Jim Beary as a Frontier Hero: All oldtimers will remember Jim Beary, who piloted "many a train" of prairie schooners across the boundless plains for Majors, Russell &, Co., before the advent of the Iron horse.
    Major Ned W. Wynkoop of Santa Fe tells in his own writing the following story about Jim:
    "The writer in 1876 was in command of the Black Hills rangers and left Custer City one day in the month of May of that year with a detachment of the rangers for the purpose of relieving a train which was supposed to be corraled by the Sioux Indians outside of the mouth of Red canon.
    While making a halt at a point known as Pleasant Valley, having just visited that post, I was about to roll myself in a blanket for a short but much needed rest, when a clear ringing challenge came from the guard nearest to me, and the ominous click of a Sharp�s rifle evidently meant business.
    By the time I had struggled to my feet I heard the reply, "a friend," returned to the demand of "Who goes there?" and a man made his appearance leading a horse. I immediately recognized him as Jim Beary, who, as one of a party of six, had left Custer some hours in advance of us.
    He exclaimed excitedly as he grasped my hand: "My God, I am glad to see you, colonel," and in reply to my hurried questions stated that the party had been attacked, by about thirty Sioux Indians who had killed and scalped John Hunter, and sorely wounded another named Croyer; that after night they had succeeded in taking their wounded comrade to what was known as "Spring on the Right," four miles from where the attack was made.
    He had left his three other comrades with the wounded man, and then was in search of assistance. He begged me for God's sake to hasten to the springs for he feared that another attack would be made by Indians soon after daylight. Mounting the command immediately, I started and reached the springs a short time after daybreak just as the Indians made their appearance on a ridge about a mile distant. A half hour later and I would have found nothing but the mutilated remains of the gallant boys, who welcomed us with a very hearty cheer.
    Waiting until assistance came from Custer to convey back the wounded man, we proceeded on, stopping long enough at the place of attack to dig a grave with our Bowie knives, and, after rolling up in a blanket, placed under the sod the remains of John Hunter.
    But in the meantime I had secured from a comrade of Jim Beary a full account of the fight, including the story of Jim's exploit.
    Close to the entrance of the Red canon, while the party were descending from rising ground to an open level space, some thirty Indians rose from the ravines in their rear and flanks and poured a murderous volley into them, killing John Hunter, wounding Tom Croyer, as well as killing three horses.
    Hunter's horse carried him to about the center of the plateau mentioned before his dead body fell to the ground. Taking up their wounded comrade, whose horse had been killed under him, the remaining four retreated to a large washout some 300 yards from the body of their dead friend, and were there protected for the time from the fire of the Indians, but who soon closed in with yells, while firing rapidly, to all of which the four who remained unhurt replied with a will.
    While this unequal contest was going on, six Indians, bolder than the rest, dashed for the body of Hunter, each one ambitious of being the first to reach there for the purpose of "making a coup," viz: the first to strike the body of their enemy, under the fire of the white men. They tore off their victim's scalp, but did not get away without paying a penalty for their atrocity by having one of their number shot dead.
    Incensed at their loss, the Indians made desperate attempts to dislodge the gallant little band, but without success; they were well protected and made it so hot for the redskins that they drew off some distance and concluded the conflict at long range, sometimes ceasing entirely then again renewing the attack.
    It was at a period after the firing had ceased for a short time that Croyer, the wounded man, was beseeching and moaning for water of which they were without a drop, and the nearest point to procure any was four miles distant, at "Spring on the right."
    With agony almost as great as that of the sufferer, they listened to his piteous appeals to which it was impossible to respond.
    Suddenly Jim Beary sprang to the side of the wounded man, dropped on one knee, and in a husky voice said: "Tom, my boy, I�ll try to get you water, but I�ll have to go through hell to do it."
    "Courage, old fellow, for an hour, and if I don't return, look at 'Pony' Hunter out there and be sure that's the matter with Jim."
    Throwing two canteens across his shoulder, buckling an extra belt of cartridges about his body, he stooped and touched his lips to Croyer's forehead, grasped the balance of his comrades by the hand, leaped on a horse, and dashed into the open-air with a wild shout of:
    "Look out, you red devils, here comes Jim Beary!"
    His comrades watched and saw him sweep past the dead body of Hunter, ascend the rising ground, hesitate for a moment on the brink of the bluff, and then with a defiant shake of his Sharp's rifle in the air, disappeared.
    With bated breath they listened for the volley that was to greet him, but all was silent but the beating of their hearts. In that short interval, for some reason, the Indians had withdrawn, and inside of an hour Jim Beary dashed into their midst and threw himself in their open arms, bringing his two canteens full of water.

"He wa'n't no saint, but at jedgment
I'll take my chance with Jim."

    Ben Holladay and the Bandit: The recent stage robberies in California, alleged to be the work of the redoubtable Black Bart, recalls a comical incident which once fell to the fortune, or rather misfortune of Ben Holladay, says the San Francisco Alta. It was in the early days, long before railroads, and when staging across the plains was in its prime. Holladay had occasion to make the trip overland, and was accompanied by his wife. He was not anxious to have it known that he was making the trip, because the road agents, aware of the fact that Holladay was a rich man, might take it into their heads to capture him and hold him for a ransom. The journey continued for several days without incident, but one night the stage stopped and Holladay was startled by the curtains being pushed aside and an ugly carbine thrust into his face, with the command, "Put up them hands!" As the situation did not admit of argument, "them hands" went up with alacrity. Mrs. Holladay was sound asleep, blissfully unconscious of the fact that a band of road agents had possession of the stage. Suddenly it occurred to Ben that Mrs. Holladay might wake up and accost him by name, and so make the robbers aware of his identity. He began to get nervous at the thought, and to still further increase his discomfort, a stray hair of his mustache gradually curled backwards and began to tickle his nose. Thed [sic] he wanted to sneeze the worst kind, but did not dare to, lest he should awake his wife. That depraved hair continued to tickle, until in desperation Holladay thus accosted the holder of the carbine:
    "I say, mister, a hair of my mustache is tickling my nose, and I want to scratch it: please may I put my hand down to do so?"
    "Oh, don't mention it," replied the polite road agent, "I will scratch it for you," and so saying, to the horror of Holladay, he deliberately rubbed the muzzle of that carbine back and forth on the end of Holladay's nose until the tickling hair was utterly forgotten in the terror of the consequence should the carbine, loaded with a double handful of buckshot, explode before the scratching process was completed.

Source:

Unknown, "Reminiscences," Field and Farm. Devoted to the Agricultural Interests of the Great West, Denver, Colorado, Volume 6, No. 26, (December 29, 1888), p. 6.

    I'd like to thank Nancy Spencer, [email protected], of Denver, Colorado for the vast amount of time she's spent on my behalf at the Denver Public Library, the Colorado Historical Society and the Denver Branch of the National Archives over the past couple of years. I don't know that I'll ever be able to repay her for her many kindnesses and the keen interest she's taken in my Wynkoop research project. Nancy searched long and hard for these articles from Field and Farm for me. For a small paper with an even smaller circulation there is a lot of material on Ned Wynkoop here. I would have missed it all without your invaluable help.

    Thanks so much Nancy!

    Chris