Texas Jack: America's First Cowboy Star," offers a vivid portrayal of the man who, alongside his friends Buffalo Bill Cody and Wild Bill Hickok, captivated the nation with their groundbreaking theatrical performances, precursors to the Wild West shows. This event is a rare opportunity to engage with the author and gain insights into how Leadville and Texas Jack's paths intertwined.

The evening will include a thought-provoking Q&A session and a book signing with Matthew Kerns, providing a personal touch to this historical exploration.

Event Details:

Date: Friday, December 29, 2023 Time: 4:00 PM - 6:00 PM Venue: Two Dog Market, just steps from the historic Tabor Opera House, Leadville, Colorado Admission: Free and open to the public

Join us in celebrating the legacy of Texas Jack and the storied history of Leadville, where the past and present merge in a tribute to our Western heritage. We hope to see you there for an unforgettable evening!

Buy A Signed Book

Are you struggling to find the perfect gift for the dads, uncles, or grandfathers in your life who seem to have everything? Look no further—this Holiday season, give the gift of a true American adventure with a personal touch that can’t be found on any store shelf. Here’s why you should consider buying a copy of "Texas Jack: America's First Cowboy Star," signed and personally inscribed by Western Heritage and Spur Award-winning author Matthew Kerns.

A Slice of American History

"Texas Jack: America's First Cowboy Star" isn't just a book; it's a ticket to the thrilling days of yesteryear. The story brings to life the adventures of a real American icon whose exploits paved the way for the cowboy stars of cinema and literature that followed. Your loved one will be transported to the dusty trails and wild frontiers that helped shape the American West.

A Unique and Personal Gift

When you give a signed and personally inscribed book, you're giving more than just a story. You're connecting the reader with the author and the history they've penned. A signature adds something special that cannot be replicated—a tangible piece of the author’s journey in creating the tale.

Supporting Award-winning Talent

Matthew Kerns is not only an author but a recognized storyteller who has been honored with the Western Heritage and Spur Awards for his contributions to the genre. By purchasing his book, you're not only gifting a fantastic read but also supporting an author who is genuinely contributing to the preservation and celebration of Western heritage.

A Gift That Keeps on Giving

Books are the gifts that keep on giving. Long after the holidays are over, "Texas Jack: America's First Cowboy Star" will remain on the shelf as a fond reminder of a thoughtful gift, ready to be revisited again and again. It's an heirloom that can be passed down, sharing the legacy of the American cowboy with future generations.

How to Order Your Signed Copy

Ordering your signed copy is easy. Visit the Dime Library bookshop to purchase your personalized copy. Be sure to order soon to ensure your book arrives in time for the holiday festivities.

This Holiday season, give the gift of history, adventure, and a personal touch with "Texas Jack: America's First Cowboy Star." It's the perfect present for the hard-to-shop-for person in your life who appreciates the grit and spirit of the American West. Don’t just give a gift—give an experience that will be treasured for years to come.

Luther North's Account of the Pawnee Buffalo Hunt

From "Man of the Plains - Recollections of Luther North 1856-1882."

The day after my visit with Eagle Chief, I went on to Columbus, and a short time after that my brother Frank had a letter from George Bird Grinnell of New York, asking him to take him and a Mr. James M. Russell of Kentucky on a buffalo hunt. The both men knew my brother, having been in the group of students from Yale College that Professor Marsh had brought out two years before, when my brother acted as guide for him in his expedition from Ft. McPherson north to the Loup River country. As my brother was at Ft. Russell and could not go, he referred them to me, and when they let me know at what time they would be here, I went to Plum Creek, Nebraska, where I hired a team and man to drive it and cook for us. I also got saddle horses and provisions enough to last a couple of weeks.

When the two men arrived we started south to overtake the Pawnees, who had gone on their annual summer hunt. This was the beginning of my friendship with Mr. Grinnell, and it has lasted until now. It is now fifty-two years since that buffalo hunt, and he still journeys out here every year to see me.

I think it was about the third day from Plum Creek that Giinnell killed an old bull buffalo. About the sixth day we overtook the Pawnees and traveled with them until they made a big surround and killed perhaps a thousand buffalo.

When the Pawnees were about to start on one of their hunts, the chiefs of the different bands had a meeting and agreed on four men, one from each band, who were to be leaders of the hunt, and these four men had absolute command, even the chiefs being subject to their orders. They rode ahead of the tribe on the march and picked out the camping grounds; they carried a staff or pole an inch in diameter and seven or eight feet long, to the end of which was fastened a strip of cloth, and the feathers of a hawk or an eagle, and the skin of some animal or bird that was the medicine of the beaver. This staff was held in an upright position while on the march.

