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The orders for moving towards the Indian Village were issued on the evening of November 22d. It began to snow, and our men stood round the camp-fire for their breakfast at five o'clock the next morning, the snow almost up to their knees. The Seventh, consisting of nine hundred men, were to leave General Sheridan and the infantry, and all the extra wagons and supplies, and strike out into this blinding storm. General Sheridan, awake with anxiety at reveille, called out to ask what General Custer thought about the snow and the storm. The reply was, "All the better for us; we can move, the Indian cannot." The packing was soon done, as every ounce of superfluous baggage was left behind, and forward our brave fellows pushed into the slowly coming dawn.

The air was so filled with the fine snow that it was perilous to separate one's self even a short distance from the column. The Indian guides could not see any landmarks, and had it not been for the compass of the commanding officer, an advance would have been impossible. The fifteen miles of the first day's march would have been a small affair except for the snow; but the day dragged, and when at night camp was made in some timber bordering a creek, the snow still fell so fast that the officers themselves helped to shovel it away while the soldiers stretched the small amount of canvas that was spread. Fortunately, even at that late season, fresh meat was secured for all the command, for in the underbrush of the streams one out of a group of benumbed buffaloes was easily killed.

In crossing the Canadian River, the quicksands, the floating snow and ice, were faced uncomplainingly, and the nine hundred wet soldiers started up the opposite side without a murmur.

Finally the Indian trail, so long looked for, was struck, and the few wagons were ordered to halt; and only such supplies as could be carried on the person or the horse, consisting of rations, forage, and a hundred rounds of ammunition for each trooper, were taken. The detail of the officer to remain with the train (always assigned according to turn) fell to one of the finest of our officers. But Captain Hamilton was not to yield his privilege of being in a fight so readily. He appealed to go, and finally the commanding officer thought out a way by which it might be accomplished, for he was thoroughly in sympathy with the soldier spirit of this dauntless young fellow. If another officer could be found to take his place, he could be relieved from the odious detail. One of the Seventh was suffering from snow-blindness, and to this misfortune was Captain Hamilton indebted for his change of duty. In the long confidential talks about the camp-fires he had expressed an ardent desire to be in an Indian fight, and when the subject of death came up, as it did in the wide range of subjects that comrades in arms discussed, he used to say, "When my hour to die comes, I hope that I shall be shot through the heart in battle."

The first hours of following the trail were terribly hard. Men and horses suffered for food, for from four in the morning till nine at night no halt could be made. Then by hiding under the deep banks of the stream, fires were lighted, and the men had coffee and the horses oats; but no bugle sounded, no voice was raised, as the Indians might be dangerously near. The advance was taken up again with the Indian guides creeping stealthily along in front, tracing as best they could the route of their foes. The soldier was even deprived of his beloved pipe, for a spark might, at that moment, lose all which such superhuman efforts had been put forth to gain.

After what seemed an interminable time, the ashes of a fire lately extinguished were discovered; then farther on a dog barked, and finally the long-looked-for Indian village was discovered by the cry of a baby. General Custer in his accounts stops to say how keen were his regrets, even with the memory fresh in mind of the atrocities committed by Indians, where white infants' brains had been dashed out to stop their crying, that war must be brought to the fireside of even a savage.

The rest of the night was spent in posting the command on different sides of the village, in snatching a brief sleep, stretched out on the snow, and in longing for daybreak. Excitement kept the ardent soldiers warm, and when the band put their cold lips to the still colder metal, and struck up "Garryowen", the soldiers' hearts were bursting with enthusiasm and joy at the glory that awaited them. At the sound of the bugles blowing on the still morning air—the few spirited notes of the call to "charge"—in went the few hundred men as confidently as if there had been thousands of them, and a reserve corps at the rear.

All the marching scenes, hunting experiences, the quips and quirks of the camp-fire, the jokes of the officers at each other's expense, the hardships of the winter, the strange and interesting scouts, are as familiar to me as oft-told tales come to be, and in going back and gathering them here and there in the recesses memory, aided by General Custer's letters, magazine accounts, and official reports, the whole scene spreads out before me as the modern diorama unrolls from its cylinder the events that are past. Often as this battle has been talked over before me, I do not feel myself especially impressed with its military details; womanlike, the cry of the Indian baby, the capture of a white woman, the storm that drenched our brave men, are all fresher in my memory, and come to my pen more readily, than the actual charging and fighting. I therefore make extracts from General Custer's very condensed official report, instead of telling the story myself.

