Cochran's Creek

By Charles Hallmark

The evidence left no doubt. At this spot a tragedy in America’s history had taken place. Perhaps a tragedy that no one was ever aware of, except for the Indians, who obviously had perpetrated the deed.
At any rate, the broken shards of pottery and pieces of cast iron belonging to a stove were grim evidence, scattered over an area of about one hundred and fifty feet wide, just on the down hill side of a mound of dirt sparsely covered with grass. The mound of subsoil had a cedar tree growing out of it. Just some eight feet uphill was a depression. This without a doubt was where a Soddy type of dugout had been constructed.
My father and I in partners had purchased this land in 1963. I was a young man, still unmarried. And for some twenty-one years we were unaware of the fact that this place on our property had such a history.
In 1984 my wife and I decided to build our home at this place, and as we began the excavations for our foundation, the evidence began to emerge, at a depth of about 11⁄2 inches. At one spot I unearthed the left hammer of a black powder double barrel shotgun. The evidence seems to indicate that about 125 years ago the Indians happened upon this family’s abode. There has not been any indication of skeletons. However, it appears certain that the contents of the dugout were systematically destroyed beyond use.
Once I was aware of this event, I began to talk to elderly people who had lived many years in this area. But, oddly, no one even knew people had lived at this particular site. A second oddity is the name of the creek near the spot. Many people call it Cochran Creek, yet no Cochrans live on it and there were only three home sites known along its short distance of approximately three miles.
So, I have exercised the prerogative of a novelist to create a fictional story, about a young man whose last name is Cochran. I have given him and others ancestral names in my genealogy.
And so, this is Cochran’s Creek.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DannaGrace Global Publishing
• Release date: Mar 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311177872

Book preview

The evidence left no doubt. At this spot a tragedy in America’s history had taken place. Perhaps a tragedy that no one was ever aware of, except for the Indians, who obviously had perpetrated the deed.

At any rate, the broken shards of pottery and pieces of cast iron belonging to a stove were grim evidence, scattered over an area of about one hundred and fifty feet wide, just on the downhill side of a mound of dirt sparsely covered with grass. The mound of subsoil had a cedar tree growing out of it. Just some eight feet uphill was a depression. This without a doubt was where a Soddy type of dugout had been constructed.

My father and I in partners had purchased this land in 1963. I was a young man, still unmarried. And for some twenty-one years we were unaware of the fact that this place on our property had such a history.

In 1984 my wife and I decided to build our home at this place, and as we began the excavations for our foundation, the evidence began to emerge, at a depth of about 1½ inches. At one spot I unearthed the left hammer of a black powder double barrel shotgun. The evidence seems to indicate that about 125 years ago the Indians happened upon this family’s abode. There has not been any indication of skeletons. However, it appears certain that the contents of the dugout were systematically destroyed beyond use.

Once I was aware of this event, I began to talk to elderly people who had lived many years in this area. But, oddly, no one even knew people had lived at this particular site. A second oddity is the name of the creek near the spot. Many people call it Cochran Creek, yet no Cochrans live on it and there were only three home sites known along its short distance of approximately three miles.

So, I have exercised the prerogative of a novelist to create a fictional story, about a young man whose last name is Cochran. I have given him and others ancestral names in my genealogy. And so, this is Cochran’s Creek.

Chapter 1

Will Cochran

That cold sweat running down William Cochran’s ribs wasn’t from the heat of the day, even though it was mid June, in the year of Our Lord 1851. Nosirree! That cold sweat was due to those three riders down slope about a hundred yards east. Though the distance was too far to make out exactly which tribe they belonged to, they were undoubtedly plains Indians, which was bad news for anyone they found in their way.

Will was out here by himself. He was homesteading this patch of land, and in the process of building a dugout for shelter. So the direction those three redskins decided to go was of great importance, for several reasons.