Each day these leaders chose certain men to scout ahead and off to each side of the line of march, and when they came in to where they had made camp, they reported to the leaders what they had discovered. The leaders in turn reported to the crier, who in turn shouted the news to the camp. The crier came out in front of his lodge at sundown and called out in a loud voice, “Listen, listen, all of you people.” Instantly everything was still; when he would begin to tell the news of the day.

It was perhaps like this, “Blue Hawk was riding far ahead today, and found on Prairie Dog Creek a large band of buffalo. Tomorrow will be the big hunt; we will move camp at daylight.” Or, again, “Little Wolf saw the tracks of seven men north of here. They wore Sioux moccasins. You had better have your horses close to camp tonight, or they may be taken.” In this way, every evening the camp was informed of what had taken place during the day, and of what to expect on the morrow.

The day we overtook the Pawnees and camped with them, I took the two young men over and introduced them to Pete-ah-le-shar, Chief Man, the head chief of the tribe, and told him what we were there for; that these men wanted to see how the Pawnees killed buffalo. He said it was good, and that the next day they would make a big killing. After smoking with him we returned to our camp and took a good rest and sleep.

The next morning the Indians broke camp early and moved south across the hills to Driftwood Creek, where they went into camp, and the hunters mounted their fastest horses and started for the big hunt. There were about one thousand mounted men, and the leaders or captains of the hunt rode in front, and no man, not even one of the chiefs, dared ride ahead of them or attempt to kill a buffalo, until they gave the word. The reason for this was that, if individual hunting was permitted the men who had the best and fastest horses would be the only ones who would get any meat, and they would scare out of the country the buffalo that they didn’t kill, and those people who had slower horses would kill nothing and get no meat. Another reason was that the Pawnees had so many enemies that they dared not scatter out widely for fear of being attacked. So they always tried to make a big killing at one time, and as close together as possible.

When all was ready, we left camp and rode for a mile or two on a trot, and then broke into a slow canter. Many of the Indians, in fact the great majority of the younger warriors, ran on foot and led their horses, so that these would be fresh for the run when we reached the buffalo. They were stripped down to the breechclout, and all were riding bareback, and all were armed with bow and arrows. Men and horses were both excited, especially the horses. To them a hunt was like a race to a thoroughbred.

After riding for about ten miles the leaders stopped and everybody dismounted and gave the horses a chance to breathe. Then all mounted and formed in a line, or rather three or four lines. The leaders rode slowly ahead up a hill, on the other side of which the buffalo were lying down. When the leaders reached the top of the hill in sight of the buffalo, they leaned forward on their horses and shouted, now-wah, and the hunt was on.

There was a mad race, and before the buffalo were fairly on their feet we were among them. The dust from a thousand buffalo and a thousand horses was so thick that we could hardly see anything, but as they began to scatter, we saw small groups of buffalo, with a few hunters pursuing each band, and in an hour or so the hunt was over, so far as the lolling was concerned, and there were a thousand dead buffalo to be taken care of. The camp had moved from where we had started on the hunt, and we were now camped within two or three miles of where the buffalo were killed. In killing them the Indians kept circling them so they would be as near together as possible, and as near to the camping ground as they could keep them, for all the work of skinning and cutting up, taking to camp and drying the meat, had still to be done. This part was all done by the women.

The young men that were with me were very much interested in the hunt, and both of them had very good luck. Russell, I believe, killed some buffalo, and Grinnell killed several, and I believe I killed one. That night after we reached camp Pete-ah-le-shar invited us to a feast at which many of the chiefs were present. The meal served was kah-wis(1) a sort of a sausage that the boys thought was very good. After this meal came an invitation from La-sharo-too-ri-hoy, Good Chief, where we had roast ribs. We were served by the wife of Good Chief, who was the most beautiful woman in the Pawnee tribe. After eating and smoking with him we went to our camp. For several days more we traveled with the Pawnees, but at last the young men’s time was up, and we said goodbye to the Pawnees and started back for Plum Creek, where we arrived safely about a week later. This was the next to the last buffalo hunt that the Pawnees ever had, before they were removed to the Indian territory; in fact, it was the last hunt in which the whole tribe took part. The following year, 1873, part of the tribe, with John Williamson(2) in charge, while hunting on the Republican near where we had joined them the year before, were attacked and defeated by a large band of Sioux from the Whetstone Agency, and about one hundred fifty of them were killed. The spot where this battle took place is still called Massacre Canyon; it is in Hitchcock County, Nebr., and is near the town of Trenton(3).

