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Chase County Kansas Historical
Sketches
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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
by Lorna Marvin
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