HEADQUARTERS SEVENTH CAVALRY,

CAMP ON WASHITA, November 28, '68.

On the morning of the 26th, eleven companies of the Seventh Cavalry struck an Indian trail numbering one hundred (not quite twenty-four hours old) near the point where the Texas boundary line crosses the Canadian River.

When the Osage trailers reported a village within a mile of the advance, the column was countermarched and withdrawn to a retired point to avoid discovery. After all the officers had reconnoitred the location of the village, which was situated in a strip of heavy timber, the command was divided into four columns of nearly equal strength. One was to attack in the woods from below the village. The second was to move down the Washita and attack in the timber from above. The third was to attack from the crest north of the village, while the fourth was to charge from the crest overlooking the village on the left bank of the Washita. The columns were to charge simultaneously at dawn of day; though some of them had to march several miles to gain their positions, three of them made the attack so near together that it seemed like one charge. The fourth was only a few moments late. The men charged and reached the lodges before the Indians were aware of their presence. The moment the advance was ordered the bank struck up Garryowen, and with cheers every trooper, led by his officer, rushed towards the village. The Indians were caught napping for once. The warriors rushed from their lodges and posted themselves behind trees and in deep ravines, from which they began a most determined resistance. Within ten minutes after the charge the lodges and all their contents were in our possession, but the real fighting, such as has been rarely, if ever, equalled in Indian warfare, began when attempting to drive out or kill the warriors posted in ravines or ambush. Charge after charge was made, and most gallantly too, but the Indians had resolved to sell their lives as dearly as possible. The conflict ended after some hours. The entire village, numbering (47) forty-seven lodges of Black Kettle's band of Cheyennes, (2) two lodges of Arapahoes, (2) two lodges of Sioux—(51) fifty-one lodges in all, under command of their principal chief, Black Kettle—were conquered.

The Indians left on the ground (103) one hundred and three warriors, including Black Kettle, whose scalp was taken by an Osage guide. 875 horses and mules were captured, 241 saddles (some of fine and costly workmanship), 573 buffalo-robes, 390 buffalo-skins for lodges, 160 untanned robes, 210 axes, 140 hatchets, 35 revolvers, 47 rifles, 535 pounds of powder, 1050 pounds of lead, 4000 arrows and arrow-heads, 75 spears, 90 bullet moulds, 35 bows and quivers, 12 shields, 300 pounds of bullets, 775 lariats, 940 buckskin saddle-bags, 470 blankets, 93 coats, 700 pounds of tobacco; all the winter supply of dried buffalo meat, all the meal, flour, and other provisions; in fact, all they possessed was captured, as the warriors escaped with little or no clothing. Everything of value was destroyed. 53 prisoners were taken, squaws and their children; among the prisoners are the survivors of Black Kettle and the family of Little Rock. Two white children, captives with the Indians, were captured. One white woman in their possession was murdered by her captors the moment the attack was made. A white boy, 10 years old, a captive, had his entrails ripped out with a knife by a squaw. The Kiowas, under Satanta, and Arapahoes, under Little Raven, were encamped six miles below Black Kettle's village. The warriors from these two villages came to attempt the rescue of the Cheyennes. They attacked the command from all sides, about noon, hoping to recover the squaws and the herd of the Cheyennes.

Though displaying great boldness, about three o'clock the cavalry countercharged, and they were driven in all directions and pursued several miles. The entire command was then moved in search of the villages of the Kiowas and Arapahoes, but after an eight-mile march it was ascertained that they had taken fright at the fate of the Cheyennes, and fled.

The command was then three days' march from the train of supplies, and the trail having led over a country cut up by ravines and other obstructions, difficult even for cavalry, it was impossible to bring the wagons on. The supplies which each man carried were nearly exhausted, the men were wearied from loss of sleep, and the horses in the same condition for want of forage. About 8 P. M. the return march was begun, and continued until the wagons were reached. In the excitement of the fight, as well as in self-defence, some of the squaws and a few children were killed and wounded; the latter were brought on under medical care. Many of the squaws were taken with arms in their hands, and several soldiers were wounded by them. In one small ravine 38 warriors were found dead, showing the desperation of the conflict. Two officers, Major Elliott and Captain Hamilton, were killed, and 19 enlisted men. Captain Barnitz was seriously wounded.

