Historic account details wagon train perils

Lightly edited by Jim Fish

The following narrative was told by Sydney Keel and recorded by her daughter, Murier Neora (Derick) Keel. The account first appeared in The Progressive Farmer in 1928 and was later published in Frontier Times under the title “Ox Wagons, Indians, and Winchesters.”

In the year 1850 my grandparents, with my mother and her two brothers crossed the plains from Missouri to California in six ox wagons. There were 175 wagons in the entire train, for many other families went along at the same time.

They had been on the road six days, when by accident my mother, then just a child 12 years of age, fell out of the wagon. The wheels ran angling across her body. My grandmother had some homespun sheets so tied the four corners of one to the wagon bows and put a feather bed in it. In this hammock-like arrangement, my mother rode all the rest of the slow and painful journey to California. 

It was six weeks afterwards before she could sit up, and for quite a while of this time they did not think she would ever be able to sit up again. They were three months on the way over.

Just a month ahead of my grandfather, the Indians had attacked a wagon train, massacred all the people, and burned the wagons. The same bunch, 300 warriors strong, came to my grandfather's train. I say, "my grandfather's train," because he was captain. The story of their encounter with these Indians, as we have often heard it from Mother as she would sit and tell it, follows below:

"Early one morning, Father and Dave Doudle, the interpreter, spied a lone horseman ahead of them.

Father says, "Dave, looks like Indians."

Dave says, "No."

But about 11 o'clock, Dave came to Father and exclaimed. "Sure, they are Indians! Corral the wagons! Put the women and children in as few wagons as possible and put those wagons inside the circle!"

And just as soon as the wagons began to circle, everybody knew what was coming.

My father raised his white flag; the Indians raised their red.

On came the savages with their war yell. About a hundred of them had circled around, when all at once their leader gave a peculiar yell and every one of them halted. Twelve of them held a council. Then they came to my father's wagon and gestured. Dave Double did not wish them to know he could interpret for he knew what it would cost the train. But after awhile, Father found out the Indians wanted 30 fat beeves, so they gave them freely. At that all became peaceable and quiet.

Father had had the compass and square and the letter G painted on his wagon sheet before he started. When the Indians learned whose wagon it was, they called for Father's family. So, Father took the chief by the hand and led him to the wagon inside the circle. Seeing me in my hammock, he bemoaned my pitiful condition. Taking hold of my hand, he patted and rubbed my head, with me scared nearly to death.

The next day, Dave and the chief showed Father 500 men, women and children coming over the hill. They put Father up on a chair and he then shook hands with every one of them. For three days afterwards he carried his arm in a sling. We camped right there for five days. When we left, the chief bid my father to go in peace, telling him he would not be molested on the rest of the journey.

Then a most dreadful thing occurred. In our train there was a young boy newly married, a know-it-all. No one could tell him anything. He swore he would kill the first Indian he saw. 

We came upon an old Indian squaw, white headed. Sure enough, this boy drew his pistol and shot her dead, everyone begging him not to. My father was 50 wagons ahead and did not even hear the report of the pistol. Father said he did not know the boy had such a weapon, or he would have taken it away from him.

Three days afterwards they looked back and saw 150 warriors coming at break-neck speed. They never stopped until they came to the three horsemen, my father, Dave, and another man who was a preacher. They asked who killed the squaw. Neither of the three men knew.

"If you do not tell us,” they said, "we'll massacre the whole train."

Father halted the wagons, took the Indians back with him. When they came to the fiftieth wagon, a little boy 10 years old spoke up and said the fellow who killed the squaw was in that wagon covered up with a feather bed.

"Come out," demanded my father, "and tell why you did this thing; if you do not, every one of us will be killed."

The boy came out and told them. His parents and his wife's parents tried to buy the Indians off, but no. They took him a short way from the wagon, hung him up feet foremost, and flayed (skinned) him alive.

They then told my father they could go, but not to touch that man. The whites had to do as the Indians said. It almost killed the young wife and the boy's mother and father. They lay for three days in such condition that the others did not think they would or could live. 

After several days travel, we came to the Pecos River in Western Texas, it was running bank full. Our cattle were so thirsty they simply fell in on their heads. Some drowned and some swam out.

The wheels were taken off and the wagons placed three-together lengthways. This made a raft. So, they ferried everything across in this way. And that is how we got over Pecos River at Horsehead Crossing in far Western Texas long, long ago, and then went on our way again to California.