(1)Ka-wis was a Pawnee delicacy consisting of a thin strip of tender meat placed with some water in a section of intestine with both ends tied. It was roasted in the coals and was not unlike a frankfurter both in appearance and popularity (Letter of Gene Weltfish to Donald F. Danker, April 5, 1958).

(2)John William Williamson (1850-1927) moved to Genoa in 1871. He was employed at the Pawnee Agency, and because of his wavy shoulder-length brown hair the Pawnees named him BukrCfnrn (Curly Head). The agent, John Burgess, picked him as trail agent on the ill-fated buffalo hunt. His duties were “to keep the Pawnees in order and to protect them from white men and, if possible, from the Sioux” (Hyde, Pawnee Indians, 244). He barely escaped the Sioux at Massacre Canyon. In 1874, Williamson helped to escort the Pawnee on their way to Indian Territory.

(3)The Sioux were Oglala and Brule from the Red Cloud and Spotted Tail agencies; the date was August 5, 1873. Estimates of the dead vary from 69 to 156 (Hyde, Pawnee Indians, 245-246).

Buffalo Hunt with the Pawnee by George Bird Grinnell

From Forest & Stream. Christmas Day, December 25, 1873.

Buffalo Hunt with the Pawnee by George Bird Grinnell

The sun pushing aside the rosy curtains of the east commences to renew his daily course, bringing again light and life to all animated nature. He touches the more elevated bluffs with flaming light and suffuses the whole heavens with a ruddy glow. The leaves of the low willows, frosted with a coating of tiny dew drops, glisten in in his light, and each silvery globule that hangs from the high grass reflects his image like a polished mirror. The waters of the Republican, dark and turbid as they always are, seem to become purer as they are touched by his beams, and flash and gleam as they whirl along toward the Missouri. The mellow whistle of the meadowlark is heard from the prairie, the short cry of the migrating blackbird falls from on high, a flock of ducks on whistling wing pass over us on their way to those genial climes where frost and snow do not penetrate, and where the rigors of winter are not felt.

The quite beauty of the prospect is enchanting, but I desire to introduce you to more stirring scenes. Bear with me for a moment, however, while I give you a brief description of the country through which we are to journey —of the land of the buffalo. Could we attain the heights traveled by the feathered travelers that are continually passing, a magnificent view would meet our eyes. Far away to the north, I would point out to you the faint dark line formed by the tall cottonwoods that fringe the Platte and by which its direction east and west may be traced as far as the eye can reach. As far to the south and scarcely to be discerned save by the keenest sight, another low dark line marks the course of the Solomon, and between these two we see many lesser streams, some flowing north, and some south, each bearing its share of alluvium to. swell the deltas of the Mississippi. Besides these, the plain is intersected by innumerable ravines running in all directions. These serve to carry off the surplus water in times of rain, each emptying into some large one, and that in turn into one still larger, until finally a stream is formed which joins into the main river. On the borders of such streams feed the deer and elk; along their grassy bottoms stalks the wild turkey, resplendent in his bronzed plumage; among the tangled thickets that grow upon their banks lurks the great white wolf; and amid the topmost branches of some lofty cottonwood, the white-headed eagle rears her gigantic brood. Among the numberless bluffs that rise one after another like the waves of a tossing sea, the buffaloes can be seen by thousands; some peacefully repositfy on the rich bottoms, others feeding upon the short nutritious grass that clothes the hillsides. The calves play clumsily about, and the old bulls from the tops of the bluffs grimly watch over their uncouth families.

Rarely are these scenes disturbed save when the prowling Sioux, returning from some foray upon the luckless settlers, halts for a brief period to rest his worn out animals and to eat his hasty meal, or when a squadron of cavalry with rattle of arms and clink of spur hurries along upon the trail of the dusky robber, all too late to recover his booty or avenge his crimes. A few hunters or a party of surveyors occasionally pass through this region, but except by these and by the Indian it is rarely visited.

We are standing upon the northern border of the present range of the buffalo. A few passing beyond the Republican advance as far north as the Piatte, but rarely cross that river. South of the former, however, they still abound; not in such numbers indeed as in former years, but still often sufficiently numerous to blacken the plains and to become an easy prey to whoever will hunt them. But their days are numbered, and unless some action on this subject is speedily taken not only by the States and Territories but by the National Government, these shaggy brown beasts, these cattle upon a thousand hills, will ere long be among the things of the past.

