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The Lone Indian 37xxxx xxx Who Killed Luke Berry
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The Lone Indian 37xxxx xxx Who Killed Luke Berry
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Ra Indian Trails winding from tribe to tribe over 100 years ago. Another Robert E. Callahan story of wigwam fires, council, teepee trapping, trading, nomadic travel and exciting adventure teaching the lone Indian in his daring search for the magic arrow of the Omaha. Real Indians appear on every dog path. Well, who killed Luke Barry? Who got the money? Look out, Indians ahead. You know, folks, this apparent warning confronted Colonel Henry Lee in the early days in Pueblo Canyon. You see, his westbound caravan had hardly gotten underway one beautiful Sunday morning in the mountains of Colorado when he saw a board sign packed with tree near the roadside. On the sign, crudely printed in black, who killed Luke Berry? Who got the money? Look out, Indians ahead. Well, of course, you know, every member of the caravan thought of trouble, but the caravan moved on. Well, sir, about 200 yards farther on, and just as the caravan moved around a bend in the road, Colonel Henry Lee saw a large white buffalo skull hung to a tree, spreading over the roadway. Well, that's kind of funny, he thought. On this white buffalo skull in black letters, dead men don't tell tales or don't turn back. You know. Rather confusing. A warning, perhaps, but what could Colonel Lee do? 800 miles from home, the road was an Indian trail. The same country in which the Comanches and the Utes had been battling over the right through hunting grounds. And what's more, a half breed trapper had told Lee a thrilling story of that country. He had told him of trouble along the trail. He had warned him of attack, murder and frightful tales of what might happen. Well, sir, folks, the crude signs would indicate the half breed story of impending trouble might come true. And of course, there was a lot of things for Lee to think about. First of all, who was Luke Barry? Why had he been robbed? Who committed the crime? And who wrote the signs when and why? Well, sir, in spite of these agitating, conflicting moments, Colonel Henry Lee would not turn back. There was nothing to do but to continue on. Well, I guess it was about one hour later, the caravan of eight wagons was crossing a shallow creek, splashing sand and water. And Colonel Lee had a premonition that he was being paused. You know, a kind of a hunch, a premonition that made him turn in the wagon seat. Well, for a moment, his body went rigid. Two wild looking Indians were emerging from the forest. They were on hand and knee, creeping, half crawling, one tall, the other short, and both were nude above the waist. Yes, sir. And each man had two white, two red and two black lines across the face. And by golly, each man had a bow and an arrow. Of course, any sign of fear when meeting an Indian is an indication of cowardice to the Indian. Colonel Lee knew this, and he knew it was no time to show fear. So he drove his team across the creek, pulled up to the right of the roadway, and as the other wagons got across, Colonel Lee crawled down from his wagon, turned to see the two Indians stiff and staring at him. And of course, his first thought was an Indian sign of friendship. You see, Colonel Louis saw them standing erect. Then he, too, stood erect. His right hand went up, leaving the two forefingers outright. This meant friendly. Then he went about making a campfire as though he had given the Indians no thought whatever. And of course, the two red men started toward the camp. You see, folks, Colonel Lee had lived among the Indians out west for about two years before his marriage. And when departing from the Kentucky hills on the westbound trip, Colonel Lee remembered the Indian was a great lover of music. So he brought the village troopers along. And now he turned to Banjo Harry. Say, Harry, what do you say, boys? Let's have a campfire break. Well, sir, folks, music was not the inner thought of Colonel Lee that day, but his knowledge of Indian life made music the spirit of the hour. He knew, as in every walk of life, people can do more with kindness and more with music than anger and gun. The Indians stood like statues, wondering how the white man could make such music. The two Indians had started out intent upon taking human life, but the village music and Colonel Lee's invitation to have them enjoy a friendly supper gave the red men a new thought. They took hold and inspected the fiddle, the accordion and the banjo. And then again, the village troopers had the Indians in a puzzling but joyous. Hey there, Harry, you are a loser on the team. Well, sir, for about two solid hours, the village troopers entertained the two warlike Indians. And now they departed from camp, returning to the Camache village in peace. And Colonel Lee had not only saved the lives of his people through a kindly musical act, but he had made a lifelong friend out of the leading Indian who had planned to murder. And now the caravan once more moved on in peace. Well, sir, we're. About one week later, on that same canyon trail where Lee's friendly attitude had saved many human lives, an army lieutenant by the name of Ball shot an Indian pony because the pony was too worried for the lieutenant to ride. That same night, an Indian rode an army horse away. One week later, Parson Chivington, who had been a church worker in Denver for two years, had himself appointed Major and at the head of 200 arrogant Indian haters, he rode down one night upon the Black Kettle camp on Cherry Creek, near where Denver stands. You see, Black Kettle was chief of the Cheyenne Indians. A sturdy man who had, under promise of friendship and protection, moved his tribe from the field of war to the camp on Cherry Creek here. What is now the city of Denver, Colorado, was then a campground for the Cheyenne Indians. And Black Keppel kept his word. Not a single gun or war club was in his village. But this condition made no difference to the man who had left his Denver church for the trail of mur. Well, sir, Major Chevington ordered Indian men, women and children shot down wherever he found them. And folks in a wild frenzied to escape. And while women and children were running for dear life, soldiers found fancy and sportsmanship shooting, laughing and imitating the Indian. Many children fell with a bullet in the back. Over 500 Indians were killed. And Black Kettles of peaceful village was ignited and in 10 minutes became a smoldering bed of ashes. And you know, friends, that was the historical Chillington Massacre. A black sky spot on the American map of justice. And of course, Colonel Chivington was court martial. But the work of his hand and the murdering mob did not bring back the friendly feeling such as music and kindness had done by Colonel Lee. The Chevington massacre was directly the cause of many Indian wars upon the white man. Yet many people wonder why the Indian did his war dance although he whooped and yelled and he became the terror of the Old West. We who seek health, peace of mind and happiness. Yes, sir, we're going back to live as the Indian did long ago. We seek the pure air, the sunshine, and we picnic on the mountainside and hike over the old Indian trail just like the Indian dead. That is why the child of tomorrow should be told of the Indian's great love for nature and his love for the beauty of the great outdoors. For after all, my friends, all there is in health, all there is in peace of mind can certainly be found in the great outdoors. More than finding it in a city home of wealth and power. Now, folks, I guess you might like to hear an Indian prayer. One black petal gave so many times before he passed away. Our camphor is growing dim. The ashes in our pipe would peace. At school we wanted to understand the white man. But now we offer you our pipe of beast in friendship and hope. We offer you the pipe of faith and the pipe of honor. Be kind, be friendly, be thoughtful and hold your temper when things are after all is said and done. The little kind acts and the little kind deeds in life are those things which make you a hero in the sight of the Great Spirit and the white man's God.