The Indian No Legs
by Dave Rhodes
Heading out through the
along the pony express trail.
Driving two mules and a mud-wagon,
(I'd much rather be running the mail.)
On my way to Fish Springs
heavy with supplies for the station.
I stopped the night at Simpson
for a roof and a good dinner ration.
It's where I first heard of the Indian, No Legs
who'd left Simpson Springs the morning before.
The boys said he's headed for
and didn't think he'd make it a day or more.
Well, we started out after my restful night,
me, the mules, and the load.
'Bout mid-day we came upon No Legs
moving slowly up the road.
I stopped to see where he was going.
He said to a camp over the mountain a ways.
"How long would it take?" I asked.
"One day and one half day", he says.
Then he asked me if I had some water,
since all he had was a swallow or two.
I inquired what he had to eat . . .
just a piece of bread, hardly enough to chew.
"I would give you a ride
if I could figure how to get you up."
"Me go all right", he said
and pulled himself on top.
How he did it I do not know,
but he was behind the seat
sitting there proud as can be,
like a child expecting a treat.
He watched the road and brush go by
as fast as it did when he used to walk.
Then he kinda opened up a little,
and he and I had a good talk.
He told me how his legs got frozen
in a blizzard fifteen years ago.
To save his life a doctor took them,
it was the only way to go.
And how he'd move from camp to camp
to beg for enough food just to live.
Sometimes it was mice or chipmunks
if nobody was inclined to give.
I guess I was touched and started feeling bad
about all that'd happened to him.
"Don't you get tired a lot", I asked.
"Indian always tired", he said with a grin.
It was a foolish thing to say,
but my friend seemed to understand.
And I think he read my mind,
(being thankful that I could run and stand.)
We made about ten miles together
and came to where we needed to part.
I would have taken him all the way
but the country was too rough to start.
Before I could get to help him off
he'd swung himself to the ground.
It was really something to see
how strong he was, and how he got around.
He was proud and happy for having a ride
as he got his things ready to go,
talking just as fast as he could
and I'm telling you it wasn't slow.
Well, I gave him my dinner,
his willow jug full of water,
my big red cotton handkerchief,
a fist full of matches, and some starter.
He wore a raw-hide sack arrangement
tied up just above the hips.
The bottom part was double thick
to stand his endless cross-desert trips.
He used a heavy stick held by both hands
to give himself a little boost,
and would just do a hop and twist
each time, moving only a foot at most.
I watched him head out across the desert
and stood there for quite a while,
thinking of how long it would take
for him to travel just a mile.
But imagine going thirty miles,
how hard and humbling it would be.
I couldn't take that kinda' life,
no thank you, not for me!
It's strange how every once in a while
we cross paths with someone unique,
who has a profound effect on us
and makes us stop and think
about how much we've been blessed,
and how lucky we seem to be.
At least I'm here to tell you folks
that's exactly what happened to me!
So, when the shoe flies or the tongue breaks,
the pony spooks, or the stampede is on,
when the weather's bad, and winter's here,
the trails covered up, and the blizzard's long,
when I get throwed off and break my pride
or the pony dies, leaving me a forty mile jaunt,
when I get the shakes and hope I'm dying
or the food has turned, or there's none o' what you
want,
when things get bad and life's not fair
and I get cheated and feel like a curse
or when those I love treat me bad
or someone dies, or even worse
if I'm attacked while on a run
and get shot down, lying there to rot
I can take all this and more
and be thankful for what I got.
My problems seem pretty small
and the worries are not much to shout
when I see what's been dealt
to the one I'm thinking about.
I know he's out there in the hot desert sun,
making just a foot at a time in the dust and pain,
working hard just to stay alive,
not giving up or even complain.
Not having a home or a place to sleep,
eating what he can catch, or what he begs.
A man with misery enough for all,
He's the Indian, No Legs.
©Copyright David E. Rhodes,
1997
Simpson Springs Station. The monument and other objects have
been taken out of the image to give the feel of how the station may have looked
in the past. The building is a replica of a typical station and is not
exactly on the original building site. Simpson Springs was named for J.H.
Simpson, an army surveyor whos guide was Major Howard Egan. The area was known
previously as Egan Springs. "The Indian, No Legs" is
from an actual account told by Howard Ransom Egan. Simpson Springs
Station is, in fact, where this story began.
Inset at top: Ambulance or mud-wagon, pulled by two
mules. Photo from