Jim. R—— and myself had left New York a week before, and meeting Lute at Plum Creek, had there obtained horses and a team and started off to overtake the Pawnees, who with their families and all their impedimenta, had set out from their reservation three weeks before for a grand buffalo hunt. Many a time during my wanderings west of the Missouri, had these hunts of the Indians been described to me with a graphic eloquence that filled me with enthusiasm as I listened to the recital, and I had determined that if ever the opportunity offered, I would take part in one. The time had at last come, and we were now on our fourth day out from the railroad, having traveled over one hundred and twenty miles, and hoping before nightfall to catch up with the Indians.

Nor were we disappointed in this hope, for when we crossed the Republican and turned southward, the trail which we were following became fresher and gave evidences of having been made only the day before. Soon we passed their last night’s camp, the ashes of the fires still warm and the fresh buffalo bones not yet dried by the sun. Encouraged by these signs, we urged forward our horses, and a short time before dark our exertions were rewarded by the sight of the white lodges of the Pawnees which dotted the broad bottom of Beaver Creek.

There were about two hundred lodges, occupied by over four thousand Indians, principally Pawnees, with a few Poncas and Omahas. Within the camp and among the lodges were picketed the horses. The reason for this, as we afterward learned, was that the Pawnees had encountered that afternoon a small band of Sioux, and after chasing them for several miles, had captured four of their horses. Of course, they knew that the Sioux, if they had the opportunity would return the compliment by stampeding their stock and making off with the best of it. This they intended to prevent by keeping the horses so near them that no unusual movement of the herd could be made without being noticed by some one in the camp.

The scene was one of bustling activity. The women and girls were busily at work bringing water, chopping wood, and cooking, while the men strolled about the camp smoking and talking, or clustered together on the bluffs and gazed at us as we approached. Half a mile from the village, we halted and made camp and, after supper, rode over to see old Peta-la-shar, the head chief of the Pawnees. He received us courteously, and Lute even warmly, calling him ‘‘my son,” and patting him affectionately on the back as he sat by his side. The old man told us that the hunt so far had not been very successful, that the buffalo were not plenty north of the Republican as they used to be when he was a young man, but tomorrow, he said, a grand surround would be made, as his young men had reported plenty of buffalo about twenty miles to the southward. Pleased with this intelligence, we left him and, after a stroll through the Indian camp, returned to our own, and were soon enjoying the deep and dreamless sleep that follows a hard day’s march.

But alas for our anticipations. When we rose next morning, we were dismayed by the sight of a dark mist which hung over the valley, sometimes lifting for a few moments so as to disclose the bluffs beyond, and then settling down again heavier than before. It was evident that the scouts sent out by the Indians to look for buffalo would be unable to see through the heavy fog, and so our prospects for a hunt on this day were very poor. We started from our camp soon after the Pawnees moved out, and before long, our doleful thoughts were dispelled by the interesting spectacle of four thousand Indians on the march.

At the head of the column waiked eight men, each carrying a long pole wrapped round with red and blue cloth and fantastically ornamented with feathers, which fluttered in the breeze as they were borne along. These were the buffalo sticks, and were religiously guarded at all times, as the success of the hunt was supposed to depend largely upon the respect shown to them. Immediately after these came thirty or forty of the principal men of the tribe, all mounted on superb ponies, their saddles glittering with silver ornaments, and their bridles tinkling with little bells. Then followed a motley assemblage, consisting of the squaws of the tribe, each of whom, as she walked along, led one or two ponies heavily packed. A moderately loaded pony would carry first the lodge, with the poles tied on each side of the pack, the ends dragging along on the ground, next a pile of blankets and robes a foot or two in height, around which are tied pots, tin cups, and other utensils, and on top of this heap are perched from two to five small children, each of which holds in its arms two or three young puppies. Loose horses without any burdens and half-grown colts, each with a little pack on its back, run at large among the crowd, and their shrill neighings mingle with the barking of the dogs and the incessant clamor of the women. Along the outskirts of this strange concourse ran half a dozen well-grown boys engaged in playing a game in which they seemed intensely interested, and on which, as I afterwards learned, they were betting. Each held in his right hand a slender stick about four feet long, and one of them had also a ring of plated rawhide three or four inches in diameter. As the latter ran, he threw this ring before him so that it rolled along upon its circumference and then each of the players tried to throw his stick through it. They were not very successful in their attempts, and I fancy that the amounts lost and won were not very heavy. As I cast my eye around over the prairie, I saw on every side small parties of Indians trudging along on foot, their blankets drawn closely about them and their bows and arrows on their back. Surprised at seeing so many walking when the number of riderless horses in the band was so large, I asked Lute the reason of it. He told me that they were letting their horses rest now, so that they might be fresh when they needed them to run buffalo.

