May 6, 2006

Nevada's Online State News Journal

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Nevada History:

[From The Nevada State Historical Society Papers vol. IV 1923-1924, pp. 191-197.]

CAPTURED BY THE INDIANS

by

MRS. SUSIE ARMSTRONG DE WITT BIEBER

as written from relation by one of the principals, Henry Woodville Wilson, her uncle.

__________

            This is the true story of the thrilling adventure that befell two mail-station agents in Nevada, U. S. A.

            My uncle had long promised me a story from his great stock of personal recollections and the following is one that greatly interested me and I am writing it as nearly word for word as it was told me, as I am able to remember, it being a number of years since I heard it first.

            "It was after the Tintic War"—said my uncle—"in which we had been engaged with the Indians in the Fifties. Your father, Albert Armstrong and myself were keeping the mail station of the Pony Express Company in Egan Canyon, Nevada, U. S. A. Mind you, in those days there was no telegraph, telephone or railway train, and the mail was packed by men on sturdy ponies, over an almost trackless wilderness. The wild sagebrush covered desert was in almost undisputed possession of the redskin and wild herds of buffalo. At certain intervals the Government had established mail stations and -here the riders obtained fresh horses and supplies before resuming their perilous journey. This means of transportation was owned and conducted by the U. S. Government and was called 'The Pony Express'. The arrival and departure of the carriers formed our only diversion as we were completely isolated. We had a good, warm, one-roomed log cabin, a camping outfit, plenty of provisions, ammunition, and a few books.

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194 NEVADA STATE HISTORICAL SOCIETY PAPERS

            As you may imagine, time hung pretty heavily on our hands and the long hot days, with nothing but dry sagebrush land and hot alkali dust as far as the eye could see, began to get on our nerves and we were pretty homesick boys, let me tell you. Your father was of a restless disposition and soon grew weary of inactivity and longed for something exciting to happen. He had his wish fulfilled one morning in a hair raising manner, that neither one of us will ever forget.

            We had just finished eating our breakfast. Al was washing up our tin plates and cups, and I was lighting my pipe, when we heard a low, weird, moaning sound outside of the cabin. It grew gradually louder and Al jumped to the little window and peeked cautiously out. 'My God ! Wood, it's Indians," he exclaimed in alarm. I grabbed my gun which was near at hand and stepped to the enclosure, over which a calico curtain was hung, and sure enough it was Indians all right enough, not just a few stragglers from a wandering band, but the band itself, in full war paint and feathers, stripped stark naked with the exception of a cloth about the loins, and their skin greased until it glistened in the hot sunshine. They carried tomahawks and were circling in a stooping posture round and round the cabin, emiting sharp, unearthly yells, and chanting in low monotones. Fortunately they carried no firearms, but we knew they were armed with deadly arrows, as one stuck and quivered in the curtain near our heads, even as we looked.

            "Al drew back, white and trembling.  My God, Wood, we're lost' he muttered. 'Well, let us sell our lives dearly,' I exclaimed. Grabbing our hats from the pegs, we hastily filled them with ammunition and lying flat on the floor, stuck our guns through the cracks in the logs and opened fire. We kept up a steady, rapid fire until our

CAPTURED BY THE INDIANS       195

[photographs]

196 NEVADA STATE HISTORICAL SOCIETY PAPERS

ammunition was exhausted and the ground was red with the blood of the dead and dying 'braves,' but still they closed in undaunted and finally, with a blood curdling yell of triumph they burst in the door, which we had hastily barricaded.

            "Although we thought our time had come, it was not the pleasure of the Chief, who stood with folded arms in the doorway, to kill us at once. 'Bread, much bread,' he grunted, indicating our supplies. We obeyed his command with alacrity, heaping the bread before him on the table. When this was done, he serenely walked into the cabin, observed our sacks of flour stacked in the corner, then ordered us to make a fire and commence to bake. As we hastened to obey, he seated himself comfortably at the table, helped himself to our tobacco and lighting his pipe, commenced to smoke, talking with us at intervals and prodding us in the ribs when we showed signs of fatigue. Both Al and myself could speak the Indian language fluently. Al's father, George W. Armstrong, was Indian Agent for Utah at the time, and we had been among the Indians a great deal, so we had no difficulty in understanding him. Hour after hour through that long, hot summer day, without even time for a drop of water to drink, rest or a smoke, we baked bread and hot cakes for that swarming, perspiring crowd and never for a moment did their hideous yelling cease.

            "After their hunger (and they ate ravenously) had been satisfied, we stacked the bread on the floor, piling it like cord-wood until it nearly reached the ceiling. Finally after we had worked and sweated until nearly ready to drop, he informed us that we were to be burned at the stake at sundown. Even then we could smell the smoke from the huge pile of sagebrush the Indians had gathered and presently the smoke

CAPTURED BY THE INDIANS       197

fogged through the narrow doorway, filling the little cabin, strangling us and smarting our eyes intolerably. My God! how we did watch the lengthening shadows on the floor ! What despair filled our quaking hearts when the blankets were torn from our bunks, ripped into strips and we were tied and bound to the stake. The tongue of our wagon had been removed for this purpose and driven firmly into the ground. Al and I were bound securely to this, then dry sagebrush was heaped in a circle a few feet from us and set on fire. Slowly, with darting tongues, the fire crept nearer; great bursts of flame shot skyward. Indians were circling round and round in a mad war dance and Al and I were hanging limp with exhaustion to the pole, when suddenly there came a crash as of many cannons bursting, Indians leapt wildly into the air as a veritable hail-storm of shot rained amongst them and Col. Steptoe's United States Calvary rode over the hill. A great stampede took place. Al and I were released, guns thrust into our hands and I had the pleasure of putting a hole clean through the Chief who had so tormented us.

            "The ensuing fight resulted in the killing of eighteen Indians and the wounding of many more. One soldier was killed out of the troupe of twenty and two were wounded. The fleeing Indians went to the Shell Creek Station that night, killed three station keepers and drove off their horses."

            "Now, my dear," concluded my uncle, "that is a real Indian story."

            "Let me add a word to your story," observed an old-time friend, who had sat listening, "Col. Steptoe highly complimented your uncle and your father and said if he had a few more good marksmen like them, he would not require much of an army to subdue the Indians."