First of all, ole Ephraim, Will’s Hawken 56 caliber rifle was accurate, but it only held one charge of powder and ball. It needed recharging. Now, it would be a fairly easy matter to put a ball in a vital spot in one unsuspecting Indian. It was an altogether different matter to reload and put a ball in the vitals of an Indian charging you on horseback with probably about eight seconds to do it in. It was next to impossible to kill two charging Indians on horseback! It was at times like this when you would like to have ole Peacemaker, your double-barreled shotgun, for a second weapon to back you up!

Secondly, even if the two surviving Indians ran away, it would be to bring back a bunch of avenging reddies! Will knew that Indians had an excellent memory! Such a situation would be dangerous for many years into the future.

And since Will’s plan for the future held in its center the building project downhill to his west, it was very desirable that those three Indians just ride away in a direction that was not west!

Will was lying in deep grass just short of the top of the hill. He knew that where he intended to settle was on the eastern side of the Plains Indian’s range. He also realized that sometimes they ranged over this far east. Will knew he was in the land the United States Government had set aside for the Chickasaws, one of the civilized Indian nations from east of the Mississippi. In fact, Will had grown up with them, and had Chickasaws for friends.

The only problem here was that the Cheyenne, the Kiowa and Comanche didn’t recognize the United States as having any claim to this land. No, this was their land. Their ancestors had roamed this rich land for hundreds, maybe even thousands of years. Will’s scalp sort of twitched as he thought of what would probably happen to him if they caught him.

Will had heard tales of white men who had been captured by the plains Indians. Sometimes they simply adopted you into their tribe. But, the very next time you might end up tortured to death is some ingeniously designed ways! That was assuming he would live through the charge of the two surviving Indians. Yeah, he just might kill the second one, but by that time that short hunting bow of the third would be sending arrow after arrow in his direction. That was definitely an undesirable situation to be in.

Probably this party had two primary goals. The first of course was to bring down some game to take back to the village. Deer and buffalo were primarily what they were looking for. But these hunting Indians were of great importance to their tribe, because they also brought back details of the land, and where adequate water and vegetation suitable for food could be found. And in this area, on the south of their range, these hunters were looking for two other elements necessary for the well being of the tribe. Those were downed and seasoned wood along with a sheltered area where the village teepees could be erected, and a good water supply. So, Will knew that they were looking for a sheltered camp ground, sheltered from the north wind bringing snow and freezing rain, and ample dead and fallen limbs of trees.

While the white man had already mastered the art of iron working, the Indians had not. The white man could cut down trees, but the Indians still had to rely mostly on small, breakable limbs to heat their teepees.

Will knew from experience that lots of white people look on the Indian males as lazy. He also knew this was wrong simply because they didn’t understand the role of the warriors. The warriors or braves had not only the responsibility of finding game, they had to be knowledgeable as to where the wild plants used for food and medicine could be found, to remember where sites sheltered from the frigid north winter winds were, where good water was found in abundance with easy sloping banks, and the availability of wood or buffalo chips was adequate. They then brought this information back to the council fires and the leader or chief and his advisors made the decision where to go for the winter camps.

But frontiersmen never overlooked the women or squaws. He had heard of men tortured by Indian women, and they shuddered at falling into the hands of the squaws. They were deadly fighters when necessary.

Will had looked for what he considered the ideal location for his home. Lots of planning through the long nights in the high country had shaped his requirements for the place where he intended to settle.

When he was a young boy barely fourteen he had left home, joining up with some mountain men back from the western lands visiting old friends and relatives. Will had met some of the famous men, like Kit Carson, Jim Bridger and Liver-eating Johnson who had trapped in high mountain streams. He had served an apprenticeship; and a good many winters in the high lands were behind him now.

Will had decided that fighting through snow waist deep, wading frigid waters and being cold most of the time just wasn’t his idea of a good life! So he had begun formulating plans. Now that those plans were starting to come true, he certainly didn’t want those three plains Indians to disrupt them!

All these thoughts were making their way around in his head. If they did come west toward him and his homestead, he either had to fight, or hide and hope they didn’t see his construction in progress.

