The Turnbo Manuscripts
by Silas Claiborne Turnbo
1844-1925
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CHASED BY A BAND OF INDIANS
By S. C. Turnbo
One mile west of Elbow Creek in Taney County, Mo., is a bald hill called "Poor Joe." There is nothing remarkable in the formation of this moundlike hill, but it possesses a name which it has borne since the early settlement of the country. Though while "Poor Joel" is not a tall eminence yet it is so situated that a pretty view from its top is obtainable and the common scenery of this part of the Ozarks are observed such as wooded hills, glades, bald knobs and prairie hollows. Looking southward and southwest and south of west many of the hills in Marion, Boone and Carroll Counties, Arkansas, are plainly visible. Many years in the long ago when herds of deer fed on the tender herbs and big flocks of wild turkeys grew fat on wild onions and wild grapes and the seeds of other vegetation the busy hunter feasted on wild meat and did not do without his coffee as long as he had a deer hide to sell. At that time it was common to encounter large groups of deer in the Elbow hills. It was a pretty sight to see so many of them together. Mr. C. S. (Calvin) Vance says that he saw a large herd of deer once on the side of this bald knob. "Though I was not able to make out their exact number," said he "yet there were not less than 150 of them. I sat on my horse and watched their movements which were very interesting and wonderful to me. The whole group appeared so busy that they aid not notice me. They were jumping and running around each other and every one seemed to try to go through with the most antic actions. The sight of these playful animals were so attractive that I almost imagined that I was in a land of fairies where the supposed beautiful objects had assumed the form of the fleet deer. This fascinating view of these lovely creatures could not last always for after awhile the entire bunch took fright and the charm was broken. They ran down the hill toward me making a loud racket with their feet as they passed over the rough ground. I held my horse quiet until they were near me then I thought they would run over my horse and myself. It was now that my horse took fright and came near bucking me off. When the horse began to kick, plunge and tried to run away the deer seen me and scattered like leaves tossed about by the wind. Some of the animals passed in less than a half a dozen yards of me. I had an excellent rifle with me but my mind was so absorbed with delight in watching the deer while they were frolicking that I resisted the temptation of shooting one of them and it was too late to shoot after they took their scare and were running off and my horse trying his beat to unseat me."
There was a time when big game existed here and this reminds me of a bear
story which we think is worthy of place in these sketches. The account of
it was told me by "thresher" Bill Yocum who said that when he
was 25 years old or in 1839 he and Joe Coker son of Len Coker while on a
camp hunt together on Elbow Creek killed a bear in the face of the bluff
near the creek bottom which was then covered with cane and was known by
the early hunters as cane bottom. Mr. Yocum said that their two dogs routed
a bear out of the cane in this bottom and after chasing it awhile it ran
around and went into the face of the bluff and stopped under a shelving
rock just above a high cliff of rock. We hurried on and when we reached
the top of the bluff we rushed down toward where the dogs were baying the
bear. Each of us was trying to keep in the advance of the other in order
to put in the first shot at the bear. As we ran down we seen bruin run out
from under the overhanging rock and strike at a dog with his paw but the
dog dodged the stroke and the bear went back under the rock. The face of
the bluff was steep and rough and in my haste I fell and went rolling down.
I made every effort in my power to clutch to something to make fast to for
I was in iminent danger of going over the ledge where the bear was and go
on over the precipice, but just as I reached the brink of the ledge I anchored
up against a sapling. At this moment the bear made its appearance the second
time to mix with the dogs. Joe reached the top of the ledge about the time
I hit the sapling and seeing the opportunity he sent a bullet into the bear’s
head and bruin dropped. When he fell the two dogs pitched onto it and dead
bear and dogs went rolling and sliding down to the brink of the precipice
and all went over together. We supposed the dogs were killed in the fall.
After making our way down to the edge of the precipice we looked over and
to our delight the dogs were alive. The bear was lying broadside and both
dogs were on it trying to get a fight out of the dead animal. We went around
to where we could descend to the base of the bluff and went to where the
bear and dogs were and found that neither one of the dogs were hurt. We
supposed that the reason they escaped injury was that the bear being the
heaviest struck the ground first and the dogs had fell on it. The part of
the bear which hit the rough stones was badly bruised and the meat was unfit
for use. The killing of this bear occurred not very far from this knob.
There is an old time tradition in connection with this bald hill which the
old settlers said was true. But the occurrence of it was so long ago that
it is almost impossible at this late day to obtain an accurate account of
it. But the story was told about this way.
