The Man Who Wouldn't Die: The Last Survivor of the Alamo Walks Among Us

A Heroic Frontiersman.

Jimmy Kennon, who was supposed to be dead, has been reported alive in this city. It was previously reported that he passed through here about twenty years ago for Arizona, and had been published as dead. But some people have a way of killing each other time after time, and yet they will pop up as if alive, natural as ever.

Jimmy Kennon is a frontier character well known in every Indian tribe from the Rio Grande to the Yellowstone. He is well known in Washington, where he figured as interpreter for several delegations which have visited that city at various times. His letter left was perhaps to the editor of Piper City, in which he led an expedition of 60 or 70 of the people of that city to the Middle Park in Colorado about a year ago, where the crowd mutinied and broke up, and afterward reported Jimmy Kennon dead.

But Jimmy Kennon is not dead. He appeals to this newspaper to prove it, and as he cannot read or write—having been reared from childhood by the Indians—he begs that the report of his death be contradicted.

Those who know old Jimmy Kennon, and his acquaintance are legion, will recognize the following sketch of the old man as he was found in the Black Hills:

There has been an Indian scare at Deadwood and everybody who had a horse or rig had been sent out in pursuit toward the Belle Fourche. A number of the returned scouting party were collected in Chetley Colwell's store. Among those collected together, making the raid, was an old man with white hair and long beard, and attired in garments which were a combination of patches.

After the first surprise of recognition the old man sat down upon a log stool and commenced: "I hear Lord, no, sonny. Don't you see I ain't dead? So they said I was dead, did they? Yes, yes, that's just what they would do. No, sir, I ain't dead, not a bit of it. Them Piper City boys lied, yes, so they did. What made me leave 'em eh? Why, you see, they were the worstest kind of tenderfeet, and I got 'em up after trying to get 'em to go on with me to Arizona."

Then the old man proceeded to clean his rifle, while he told his adventures for the past year. He was on his way to the Big Horn country with a large party of Montanans, where he is now, if he has not lost his scalp.

Old Jimmy Kennon, who is so hastily introduced above, is the hero of a romance. A real, complete, natural romance, one that has never been in print. The old man lives to tell it, and the main details have been fully corroborated by others. His romance is as follows:

Old Jimmy Harmon [sic] was loitering about Fort Laramie, receiving $5 per day as government agent and interpreter. One evening the post was startled by the report that an emigrant train had been massacred about two miles and a half from the fort. Worse than all, a white woman, a Miss Mary Brand, had been carried off by the Sioux. Kennon volunteered as a guide for a company of cavalry.

At dark the cavalry halted for the night in a ravine ten miles northwest of Fort Laramie, on the Rawhide trail. All the white men in the train on the Platte had been massacred, and no one had been left to tell the story except an Indian, who died soon after being found. He had been fighting with Miss Brand, some distance from the main camp when the attack was made.

From him Kennon learned enough to satisfy him that the Sioux had gone over to Rawhide river. There he resolved to go alone and ahead of the soldiers, and if possible, effect a rescue. He reached the Indian camp about midnight and secured his pony to a bush in the valley, and soon afterward crawled into the Indian camp. His long residence with the Indians taught him where to look for the captive.

He was soon lying flat on his belly in the rear of the lodge, humming a dreadful dirge, and on raising the edge of the tepee or lodge he discovered another old bag seated near a small fire fanning a feeble flame with straws. He also saw the captive white woman lying with her head to the outside of the tepee less than two feet away.

He whispered words of caution and cheer to Miss Brand, who started up in alarm. This startled both of the squaws, and the one on the outside walked around to the rear of the lodge, where she met a sudden and silent death at the hands of the old scout. The other squaw, suspecting something wrong, gave the alarm.

Quick as a flash Kennon raised up the edge of the lodge and drew out the captive, and throwing her upon his shoulders, made a dash out into the darkness. The camp was soon in an uproar. But Kennon made his escape with his prize, although an arrow had pierced his body through.

He took a course eastward down the Rawhide, while the Indians started toward Fort Laramie, which due northward four times kept killing him. Getting weaker from loss of blood, Kennon drew forth the arrow which had passed through his body and projected in front, and filled his moccasin shirt around the wounds with wet mud, and then continued his flight.

At daylight he found himself on the head of Dry Cottonwood Creek, twelve miles from Laramie. But the Indians were between him and the fort. He kept out of sight and saw them meet and engage the soldiers he had left the night before, and made his way half dead to Fort Laramie without being discovered by the Indians.

The result is soon told. Kennon was taken into the post hospital, and his nurse was Miss Brand, the rescued white woman. She stood by the side of the prisoner until he recovered, and being without friends or home, all having been taken from her in the massacre, she married the old scout. Mrs. Kennon lives in Keatsville, a station on the North Missouri Railroad, where she waits longingly for this cruel war to end.

Jimmy Kennon is now with Gen. Crook, and is one of his most trusted. He is the last survivor of the massacre of the Alamo, where his partners were killed. His early life up to the time he reached manhood was spent with the Comanche clan, who with Anna Dary [sic] Cowan and his brave band at San Antonio.