The command marched through snow-storms and rough country, sleeping without tents; and the night before the attack the men stood for hours by their horses awaiting the moment of attack, when the thermometer was far below freezing-point. No one complained, the one regret being that "the gallant spirits who fell were among the bravest and best."

Many of the squaws and children fought like the Indians, darting in and out and firing with cool aim from the opening of the tepees. Some of these squaws followed in the retreat, but there were some still prudent enough to remain out of sight. While the fight was going on they sang dirges in the minor key, all believing their own last hour had come. Captain Smith was sent round before the fight was ended to count the tepees for the official report. The squaws and children fired away at him so fast that he told his wife afterwards, "The first count of those lodges was made pretty quick, as the confounded popping kept up all the time."

The attention of Captain Yates was attracted to the glittering of something bright in the underbrush. In a moment a shot from a pistol explained that the glistening object was the barrel of a pistol, and he was warned by his soldiers that it was a squaw who had aimed for him, and was preparing to fire again. He then went round a short distance to investigate, and found a squaw standing in the stream, one leg broken, but holding her pappoose closely to her. The look of malignant hate in her eyes was something a little worse than any venomous expression he had ever seen. She resisted most vigorously every attempt to capture her, though the agony of her shattered limb must have been extreme. When she found that her pistol was likely to be taken, she threw it far from her in the stream, and fought fiercely again. At last they succeeded in getting her pappoose, and she surrendered. She was carried forward to a tepee, where our surgeon took charge of her.

As soon as the warriors were driven out, "Romeo", who spoke the dialect, was sent by the commanding officer to set the fears of the self-imprisoned women at rest, and they were then all gathered in some of the larger lodges. Two of the squaws had managed during the mêlée to mount and reach one of the herds of ponies, but in the flight, while driving the property off, California Joe had captured women, ponies, and all, and he came into camp swinging his lariat and wildly shouting.

Before leaving the battle-ground it was necessary, if our troops hoped really to cripple the enemy and prevent further invasion, to destroy the property, for it was impossible to carry away much of what had been captured. The contents of the village were collected in heaps and burned. The ponies were crowded together and shot. It took three companies an hour and a half to kill the 800 ponies. This last duty was something the officers never forgot. Nothing but the exigencies of war could have driven them to it. There were the several grades of animals as the Indian uses them: the ponies for marching, those for pack-animals to carry the luggage, the hunting-pony, and finally the best, truest, and swiftest, for battle alone. But the value of the animals was not what affected the officers; it was that, mute and helpless as they were, they must be sacrificed. But they could not be driven away in the deep snow, and with so small a command it was impossible to spare men to even attempt such a rescue. Besides, the presence of such a herd would still more strongly have tempted the constantly menacing Indians to follow and recapture so much valuable property. There was little time to deliberate, for one of the captured squaws reported, what afterwards proved to be true, that along the Washita, for twelve miles, were scattered many other villages. In this comparatively sheltered valley all the southern tribes had congregated. It was a hundred miles outside the reservation, but the timber, water, and grass were favorable for winter camps.

There was still one detachment from which no news had come. Men were sent out for two miles in the direction taken by Major Elliott, but no clew to his whereabouts was obtained. Officers and men felt the imminent danger that surrounded them. Nine hundred men so far from a base of supplies, exhausted from a long fast, and with horses worn out with a difficult march through the snow, were in no condition to risk the lives of the whole command in further search for their dead comrades. Not till the regiment returned to the battle-ground, a short time later, were the bodies of the brave officer and his men found.

In order to escape from the situation, which was most threatening, for the Indians were assembling constantly on the bluffs overlooking the command, General Custer put on a brave front, and ordered the band to play "Garryowen", and the colors to be unfurled; the skirmishers were sent on in advance, and the command set out in the direction of the other villages. I have often thought what nerve it required to assume so bold an attitude and march towards an enemy scattered for twelve miles in advance; the horses and men so exhausted, the ammunition low, and Indians outnumbering them three to one. The Indians, perceiving not only the determined advance, but appreciating that every sign of past victory was apparent, supposed the triumphant troops were about to march on the villages below, and they fled before the column. After dark the order to countermarch was given, and as rapidly as possible the tired troopers rode back to the train of supplies that had been endeavoring for days to make its way to the regiment.