We travel on for several hours, and gradually, the mist disappears beneath the powerful rays of the sun. Occasionally, we cross a little stream, and as we approach it, forty or fifty men and boys hurry ahead and disperse themselves through the timber, killing whatever game they can find. On one such occasion, a lordly elk, disturbed by these invaders, springs from a thicket and runs out toward the bluffs, unfortunately on the wrong side of the creek and toward the column. Too late he perceives his mistake and turns to retrace his steps, but is met by a dozen yelling enemies. Again, he turns and now strives to escape in another direction, but twenty horsemen have shot out from the main body, and in less time than it takes to tell it, the noble animal is surrounded. He hesitates, stops, and then makes a bold dash at the weakest point in the circle, but ere he reaches it, three or four arrows pierce him, and he turns again. The circle grows smaller, and again he makes an effort to break it, but his strength is gone, he staggers and comes to his knees. Vain are all his efforts, the knife is at his throat, and with a groan he yields up his life; and in a few minutes, naught remains to mark the spot where the beautiful creature fell save his horns and a few polished bones that shine white in the morning sun.

A little later, distant shouts greet our ears and attract our attention to another quarter. As we gaze in the direction of the sounds, we see the huge forms of thirty or forty buffalo appearing over a bluff but a few hundred yards away. Again, the better mounted riders spur out from the line, this time myself among the number. The buffalo see us, stop, and then separate and flee in wild confusion. Half a dozen Indians and myself start after part of them and follow at a full run as they dash madly down a steep ravine, throwing up dense clouds of dust in their furious career. As we near the small stream into which the ravine empties, I am within thirty yards of the hindmost when a young Indian mounted on a beautiful, but evidently untrained horse, passes me and in a few jumps is alongside of the game. He discharges an arrow, but before he has time to do more his horse, terrified by the enormous bull, carries him by, and the latter becomes now the pursuer. I put spurs to my horse, and as soon as I get within easy distance, fire, and the ball entering near the root of the tail ranges diagonally forward and comes out at the shoulder. The huge beast drops to the shot, and I pull up to examine my first buffalo. I marvel at his monstrous size and vast strength and admire his massive horns and hoofs, which shine like polished ebony, and his shaggy head with its impenetrable shield of hair, hide, and bone; and as the Indians prepare to skin the game, I remount and ride off, musing sadly upon the future of the Indian and the buffalo.

As I proceed, I am joined by several returning hunters laden with spoil. The red meat neatly sliced from the bones is piled high behind the riders, and the crimson drops which trickle from it color the flanks of the horses. already wet from their sharp exercise. My companions chatter and laugh in high glee at their success, and we converse as well as we can by means of signs and broken sentences of Pawnee and English. We reach the main body, and the bloody loads are handed over to the squaws and by them transferred to the backs of the much-enduring pack animals, the march is resumed, and we do not halt again until near noon when we cross a small creek and prepare to camp. Almost all the company have crossed when we hear a shrill chorus of yells and a great fluttering of wings and perceive that the foremost of the ‘‘skirmishers” have come upon a band of wild turkeys. Several are killed with clubs, and the rest seek safety, some by running and others by flight. One of the latter passing over us at a height of not more than twenty yards, becomes a target for all the loose articles in the camp. The air is positively darkened by the cloud of arrows, whips, sticks, and hatchets that are projected at this unlucky bird. No one seems to care what his missile hits when it comes down, or whether he loses it or not, if he can only get that turkey. The latter sustains no more serious injury than the loss of a few feathers and manages to prolong his flight until he reaches the outskirts of the crowd. There he alights, however, and is immediately pounced upon and torn to pieces by the excited boys.

All hands having crossed, a spot is chosen where the creek bottom is wide enough to accommodate the whole company, and camp is made. The animals are unpacked and picketed out to feed; the lodges are set up; a hundred thin columns of smoke denote the existence of as many fires. Some of the squaws hurry away up and down the creek and soon return laden with wood and water, others plant poles upright in the ground and, throwing the fresh hides over them, commence the tedious operation of scraping off the flesh and fat that still adheres to them. Part of the men ride out toward the bluffs, so as to be the first to receive the news, if anything is reported by the scouts, and a few lounge about our wagon, but by far the greatest number are in their lodges eating their midday meal.

