Evening Republican, Volume 16, Number 166, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 July 1912 — CAMP FIRE HISTORIES [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

CAMP FIRE HISTORIES

SOLDIER’S BOOTS SAVED HIM ----- How a Member of a Wagon Train Made a Thrilling Escape From a Band of Savage Indians. ----- At Fort Kearney, before our train started up the Platte river for Fort Laramie in the summer of 1867, each driver that needed boots drew a pair from the government store. When Peter Small’s (a little fellow) turn came to select his boots all the smaller sizes had been drawn, and the nearest his fit was a pair two sizes too big for him, but he concluded to take them, as he was about barefooted, and no chance to get any more till we got through. Our train consisted of seven wagons loaded with supplies for the post, six mules to the team, and we were escorted by ten soldiers to protect us against possible attacks by Indians, writes Freeman O. Cary of Hamilton, Wash., in the National Tribune. Each

driver was furnished an army rifle and ammunition by the government. We had been out a week, when one afternoon about four o’clock we camped on a small stream called Sand creek. Up to. that day we had seen no signs of Indians, so Pete, as we called him, concluded to go out on the high prairie and, see if he could kill an antelope and have some fresh meat. He took his old Enfield rifle and a few cartridges, and struck out north across the creek. He had gone about half a mile when he noticed over on another ridge, about half a mile away, what at first he took to be a drove of antelopes, but on looking closer he saw they were in Indians—ten of them. They were dismounted and stood behind their ponies, and their heads only appearing above their backs. As soon as he had made sure that they were Indians he turned and started for camp. When the Indians saw that their decoy to draw him nearer to them failed, they sprang upon their ponies and came pell-mell after him. It was a race for life, with the odds against him. They were gaining on him rapidly with their fleet-footed ponies, and he saw that they would soon overtake him unless he could devise some way to hold them in check. He thought as he ran along with his loaded gun that it would not do to shoot at them, however tempting the mark, for the instant his rifle was discharged they would pounce upon him, and his scalp would be hanging to one of their belts in no time. So he watched over his shoulder, and when they got near enough to begin shooting at him with their arrows (they had no guns) he stopped, turned and leveled his rifle as if to pick one off, and they instantly checked their steeds and hung over on the opposite side of their ponies; then Pete whirled around and ron [sic] for dear life again, and before the Indians could get their ponies up to full speed he had gained a little on them, and when they closed up again he repeated the tactics. When he reached the creek opposite the camp, where water was about 14 feet wide and a foot deep, underlaid with treacherous quicksand, Pete hesitated not a moment, but gathered all the strength that was in him and leaped as far towards the other bank as he could. He struck about four feet from the farther shore, and sank to his waist in water and quicksand. The Indians rushed up and commenced to shoot at him. One arrow struck his hat and knocked it off. He twisted around and raised his rifle as if to shoot, and the Indians dodged behind their ponies. Then Pete, with an energy born of despair, wiggled his feet out of his big government boots and jumped ashore and ran bareheaded and barefooted into camp, shouting “Indians.” The warning came too late. The Sioux galloped down below, crossed the creek and rushed in between our mule herd and camp, yelling like demons. They drove off the whole lot. The herder had a close call, being cut off, too, but his fleet herding pony saved him. We had to lie there two weeks until another outfit could be sent us from the fort.

They Were Gaining on Him Rapidly.