Well, glory be! It looked like his luck was holding good! One of the braves had gotten off his horse and was walking southward, looking down. They must be on a game trail, and they were deciding if a trail of some animal was fresh enough to warrant a look-see.

That was one of the reasons why Will had chosen this location. It was on the eastern edge of the great buffalo range. Lots of buffalo moved through this area, but the vast herds the Indians followed were found about two days ride farther west, enhancing his chances of keeping his hair long enough to become an old man. It was a long hard day’s ride to the nearest fort. Fort Washita lay to the south and east, where the Washita River took a turn toward the south. Toward the west an equally long ride would bring one to Fort Arbuckle. Both of these forts lay somewhat near the meandering Washita River, one of the favorite streams the plains Indians liked to winter on.

There was a huge difference between the needs of a lone white man with an axe, and the needs of a village of plains Indians of around two to three dozen lodges. A white man would make a strong tight cabin to spend the winter in, so shelter from the north winds was not so important. Also the white man’s need for water was not nearly so great as that of the Indians, with all their horses.

But water he had. Around a hundred yards to the west was a clear running creek. There was a deep pool of water similar to the ones he had spent many hours in as a lad. The creek originated in a marshy area to the north and east of where he had determined to construct his home. South about an eighth of a mile water welled up out of the ground in an area about a quarter of a mile long. Will had found lots of crawfish dens that indicated a subterranean stream or lake close to the top of the ground. So there was no lack of good water. It was toward this area that the Indians were looking now. Will reckoned that the trail they were discussing must have come from around the marshy area. It would probably be a smart thing, if he survived this, to ease off down there and check to see if it was an established game trail, skirting to the east of the marsh.

That marsh and creek was the reason why Will had picked this place for his home. The marsh to the north, with its pools, impenetrable blackberry vines and brush had no trail going through it. It stretched over four hundred yards east and west, with the creek draining out toward the south and west. The stream had high perpendicular banks, well higher than the head of a man on horseback along the west. So it formed a good barrier on the west and to north and south traffic, which meant there were no trails going north and south until about a quarter mile east of where he was building. Coupled with the ridge between his building site and the first game trail, Will had decided this was an excellent building site. With the marsh to the north and the stream to the west, it sort of made an upside down L. He was sheltered from roaming Indians in those directions.

The place where he had just begun to build his dugout was sheltered from view from the east and south by bush and trees. Yet he still had a good view toward these two directions, because the trees were thin and the brush was about shoulder high, so he could see out over the plain to the south. It was fairly level that way, and with a good field of vision for well over 400 yards. The same was true uphill toward the east, where he was hiding.

Will reckoned if he could just get that dugout built and the dirt back in place and lay the sod over the raw earth in time for vegetation to grow on the dirt before winter and the falling of the leaves, he would be in excellent shape strategically.

Will relaxed. The Indian had remounted and they had begun riding toward the south. Will watched carefully until they were completely out of sight. Then he cautiously began to make his way back down the hill toward his soon to be dugout.

Will had slowly and carefully removed the sod about four inches deep and stacked it up not far from the site of his dugout. He was already down about three feet. It was his plan to have a room twelve wide by fifteen feet long.

In his years in the high country, he had been exposed to cabin living, and the last winter in the mountains he had spent in a cave with the opening walled up. There was a tremendous difference in the amount of wood they had needed for warmth! Without a fire it was about fifty degrees back in the cave. This had really convinced him of the value of the earth to help heat.

He had pondered this, and yet, in the more temperate climate of Indian Territory, with its higher amounts of moisture in the form of both rain and snow, he knew the dugout would be a miserable existence. So his first plan had been to build as tight a cabin as possible.

But one day the problem of waterproofing a dugout was solved. His two boyhood Indian friends John Walking Tall and Billy White Wolf had come by and wanted him to go with them down to the medicine springs south west some six miles. They had done so, and then they decided to ride on south a few miles. They happened upon some black oily deposits, and in depressions they were holding water. When Will saw that deposit he knew his problem was solved. It was called tar or asphalt.