We had been in camp two hours or more and were lazily reclining under the wagon, when a sudden bustle among the Indians attracted our attention, and on looking out toward the bluffs, we saw a horseman riding hard for camp, while the men that he passed shouted and gesticulated in great excitement. On reaching the lodges, the rider halted near a group of the chief men and spoke a few words to them. He then rode off again, and after a short consultation, some order was given, and in ten minutes the lodges were down and packed and a part of the company were flying off down the creek. Only the women and children, however. While the packing was being done, the men had moved the saddles and bridles from their horses, substituting for the latter a strip of rawhide around the lower jaw. They had also stripped off their own clothing and stood forth as naked as when they came into the world, save for a breechclout and a pair of moccasins apiece. Their bows and arrows they held in their hands. At a given signal, they started off, at first on a slow trot, but gradually increasing their speed until the trot became a canter and the canter a swift gallop

At the first movement in the camp, Lute had notified us of what would take place, and we had saddled up and leaving all our superfluous articles in the wagon had made ready to start. The wild gallop over the prairie with that excited multitude was an experience calculated to impress itself indelibly upon the memory, and I shall never forget it.

The band was at first widely scattered, but as we proceeded, the ranks closed up, and it became more compact. Many of the Indians leading their horses, advance on foot, keeping well up with the mounted men. Here and there, I see two of them mounted on a single horse and leading two others; the former will be turned loose when we approach the buffalo, and its riders will make their hunt on fresh horses.

On we go, mile after mile, and still no sign of halting. At times, the pace is slackened as we ascend some high bluff, and one or two of the leaders cautiously peer over it to see if the game is in sight. In front of the line ride at regular intervals, the ‘‘Pawnee Police” so-called, whose duty it is to restrain the more ardent, and those whose horses are fastest, until the charge is made; so that the game may not be frightened too soon, and so that all may have an equal chance at it. Very deliberately, they advance, checking their impatient ponies, which snuff the chase and are eager to commence it. Sometimes, a restive horse carries his rider too far forward, and the latter is sternly warned back by the nearest of the leaders. And woe to the luckless wight that fails to heed such a warning. The power of the ‘‘Police” is absolute during the hunt, and if an order is disobeyed or neglected by the delinquent, be he white or red, of high degree or low, may be knocked off his horse with a club and beaten into submission without receiving any sympathy even from his best friends.

Six, eight, ten miles have been passed over when a brief halt is made. The game is in sight, and when I ride up to the top of the high bluff where the leaders are congregated, I see on the prairie four or five miles away clusters of dark spots that I know must be the buffalo. Presently, we start again and change our course so that a range of bluffs conceals the game. By this time, all the Indians have mounted and are pressing as close behind the ‘‘Police” as they dare. The wet flanks of the ponies glisten in the declining sun, and dashes of white foam flake their breasts as, with outstretched necks and ears thrown forward, they gallop along, showing as much excitement as their riders. The latter sit their animals like Centaurs, their long hair streaming out behind them and lifting at every jump of the horses.

At length, we reach the top of the last ridge and see the buffalo lying down in the creek bottom a mile beyond. The place could not have been more favorable for a surround had it been chosen for the purpose. A plain two miles broad and intersected by a narrow stream, is encircled by high bluffs up which the buffalo must toil slowly, but which the more nimble ponies can ascend almost as fast as they can run on level ground. As we commence to descend the face of the bluff, the pace is slightly accelerated. The Indians at either extremity of the line press forward, and its contour is now crescent-like. Men and horses commence to evince more excitement, but the five hundred buffaloes reposing below us do not seem to notice our advance. A few wiley old bulls, however, that occupy the tops of the lower bluffs, take the alarm and commence to scud off over the hills. At last, when we are within half a mile of the ruminating herd, a few of them rise to their feet, and soon all spring up and stare at us for a few seconds; then down go their heads, and in a dense mass they rush off toward the bluffs. As they rise to their feet, the leaders of our party give the signal, and each man puts his horse to its utmost speed. The fastest horses are soon among the last of the buffalo, but still, their riders push forward to try and turn the leaders of the herd and drive them back into the plain. This they in part accomplish, and soon the bottom is covered with the flying animals. They dash madly along, and the trained horses keep close to the buffalo without any guidance, yet watch constantly for any indication of an intention to charge and wheel off, if such intention is imanifested. The Indians discharging arrow after arrow in quick succession, ere long bring down the huge beasts and then turn and ride off after another.

Lute, Jim, and myself each shoot three or four and then we come together on a little hill that overlooks the valley. and become spectators of the scene. Soon, the chase is ended, and the plain is dotted with dark objects, over each of which bend two or three Indians busily engaged in securing the meat. Every ounce of this will be saved, and what is not eaten while fresh will be jerked and thus preserved for consumption during the winter. How different would have been the course of a party of white hunters had they the same opportunity. They would have killed as many animals, but would have left all but enough for one day’s use to be devoured by the wolves or to rot upon the prairie.

