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Chase County Kansas Historical Sketches

1863 - 2003



Myers, Wesley Kavanaugh

"THE FORGOTTEN TRAIL" By: Robert King Myers

Dedication: By Mrs. William Burton (Bonnie Jean Osborn) Short, Elmdale, Kansas. The following story is true. "Old Timer" was the late Wesley Kavanaugh Myers, my maternal grandfather, called "Wes" by most people. He was the only man ever living in Chase County who fought in the battle of the '`Adobie Walls", in the Pan Handle of Texas on June 27, 1874, "The Writer" of this story was Robert King Myers, Wes's oldest son. "The Driver" was Irving Myers, second son of Wes. Robert and Irving both live in Cottonwood Falls, Chase County, Kansas, at this writing (June, 1972). "Wes" or "W.K." is also written up in this book as one of the Chase County Sheriffs (1907-1910). This trip to Dodge City and Texas was taken in the year of 1931.

When I was a little boy, just beginning to have an imagination and had begun to notice things about me, other than my immediate surroundings, and had commenced to be interested in the affairs and experiences of others, there was a man that I knew whose experiences interested me a great deal.

He had been in Dodge City when it was the end of the railroad, the end of the dreams of most of the boys of that time. The time I first began to be interested in those things was about 20 years after the events had taken place. At that time, we lived in a section of the state of Kansas known as the Flint Hills. I can remember the fencing of the open range. This was a fine cattle country and is today as good grazing country as can be found anywhere.

So, I lived and grew up working cows and working with cowmen. I spent many days on the prairie, which was not dangerous or adventurous but had not changed much since the first white man had ridden across it.

It followed that I knew the talk and lore of the prairie. The purpose of all this is to let you see that I understood the ways of the pioneer and to a certain extent had become imbued with his outlook on things as regards the early days. So, I was interested in things of the "West" through all the years up until now and above all, I was interested in the stories of this man. He could tell a good story and you did not doubt it; you knew it happened, that he had seen and done these things.

Now, since I had first heard this man, and others for that matter, tell stories of the frontier, some 35 years had come and gone and more or less changed the affairs of men and nations. Some of us, that had just been able to witness the tailend of the passing of the open range, were combing our hair and thoughtfully wondering at the streaks of gray.

The first time that I had heard this man tell stories of the "West", I thought how I would like to see the places where these events had taken place. What a real treat it would be if he were along to explain and tell about them. This wish remained with me through all the years and I said to myself that some day I would take him and go over the trail again.

So picture my delight when I received an invitation from a man, to go with him and this `'Old Timer" on the very trip I had so long planned but had only planned!

We were some 40 miles west of the city of Wichita when the sun came up on a bright June (1931) morning, headed for Dodge City and points south. As we climbed the plains to the west, "Old Timer" said that the wheat was all right but it would look better if they had not plowed up so much of the prairie grass. Sometimes we would come to the breaks of a stream where the grass was as it used to be and for a few miles we could see the cattle grazing. For my part, it seemed that the untamed wildness was still there.

First, we came to Old Fort Dodge, which is now a soldiers' home. We drove slowly by; "Old Timer" looked but could see little that seemed familiar. Up in the town, we first talked to a man that "Old Timer" had known once upon a time. He was running a bird store. This rather stumped the driver and me; we could not picture this polished, gray haired man as the onetime proprietor of a dance hall in the wild days of the town, at the end of the trail. Yet, that is just what he had been! "Old Timer" told of seeing him quiet a pretty bad man, by shaking his finger under his nose and telling him to desist. The bad man knew that he would do more than that if necessary.

Then we went to see the cowboy monument on Boot Hill. This is where they buried them with their boots on. These graves are in another place now. The monument was made by a dentist, long a resident of Dodge City. He knew the west and western men. The monument is made of concrete a little rough as monuments go, but the character it portrays, at times was a little rough.

Now, the first cowmen that came over the trail, as well as the trappers and traders of the old, old west, wore a broad brimmed hat with a flat crown. In the days of the present generation and a few years back, it was inclined to be worn with a peak, with a crease in front, starting a little above the band extending to the top. But at the time when this monument represents, it was the fashion to wear it with the full bell crown, although not everyone did this.

The sculptor portrayed the type of that day, as to hat, chaps, spurs and the old single ac- tion forty-five. This caused "Old Timer" to remark that when Samuel Colt made that gun, he made every man equal. The crowning glory of the sculptor's work, the thing that arrests your attention, is the sack of tobacco in his vest pocket, even with the little round disc of paper hanging by its string. On the pedestal is an inscription which says, "On the ashes of my campfire this city is built." It is a fitting tribute to those boys who are riding somewhere down that long, long trail.

The driver and I consulted and decided to try and find some contemporary of "Old Timer's": someone who knew the trail to the south, over which they used to freight from Fort Dodge to Camp Supply and Fort Elliott. We ran down several false clues, the persons being either relatives or men that had come at a later date. At last we found him and also found that it is hard to pick up the threads of events after 50 years and try to reconcile them with the things of today.

