Volume 12 , Issue 20

Charles F. Colcord Obituary - Written by Tom Dyer

An obituary written by Tom Dyer in memory of Mr. Colcord. The Colcord Ranch was not far from Coldwater, Kansas and it was from here that the "salt haulers" set forth from when they wound up being killed by Little Wolf's and Dull Knife's Cheyennes during their flight back to the Dakotas.

Charles F. Colcord
Again are the ties of friendship broken,
That binds old friend to friend while here,
Once more those sad words must be spoken,
That record the passing of another pioneer.
Oh, thou Death, relentless Death!
Can'st thou not withstay thy hand?<
Can'st thou not withhold thy chilling breath,
And spare a remnant of our band?

No, no, poor mortal you ask in vain,<
Your days, your years, are numbered here.
This life you covet shall be rent in twain,
Although you may hold it a thing most dear.
In the going of this old time pioneer we are reminded of that era of western civilization in which he had and was a part of that great drama of life as portrayed in the days of the cattleman and the cowboy.

The writer first knew him at Medicine Lodge, Kansas in the early 1880s. At that time he and his father were embarked in the cattle business, and were associated with other in what was then know as the Comanche Pool, one of the largest cattle ranches which comprised in part most of the present boundaries of Comanche county, Kansas and a small part of western Barber County, besides that part south of Kansas and north of the Cimarron River in what was at that time known as the Cherokee Outlet.

Their headquarters camp was on the Salt Fork, in Kansas, and was called Evansville. The Colcords, however, had another camp down near the state line. This camp, most likely, was established here prior to the headquarters camp, as Charlie Colcord was one of the boys at this camp as early as 1878. There were a number of other occupants of this camp.

There was an old wagon trail that led from this camp to the little Salt Plains. Two of the boys had been sent to the plains for salt.

At this time, old Chief Dull Knife of the Cheyenne tribe, and who was a prisoner at one of the military posts, took a hurried leave of absence between two suns without the knowledge of the military authorities, to make his escape from captivity, and with a considerable number of his people, young braves, old men and women and children. They were traveling across the country trying to make their way back to their old habitat in the northland.

The main body of the Indians no doubt crossed the Cimarron River near the Salt Plains in what is now Woods County, Oklahoma. Thence they went in a northwesterly direction into Comanche County, Kansas.

As is the custom with the Indians, there were scouting parties ranging on either side of the main body, whose business it was to secure food, and also to report if they were being followed by government troops. One of these scouting parties came upon the two boys unawares, and to satiate their inordinate thirst and desire for blood and revenge, they murdered these two boys and went on their way.

The boys at camp, learning of the presence of the Indians in the immediate vicinity, became alarmed for the safety of the two men. A searching party was sent out, and Charlie Colcord was its leader. Guided by their knowledge of the country, it was not long before they came upon a gruesome sight, their comrades lying along the old wagon trail. They were buried where found. A grave was dug and their remains lowered therein.

But here an incident occurred that so vividly portrays the human as well as the divine instincts of man. How could they consign these two comrades to mother earth without some religious rite being performed? A minister was not to be had, no orator to deliver a fitting eulogy. Yet these boys bowed their heads in earnest reverence to their Maker while Charlie Colcord offered up a fervent prayer for the souls of their departed friends.

Who would say today but what that humble cowboy prayer was wafted to the very courts of heaven and that eternity only may reveal. Perhaps these two boys had many times while seated around their campfire helped to sing that old familiar song:

"O bury me not on the lone prairie,
Where the wild coyote may howl o'er me.
Where a blizzard wails, and winds blow free,
O, bury me not on the lone prairie."

There was not a tree near to cast its shadow, or to scatter a pleasant sunbeam, or where a song bird in his flight might rest among its branches and warble forth sweet music o'er their last resting place.

Most likely the wild coyotes gathered near this lonely spot and chanted a weird requiem, or the lobo wolf would howl in ominous tones a solemn dirge. I first saw this grave in 1883, and again in 1907. At this later date it was enclosed with a wire fence with high posts at each corner.

The last time that I met my friend Charles Colcord was at the unveiling of the Andrew Drumm monument on the old Drumm ranch some three years ago. We had not met in more than 40 years, yet he was that same genial, whole-souled fellow of years gone by. He recognized me at once. He did not appear to be aged in looks, or point of years, but his hair was white as the snow drift. Yes, time changes all things. He is gone. His spirit perhaps is holding a glad reunion with the other spirits of the old boys who have preceded him to the great beyond. There will be Alph, Lige, Red Houser, Oliver, Joe, John, Oakley, Jim, Bob, Hi, Ike, Bud, Tip, Jeff, Charley, Ed, Happy Jack, Bill, Frank, Newt, Oscar, and an innumerable host of others who have gone over the great divide. They are gathered in one great bivouac, awaiting the last roundup.

This story of the burial of the two boys as related in the foregoing story was told by Mr. Colcord at a reunion of old-timers held at Medicine Lodge, Kansas, last February. ~~ T.J. DYER. ~~
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