As we ride slowly back, Lute beguiles the way by relating to us some of the traditions of the Pawnees, to which we lend an attentive ear. Camp reached and supper over, we turn our attention to the Indians. There is great rejoicing among the company tonight. Some roast the delicious hump ribs, and some broil the heart and liver. Many stuff the intestines with fragments of the tenderloin and boil them, thus obtaining a most delicate soup, and others take the great marrow bones and greedily feast upon the luscious contents. And so the evening wears away, passed by our little party in the curious contemplation of a phase of life that is becoming more and more rare as the years roll by, and by the Indians in feasting and merriment, and when at last we seek our couches and drop off to sleep, the Pawnees are still pegging away at the buffalo meat right manfully.

Reviving the Legends

In the realm of historical photography of the "Wild West" era, images of Texas Jack Omohundro and his wife Giuseppina Morlacchi hold a special place. Captured during the early 1870s, these photographs offer us a rare glimpse into the life and times of these icons of American history. As we seek to bridge the gap between past and present, image enhancement tools such as Remini, FaceApp, and Adobe Photoshop come into play, with the potential to revitalize these treasures, giving them a new lease on life.

Take a look at the faded, grainy, black-and-white cast photo of "The Scouts of the Prairie," taken either in late 1872 or early 1873. Ned Buntline, Buffalo Bill, Giuseppina Morlacchi, and Texas Jack have just launched their tour in Chicago. They are poised to take the show nationwide, transforming Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack from frontier figures to Wild West legends. Soon after this picture was taken, Texas Jack and Giuseppina Morlacchi would fall in love. They were married at the end of August 1873. Through the magic of digital restoration, we can now not only preserve but also enhance these images to a startling degree of clarity and vitality.

Starting with Remini, an AI-driven photo enhancer, we breathe new sharpness into the image. Remini excels in restoring the fine details that time has eroded. With a few swipes and clicks, the blurred contours of Texas Jack's rugged features become crisp, and Giuseppina's delicate expression gains a newfound sharpness.

FaceApp then steps in, leveraging its AI to rejuvenate the subjects' faces. FaceApp has the ability to modify age, gender, and facial features, but we're using it to further clarify the Remini images, bringing out the detail impossible to capture at the time the original photograph was taken. This provides texture for hair and sharpens the eyes. It's like watching history come alive, with each wrinkle and smile line telling a story of the Wild West era.

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However, the true transformative artistry is showcased when Adobe Photoshop's colorization and generative fill functions come into play. Generative fill is a powerful feature that fills in the gaps of deteriorated photos by generating texture and patterns that are absent from the original. In our project, Photoshop's generative fill was meticulously used to recreate details that the original photograph couldn't capture, such as the intricate lace over Morlacchi's hair, her elegant earrings, and even the missing details of Texas Jack's left ear, lost in shadow in the original. The tool analyzes the surrounding areas and intelligently replicates the missing details with uncanny accuracy, giving the impression that they were never lost to time.

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These enhancements are not just about adding visual clarity; they serve as a homage to the lives and stories of these historical figures. By using these modern tools, we're able to honor the legacy of the Wild West show performers in a way that's engaging to contemporary audiences. The result is a photo that maintains the soul and history of the original while presenting it through a lens that's polished by the capabilities of modern technology.

The journey of bringing Texas Jack and Giuseppina Morlacchi back to vivid life is a testament to the power of image-enhancement technologies. As we continue to perfect these tools, who knows what other historical marvels we'll be able to restore and celebrate? For now, we can revel in the fact that with a little bit of digital magic, the legends of the past can stand among us once again, as vibrant and captivating as they were in their heyday.

Cast Out of Eden Preorder Discount

Robert Aquinas McNally's new book, Cast Out of Eden: The Untold Story of John Muir, Indigenous People, and the American Wilderness, comes out on May 1, 2024. The publisher, the University of Nebraska Press's Bison Books, is offering a limited-time 40% off discount for people who preorder now.

To get the discount, just go to: https://unp.secure.longleafservices.org/cart?isbn=9781496227263 and use code 6AF23. You'll get the book on the day it releases and save some money at the same time!

If you haven't heard of Cast Out of Eden, this new book offers a critical exploration of John Muir's legacy, juxtaposing his role as a revered nature mystic and a father of America's national parks against the darker history of Indigenous dispossession. This thought-provoking book delves into the untold story of how Muir's advocacy for wild sanctuaries, while spiritually enlightening to some, contributed to the erasure of tribal nations who had stewarded these lands for centuries. From the glens of Lowland Scotland to the towering Sierra Nevada and beyond, readers journey through Muir's life and evolving ethos. The narrative challenges readers to confront the uncomfortable reality that Muir's vision of wilderness sanctity inadvertently marginalized the Native Americans he encountered, considering them a blemish on the landscape he so cherished. "Cast Out of Eden" is not just a historical account; it's a contemporary call to action, highlighting the ongoing efforts to rectify past injustices as Indigenous nations and the federal government collaborate to redefine what American lands signify, striving for a more inclusive future. This book is an essential read for those ready to engage with a more complex portrait of an American icon and the landscapes he helped shape.