At first this old man would not say much but when he realized that the man with us was of his own time and experience, he commenced to talk. It seemed some reporter of an eastern paper had interviewed him a short time before and after talking about five minutes, had gone home and written a lot of drivel about buffalo hunting that was all wrong and it had made him disgusted with strangers, who wanted to talk to him about the early days.

But finally, he and "Old Timer" got to talking and it was worth the money. They found that they had known several men in common, and knew the real stories of certain events that had taken place in those times. The driver and I just stood and listened. These two old boys had slipped back beyond the wheat fields, beyond even the cattle days, back when this country was new, when the Indians still ruled the prairie and you traveled it with their consent or at your own peril.

Thev talked of creeks, hills, and crossings of the Cimarron. They talked of places of which nothing now is left but a memory, or probably not even that. For somewhere in one of those wheat fields is a rough place that made the operator of one of those combines cuss and wonder what could have made that one rough place in all that level plain. He did not know that it was the remains of a stockade or sod trading post, where men had fought for their very lives.

The old buffalo hunter told of a camp he and 5 other men had at one time, at the head of some creek about 6 miles northwest of the present town of Ashland. There were about 150 Indians and these 6 men stood them off, not in battle but by sheer nerve, a steady hand, and unflinching eye. They would not back down.

The Indians wanted them to get off their hunting ground. The "red nation" had signed a treaty with the "white nation"; that the "white nation" should stay off this land but they were not doing it. He and the Chief were talking it over, as we would say, but they were not talking, as neither could understand a word the other said; they were using the sign language. The Chief pointed to him then to the east, making an undulating forward motion with the hand, then holding his hand to the side of his head and inclining his head as if in sleep, holding up one finger, then pointing to himself, he went through the motions of shooting a pistol. This all meant for the white man to leave that place, go back to the east, or in one night (one sleep) the Indian would give battle.

In my mind's eye, I could see those stern men of two great races, as they disputed over the right of empire. There were no courts or kings, or soft tongued diplomats to carry the message between them. Each man and the men with him stood with his hands on his weapon and the slightest move of hostile nature, there would have been a dark and bloody end to the parley.

But they were both cautious. The white men knew that a battle with such a body of Indians as that, would be the end of them. And the Indians knew that a fight would result in the loss of many braves before the white men "bit the dust."

Then "Old Timer" told of a time when a bull train that he was with, was camped across the river from Dodge City. An army officer came and asked for a man to carry a message to Camp Supply Indian Territory of Oklahoma. "Old Timer" was chosen from five or six who volunteered to go. It was 96 miles to Camp Supply. Here the old hunter and "Old Timer" got into an argument about the distance.

The commander at the fort told "Old Tirner" but remember, he was not an "old timer" then, a boy, 19 or so, to keep to the east of the as far as the Cirnarron, for there were Indians along the trail that far, But he was to use his own judgement, as it was entirely up to him.

At the brow of the hill, just out of the valley, a few miles frorn the fort, he heard the "sundown" gun. Now, we were standing where we could look off across the Arkansas River and see those same hills and I wondered what must have been the thoughts of that boy then as he looked back at the fort and safety and then ahead to he knew not what. Nothing but the broad prairie and maybe the next hill he came to might reveal him to a band of Indians, then the torture stake and this trip of ours would not have been taken. But those kind of men under those kind of circumstances do not worry much about safety or they would not be there, They are keyed to high adventure.

His only concern was that the Indians might see him against the skyline or his horse `nicker' to an Indian pony and then the chase would be on. Nothing happened on the trip and it was shortly after sun up when he arrived at Camp Supply. Thev had to assist him from the saddle. The horse seemed to stand the trip better than he.

We bade the buffalo hunter "good-bye" and started south on the trail that "Old Timer" had not traveled for some 55 vears. As we traveled through the interminable wheat fields, we tried to fine traces of the old trail but the road we traveled was in a straight line and to the west so we did not see it. Coming to the town of Ashland, Kansas, which is built upon the old trail, then south through the sand, sage-brush, and prairie grass where sometimes we thought we could see the old trail.

"Old Timer" called our attention to the fact that we were traveling in one afternoon what would take an ox-train a week to do, and to imagine ourselves walking day after day beside the lumbering freight wagons, in the dust, snow, or whatever, the conditions night be, .And so, trying to picture those slow moving wagon train, we came to the lonely Cimarron River, missing the old trail crossing by about one-half of a mile, "Old Timer" thought some cottonwood trees that we could see might be the "Old Springer Ranch and Trading Post." This, we after found to be correct.

Stopping a while at the bridge, "Old Timer" told us how they used to cross the river without a bridge; often wading the water waist deep, when slush ice was running. He would recall other things that happened on these journeys. as he carne to certain places that he had not thought of for years.

Although we were traveling in the modern way at some 34 miles an hour, it seemed as if we were going over the trail with him as He had traveled it in the old days. The driver and I forgot the cities, electric lights, and paved roads and were back with him in that long ago when the country was new and every man was free and life was worth the living.