Will realized that with a big cast iron kettle he could heat and melt the asphalt into a liquid. He could then plaster the outside of logs with the goo and when it cooled, it would stop any water from seeping into his dugout. He would simply build his cabin of logs, down in the ground! As he raised the walls he would plaster the outside of the log wall with the asphalt, and then shovel the earth up against the logs. To help keep moisture away, he would berm up the dirt on the walls, and thus route the runoff water away from the dugout. To do this, he would need to purchase a wagon to carry the tar to his building site. This was an immediate necessity.

There was one condition that presented some problems. In the immediate area there was not much good timber for a log cabin. While there were quite a few trees, they were not of the quality needed for a log cabin. One needed oak trees for logs. However, toward the northwest about three miles were lots of good straight oaks. His father had taught him that fences and buildings should be made of either post oak or straight white oaks. When cut at the right stage of the moon, and seasoned, a post oak post might last thirty years or more. So, once the tar or asphalt was discovered, plastered on the outside of properly fitted logs, it would make his dugout cabin tight and dry.

But, again, the problem with the plains Indians really loving the scalps of white men presented a major problem. The ring of an axe could be heard for miles. A man alone cutting logs would be a sitting duck for a party of Indians to move toward the noise, slip up on and kill.

Then, one night, a full moon, the solution occurred to him. Most Indians like to be in their snug buffalo robes at night. Since there was plenty of light by an almost full moon to cut trees down, that’s just what he would do! He’d cut the logs by night! He would wait two nights, the night of the full moon and the next night, and then he would begin to cut logs. By waiting about two hours after sunset on nights the moon rose late the odds were very low that there would be Indians in the neighborhood that were still awake. He would cut in one location one night, and then the next night three or four miles away, cut again. By changing where he cut each night, even if the redskins found his downed green logs and tried to ambush him the next night, he wouldn’t be there! The logs being green would be extremely hard to burn even if the Indians devoted a lot of time hunting up dead and downed wood to do it with.

He figured that four nights in two months would give him plenty of logs for his cabin walls. In between the cutting of the logs, during the early second stage of the moon he would have enough light to quietly move the logs to his construction site. He would have work up to two or three in the morning, then load up a wagonload of logs and bring them home. During the stages of the moon when it was too dark to work nights he would work at squaring up the logs so they would lay flat and true. This and plastering up with the asphalt would keep him pretty busy.

He would also do some hunting and scouting around the area. He knew where the good campsites with water were, and he could scout those about once a week. That way he could be pretty sure no Indians were around.

Warm weather was the best time to do the logging. Most of the plains Indians were north, along with the buffalo that had moved north with the spring. Up to now he had managed to keep his hair by being careful. Sure, there were times when recklessly ignoring the odds worked, but as a usual run, being plenty careful paid dividends.

Although Will’s house, as envisioned by the author, was built from logs and weatherproofed with tar, then bermed over, this photo depicts what a two-room bermed house would look like from the outside. The dwellings could be very attractive and functional as you can see from the photo in a later chapter.

Chapter 2

A Grand Land

Will straightened up. Pulling his hat off, he mopped his face with a scarf. It was a great day, this spring day. He carefully looked around him. Digging with a shovel made very little sound, so he was pretty sure his efforts had not alerted any passing Indians. He had a sort of sled made, and he would load it, and then hook the horses to it, pull it out of his home-to-be, over out of the way, yet not far, and unload it. After the walls were made of the logs and plastered with the tar, the earth would be bermed up against the walls. That way the dirt would be almost to the very top, making for a very comfortable home, impervious to the blizzards of winter. But digging sure put a crimp in the back, so Will took a break.

It was a grand land. As the Good Book said, a land flowing with milk and honey! Native grass in the summer brushed the belly of his horse. Toward the south were thickets of sand plums. There were clumps of wild persimmon that would bear tasty fruit in the late fall. Potherbs were everywhere; from the poke salad he was raised on back in Tennessee, to yellow and curly docks. There were plentiful amounts of what he called milkweed. These were edible, but would also take off warts. There