In General Sheridan's letter to General Custer, after the battle, he says, in congratulation: "The Battle of the Washita River is the most complete and successful of all our private battles, and was fought in such unfavorable weather and circumstances as to reflect the highest credit on yourself and regiment."

The following extracts are from General Custer's letters to me:

The sad side of the story is the killed and wounded. Major Elliott and six men, who charged after two Indians, and Captain Hamilton, are gone. I had Captain Hamilton's body brought to this point (Beaver Creek, supply depot), where we buried him with full military honors. Eleven companies of cavalry and three of infantry followed him to the grave. The band played the dead-march; his horse was draped in mourning, carrying his boots, sword, etc., and followed his body. We intend to take the remains back with us when we go to Leavenworth. Colonel Barnitz was wounded by a rifle-ball through his bowels. We all regarded him as mortally wounded at first, but he is almost certain to recover now. He acted very gallantly, killing two Indians before receiving his wound. "Tom" had a flesh-wound in his hand.

FORT COBB, INDIAN TERRITORY, December 19th.

Here we are, after twelve days' marching through snow, mud, rain, and over an almost impassable country, where sometimes we made only eight miles a day. We have been following an Indian trail, and three days ago we overtook the Kiowas; but in order to get the whole tribe together, as well as not to frighten the Apaches and Comanches, who were also with the Kiowas, we refrained from attacking, but permitted Satanta and Lone Wolf, and many other chiefs and warriors, to come into our lines. We find it almost impossible to hurry the Indians much, they have so many powwows and ceremonies before determining upon any important action.

A few moments ago one of the chiefs, Kicking Bird, came in with the news that the entire Kiowa village was hastening in to give themselves up. The Cheyennes and Arapahoes are sick of war since the battle of the Washita. Five miles below the battle-ground, in a deserted Indian village, the bodies of a young and beautiful white woman and her babe were found, and I brought them away for burial at Arbuckle. The woman was captured by Indians—I think, near Fort Lyon, as she was recognized by several of our command.

FORT COBB, January 2d.

The last remaining tribes of hostile Indians have sent in their head chiefs to beg pity from us.

Yesterday a grand council was held near my tent. All the head chiefs of the Apaches, Kiowas, Comanches, Cheyennes, and Arapahoes were assembled. I was alone with them, except one officer, who took stenographic notes of the speeches. A line of sentinels had to be thrown around the council to keep back the observers, as there were crowds of officers, soldiers, and employés of the quartermaster's department.

The council lasted for hours. The arrogance and pride is whipped out of the Indians; they no longer presume to make demands of us; on the contrary, they have surrendered themselves into our keeping. We are left to fix the terms upon which they may resume peaceful relations with the Government.

MEDICINE BLUFF CREEK, January 14, '69.

I want to tell you about the courage of one of the guides. Last evening, about two hours before dark, a soldier came running into my tent, and said a man nearly naked was mounted on a mule and riding through camp. We rushed out, and sure enough there was the man. It's Stillwell, we both said simultaneously. He is one of my couriers, sent on the 4th with the mail to Camp Supply, and whose return with our mail we were anxiously awaiting. He had just returned, and this was the first we saw of him. I began calling to him in my delicate tones, and we soon had him in my tent. After pouring a gill of whiskey down him that I directed the surgeon to administer, he was able to speak. Heavy rains for several days have filled all the streams to overflowing. We are encamped on the south bank of this creek, and it is impassable at any point except by swimming, and even then at great risk to both horse and rider, as the current is both rapid and powerful. Stillwell, with his party, and their pack-mules bearing the mail, reached the opposite bank about a mile above camp, found the stream impassable for the loaded mules, as they thought; so he plunged in with his horse and swam the stream, and being nearly frozen with the ice-water, he was making his way to the scouts' fire as rapidly as possible. He decided that, owing to the rapid current, it was impossible to bring the mail over till morning, when it was hoped the water would fall and render swimming unnecessary.

