Everything was routed by Doan's
Crossing, both Edwards and myself accompanying the herds, while Major
Hunter returned as usual by rail. The new route, known as the Western
trail, was more direct than the Chisholm though beset by Comanche and
Kiowa Indians once powerful tribes, but now little more than beggars.
The trip was nearly featureless, except that during a terrible storm
on Big Elk, a number of Indians took shelter under and around one of
our wagons and a squaw was killed by lightning. For some unaccountable
reason the old dame defied the elements and had climbed up on a water
barrel which was ironed to the side of the commissary wagon, when
the bolt struck her and she tumbled off dead among her people. The
incident created quite a commotion among the Indians, who set up a
keening, and the husband of the squaw refused to be comforted until I
gave him a stray cow, when he smiled and asked for a bill of sale so
that he could sell the hide at the agency. I shook my head, and the
cook told him in Spanish that no one but the owner could give a hill
of sale, when he looked reproachfully at me and said, "Mebby so you
steal him."
I caught a stage at Camp Supply and reached Dodge a week in advance
of the herds. Major Hunter was awaiting me with the report that our
application for an extra lease in the Cherokee Strip had been refused.
Those already holding cattle in the Outlet were to retain their old
grazing grounds, and as we had no more range than we needed for the
firm's holding of stock, we must look elsewhere to secure one for the
new company.
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