Joe Coker, an uncle of the one mentioned above, and who we have said elsewhere
was among the first settlers on White River. He had married in Alabama and
his wife died in that state. The issue of that marriage was two sons and
two daughters. William (Prairie Bill) and Herrod were the names of his two
sons and Sally and Betsey were the names of his girls. Coker’s wife
was a daughter of Bob Brown, another old time settler on White River. Soon
after the death of his wife Joe married a Cherokee Indian woman named Aney
(not Annie), but during the year previous to his marriage to this woman
he sent his children and Negro slaves to White River in charge of his brother,
Charles Coker, who reached the Sugar Loaf country in 1813 and as we have
said before Joe Coker himself came here in 1814. His father, William (Buck)
Coker, pitched his tent on the north bank of White River January the 8th,
1815. The spot where he located is now the Dave McCord farm in Jake Nave
Bend and is embraced in Boone County, Arkansas. It was told by the settlers
that after Joe took up his abode on White River he was not contented with
one Indian wife and took unto himself another one of the name of Cynthiana.
She was a daughter of John Rogers, a white man who had married a full blood
Cherokee woman. Many years after the occurrence of the story we have in
mind Aney lived on the river and "Cyntha" lived in the Sugar Loaf
Prairie. It was said that after Coker showed his affections for the second
Indian woman the Indiana, who were numerous here at that time but were friendly,
become greatly incensed at Joe’s conduct for having one too many wives
of their kindred and made up their minds to put him out of the way. But
Coker understood the enmity they held against him and was constantly on
the lookout for them to prevent them taking the advantage of him and thus
it went on for some time when finally a bunch of the Indians got the drop
on him and thought his scalp was in their grasp. It is told that Coker and
others had went to Elbow Creek to kill bear. The majority of the men were
afoot. It appears that a small band of Indiana were hunting here at the
same time which was unknown to Coker and his friends. The Indians were all
afoot and carried their bows and arrows and tommyhawks. One day while Uncle
Joe was hunting alone on the west side of the creek the Indians discovered
and recognized him. He in turn knew that they were his enemies. Joe had
his rifle and hunting knife. The band of Indians raised the war whoop and
charged toward him. Knowing he had no chance for his life in contending
against so many Coker reserved his fire and fled. The woods were open—that
is it was divided into belts of trees and prairies without undergrowth or
thickets or bresh. Coker was in the prime of life and stout and vigorous
and he bounded along through the tall grass like a deer pursued by a pack
of hounds. As he ran he looked back and perceived that the yelling band
was gaining on him. This was not a good omen and he did his utmost to accelerate
his speed. On came the noisy Indians who were thirsting for his blood and
scalplock. Uncle Joe was not ready to surrender his life and he knew that
his safety depended on his legs and he made good use of them. The pursuing
Indians yelled like demons and let fly several arrows at the retreating
form of Coker but they went wide of their mark. The fast racing white man
had no time to stop and exchange shots with the red men for his business
lay rolling from there and that in a hurry. It was not long before the man
drew near this bald hill. It lay directly in his course but he kept straight
forward up the slope. Coker was afraid to turn to the right or left for
fear the Indiana might head him off. By this time the white man was becoming
tired and his breath was coming and going at much shorter intervals than
common and before reaching the summit the Indians gained on him rapidly
and as the pursued and pursuers went rushing along over the top of the knob
the latter came near overhauling their intended victim. Thinking he would
have to face death Joe thought he would stop and sell out to his enemies
as dear as possible, but at this moment the red men thinking he was a a
good as theirs yelled the louder which put new life in Joe’s system
and without halting he renewed his running power to keep in advance of his
foes. A few of the fleetest Indians had dashed forward ahead of their companions
and were almost in the act of striking him with their tommyhawks, when Coker
threw down his rifle which impeded his progress and cried out in a loud
voice as he ran, "Poor Joe", "Poor Joe" a half a dozen
times or more for he believed he was a goner this time sure. By this time
the white man and the foremost Indians had reached the slope on the opposite
side from where he ran up and being relieved of his rifle he was now in
better running order and he bounded along down the hillside like a rubber
ball and soon outstripped the angry savages. Part of the Indians stopped
to pick up Joe’s rifle and exult over the possession of it. Of course
when these Indians halted it gave the man some advantage and he made good
use of it. When the other red men stopped the fleetest ones clacked their
speed and slowed up. Very soon Coker looked back again and seen the Indians
far in the rear. But he kept up the race when finally he lost sight of them.
But on he went as fast as he could run over the rough ground and across
glades, small prairies and wooded ridges. It was a desperate race. He looked
back again but his pursuers if they were still following him were not in
his sight. His strength was nearly exhausted and he could run but little
further until he rested. Seeing a fallen tree a few yards ahead which had
been blown down by a windstorm during the summer and he sought its friendly
shelter of limbs and dead foliage and lay in concealment until his almost
exhusted organs of respiration could equalize the circulation of blood then
he poked his head out of the tree top and finding the coast was clear left
his hiding place and went on and escaped. No doubt the Indians could have
followed him to his place of refuge in the treetop for he had left a plain
trail behind him in the rank grass, but fortunately for him they abandoned
the chase and turned in another direction. This bald hill was called Poor
Joe from that day and retains the name to the present time. More than likely
this name will never be changed as long as the little brooklet which flows
on the east side of it is called Elbow Creek.
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