The others submitted to this decision, but I said I knew there were letters for me, and I was going to try for that mail, and read my letters, if I had to put a candle in my pocket and swim the stream. My tongue fairly rattled off the directions. "Bishop, bring me a horse; don't wait to saddle him." I ordered so many men to report to me with lariats, axes, etc.; to another officer I called out to gallop up the stream, and tell the scouts to bring on the mail until they shall see me on the bank.

Jumping on Bishop's horse bareback, I forded one branch of the stream, and sought the most available point to cross the mail over the main stream. Some of the officers came down at first and looked on, but it was too cold, and they returned to their tent fires. I found a place where we could roll a long log out some distance in the water, and from it a rope could be thrown across to the other bank and secured by the mail-carriers. The men had to strip off their boots and pantaloons, and work in the water. I encouraged them all I could, and had the doctor send them whiskey, which Colonel Cook distributed to them. Tom thought he could make his way over on horseback, and tried it; but the current carried him and his horse down, and he had to struggle to get back. Finally we got the rope over and secured on both banks. One of the men volunteered to strip off and make his way across, holding on to the rope. In he went, and soon called out All right from the other shore. Fastening a mail-bag to his neck, he jumped in, and hard pulling against a roaring torrent brought him across; strong hands were waiting to lift him and his precious load out of the water. All this was after dark. In again he went and called out, as before, from the other side, "All right." Seven times did that brave man breast the current. Cook held the bottle of whisky ready for him as he came out the last time. "Drink, my man, I don't care if you are drunk a week", was my greeting; then putting him on a horse, naked as he was the day he came into the world, I told him to gallop to his tent and wrap up well in his blankets. As each mail-bag was landed, Tom, wet and cold, received it, galloped to the adjutant's tent, where it was distributed to the camp as fast as possible.

Two lodges of the Cheyennes have come in, and they say that the Arapahoes and Cheyennes, whose villages were a hundred miles distant when our council took place the other day, are all moving, but owing to the bad roads and high water they travel slowly. I am as impatient as a crazed animal to have them come in, so that I can start on my homeward journey rejoicing.

Tell Eliza I have just the thing for her. One of the squaws among the prisoners had a little pappoose a few nights since, and I intend to bring it home to add to the orphan asylum she always keeps.

The baby referred to was the child of an Indian princess described in a subsequent chapter. Owing to its lineage, the new-comer was treated with every attention by the prisoners, but it was not so with a poor little infant who was not the descendant of royalty. The mother of the little "forlornity" was killed while fighting in the Washita battle, and the captive women were given charge of the baby. They took advantage of every opportunity to drop it in the snow on the march, and our officers had to watch vigilantly to see that the squaws did not accomplish their purpose of leaving it to perish on the way.

IN CAMP, MEDICINE BLUFF CREEK, 11.30 P.M., February 8, '69.

It has been several days since I wrote to you. I have made a long march since. I asked the adjutant to write you during my absence. I did not tell you of my intentions, fearing that you might be anxious; but I am now back safe and well.

We have been to try and bring in the Indian villages, and have had what some people would term a rough time; were gone sixteen days, without wagons or tents. Our provisions became exhausted, there was no game, and officers and men subsisted on parched corn and horse-flesh, the latter not even possessing the merit of having been regularly butchered, but died from exhaustion. Scarcely a morsel of it was left uneaten. You could hardly have helped being amused, even though it was so serious, to have seen the officers sitting around the camp-fire toasting strips of horse-flesh on forked sticks, and then eating it without salt or pepper. I had buffalo robes for my bed, slept soundly and comfortably on the ground, with no shelter except the large rubber blanket spread over me from head to foot, and the rain pouring down. One night my pack-mule did not reach camp, and my robes and overcoat were all with it. I had to sleep all night without either, but I enjoyed it all, and often thought of the song:

"The bold dragoon he has no care

As he rides along with his uncombed hair. "

I write briefly, as it is late, and one of the officers going to Leavenworth to-morrow will tell you all the news.

The Cheyennes have delayed their coming in so long that I cannot get home and take our leave of absence as we hoped.

In returning here from our late march, General Sheridan was anxious to hear the result of our trip as soon as possible. I took half a dozen men, and, mounted on a good mule, I rode eighty miles in sixteen hours, through mountains, and guided alone by the compass, taking the general and every one else by surprise by my sudden arrival in camp.