The advance praise for "Cast Out of Eden" hails it as a compelling and necessary re-examination of John Muir's legacy, revealing the complex interplay between the United States' wilderness preservation movement and the dispossession of Indigenous lands. Critics commend Robert McNally for his vivid storytelling. Megan Kate Nelson describes the biography as challenging and absorbing, while Margaret Verble appreciates McNally's context for today's conflicts. Susan Devan Harness praises the book for its inclusive vision of wild spaces, and Boyd Cothran highlights McNally's gripping narrative skills. Matthew Kerns calls it a thought-provoking masterpiece, and Katya Cengel lauds the breakdown of our conflicted relationship with nature. Melissa Fraterrigo commends McNally's hard-hitting truth, and James J. Rawls deems it seminal for its unflinching exploration of Muir's racial views. Mike Wurtz and Malcolm Margolin recognize the book's colorfulness and its contemporary relevance in addressing past failures and current efforts to reconcile with Native American stewardship of the landscape. Overall, "Cast Out of Eden" is praised as an urgent, groundbreaking work that invites readers to reconsider established narratives about America's wilderness and its founders.

Cast Out of Eden will be released in May of 2024, but do yourself a favor and preorder it now to save 40%. When I worked at a bookstore, 40% off was the employee discount. This is a great deal on a book you won't be able to put down.

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Exclusive Autographed Books Now Available at Dime Library!

I am thrilled to announce an exciting opportunity for all book lovers and collectors at DimeLibrary.com! As the holiday season approaches, we've curated a special collection of "Signed by the Author" books by myself and some of my favorite authors that are perfect for gifting or adding to your personal library.

This selection features five remarkable titles, each with the unique touch of a signature and personal inscription by the author. Here are the titles that are currently available:

",Texas Jack: America's First Cowboy Star" by Matthew Kerns - Dive into the captivating life of John B. Omohundro, known as Texas Jack, who emerged as America's first cowboy celebrity in the 19th century. The book explores his transformation from a Confederate soldier to a renowned scout and showman, spotlighting his pivotal role in popularizing the cowboy image through his stage performances and significant influence on American entertainment and popular culture.

",Galloping Gourmet: Eating and Drinking with Buffalo Bill" by Steve Friesen - Embark on a gastronomic journey through the life of William F. "Buffalo Bill" Cody, tracing his transition from plainsman fare to gourmet dining as his fame grew. The book explores how Cody’s Wild West Show reflected his culinary sophistication and how his personal dining habits ranged from campfire simplicity to the finest restaurants, while also addressing the controversies of his drinking and his lasting impact on American and European foodways.

",The Notorious Life of Ned Buntline" by Julia Bricklin - Delve into the complex figure of Edward Zane Carroll Judson, known for crafting a romanticized yet misleading image of the American West through his prolific dime novel career and for making Buffalo Bill a household name. This biography explores Judson's tumultuous life filled with personal excesses and multiple identities, providing a raw examination of the man behind the legend, whose own notorious existence has largely eluded historical scrutiny.

",From Chernobyl with Love" by Katya Cengel - Chronicles the journey of young Western journalists like the author venturing into post-Soviet Eastern Europe, a region ripe with the promise of democracy and a free press. Amidst the backdrop of historical upheaval, Cengel's personal narrative weaves her experiences in the emerging media landscape of Latvia and Ukraine with her intimate encounters at Chernobyl, culminating in a poignant memoir that captures both the zeitgeist of a transforming region and her own coming of age.

",Straitjackets and Lunch Money" also by Katya Cengel - A powerful dual narrative that combines the author’s harrowing experience with childhood mental illness at a psychosomatic unit with a journalistic exploration of the treatment's historical context. It's a poignant reflection on personal trauma and the shifts in mental health care, delivered through the intertwined perspectives of a young girl and her adult counterpart seeking understanding.

These books are not just great reads; they are treasures. With the holiday season right around the corner, there is no better gift for the avid reader in your life than a book that comes with both a story and a signature.

Visit our bookstore now to secure your signed copies. Remember, there is nothing quite as personal as a book signed by the author. Don't miss out on making your holiday gifts extra special this year!