As we neared Camp Supply, this is now Supply, Oklahoma, "Old Timer" was worried about the trail, where it crossed the Antelope Hills. He said it should go farther east through a gap that was so narrow that the wagon-master could not ride beside the teams at. times. When we arrived at Supply, an old settler told him that he was right, This pleased him a great deal, that he had rernernbered the trail!

At Supply, some of the old buildings are still standing. They are made of cedar logs and poles and at one time were chinked with mud. Sometimes the poles were stood on end. "Old Timer" taIked with this man that had lived there a long tune and told him where he thought each building had stood. The old settler told him that he was right: he knew where the mule corral, the cattle corral; and where the camp of Lee & Reynolds used to be.

Now it is something to be able to go back after 50 some years and pick out landmarks where you had been and show them to another generation and tell about the things that had happened there, before the hand of time obliterate them and their memory from the earth.

To you, who have known nothing but paved streets and tall buildings; they were just some old log shacks, but man, some of the history of this country happened there! The men that had lived and worked there were helping to make an empire.

The next morning, we were in Texas, that land of song and story, headed for the ''Adobie Walls." "Old Timer" could not remember what direction he had come to this place as he and two other men were on a buffalo hunt and being near this trading post, had come in for supplies.

All along our trip, l had been bothered about a certain matter. I had not told "Old Timer" about it because I did not know just how to do it. Now, he would know! On a monument erected at the sight, were the names of 28 men and 1 woman that had been in the battle of the "Adobie Walls." "Old Timers" name was not there! The driver and I tried to explain to him that it was mostly guess work, as the people who were there had been scattered these 50 years before the monument was erected. "Old Timer" himself knew one man whose name was there that to the best of his knowledge was not in the fight. Also that there were only 22 men and no woman that he remembered. The name of one of the men, who was his partner on the buffalo hunt, was there and the other was not.

The driver, who had been not so many years ago in another fight, far away on the hills of France, told him that where they had the records of an army to go by that it was sometimes hard to tell where a man had been at a certain time. But this remained the one disappointment of the trip.

There are many versions of the fight. "Old Timer" said there was a stockade around the building, about as high as a man could reach standing on a pony's back and as the Indians tried to crawl over the top, the men inside would shoot them down. None got over.

The first he knew of the Indians was when one of the men with him who was out after their mules, came riding in, shooting his pistol and yelling "In dians." It was just at the break of day. There were three men who lost their lives there. Two in their wagon that never got inside the stockade; it was believed at the time that they never woke up. The other was inside the fort going up the stairway to the room above. There was not a scratch on him.

"Old Timer" was in the room above and loaded guns for Billy Dixon to shoot at the Indians. The Indians would flop over on the opposite side of their horses and ride within shooting distance of the fort, then Billy Dixon would sometimes shoot through both men and horse with those heavy buffalo guns. Finally the scouts of the Indians sighted the soldiers coming and drew off.

All that is left of that "Adobie Walls" is the remains of the old buildings and stockade. Just a low ridge of earth a foot or so high but it is well defined. As we stood there and looked around at the country surrounding it, we thought of the things that had happened there and it looked a place for things to happen. Except for the Dixon ranch house about a mile away, the country is just as it was when the first white man rode down into that valley, no one knows how long ago.

Away back in the 1840's or 1850's, Kit Carson and a band of men had a fight with a body of Indians. This was long before C. Rath & Co., built the trading post at which the Indian fight took place that "Old Timer" was in.

It received its name from the fact that from the earliest accounts of Americans visiting the place, were found remains of some old adobe buildings, that they supposed were built by the early Spanish explorers. But there is no recorded history of who the builders were. They might have been some tribe of the semi-civilized Indians of the southwest who had wandered this far and settled for a while.

It was just 57 years to a day since "Old Tim- er" had been there. So he lifted his hat to the graves of Billy Dixon and his comrades and we left them, with nothing but the hills to guard them through the silence of the years.

That night "Old Timer" was tired and sat in the back seat and did not talk much, perhaps he was thinking. The driver and I talked of "Old Timer" and the old buffalo hunter at Dodge and recalled that neither had much of this worlds' goods but they had their memories and whatever of life we had seen and enjoyed up till now and how pleasant it might be from now on. We wished we had seen the things that they had seen and that will never be seen again. *The End* In Memory Of: Wesley Kavanaugh MYERS Sponsored By: Mr. and Mrs. Irving MYERS, Mr. and Mrs. Ralph N. Myers, Mr. and Mrs. Owen (Maude MYERS) MITCHELL and family, Mr. and Mrs. J.R. (Olive Myers) Reyer,Mr. andMrs. Murray(Mable E. MYERS) SPEARMAN, Mrs. Harvey (Ethel L. M Myers OSBORN, Mr. and Mrs. William (Bonnie OSBORN) SHORT, Mr. and Mrs. Phill (Betrty J. Osborn) Pinkston.

Chase County Centennial, 1872 - 1972




Chase County Submitted Historical Sketches
compiled and abstracted from the Chase County Courant, Chase County Leader, other sources and newspapers
by Lorna Marvin
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