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ОглавлениеWAR-PATH AND BIVOUAC,
OR
The Conquest of the Sioux,
A Narrative of Stirring Personal Experiences and Adven-tures in the Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition
Of 1876, and in the Campaign on the
British Border, in 1879.
BY
John F. Finerty
War correspondent for the Chicago “TIMES.”
PUBLICATION OFFICE
UNITY BUILDING, 79 DEARBORN STREET, CHICAGO
PREFACE AND DEDICATION.
It had long been my intention to publish the volume which I now submit to the public. The book is, as far as human fallibility will permit, a faithful narrative of stirring events the like of which can never again occur upon our continent.
Stories of Indian warfare, even when not founded entirely upon fact, have ever been popular with people of all nations, and more particularly with the American people, to whom such warfare is rendered familiar both by tradition and experience.
These memoirs aim at laying before the public the adventures, privations, heroism, and horrors of our last great Indian wars, exactly as they presented themselves to the writer in battle, on the march or in bivouac.
The valor of the American army has never been impugned, but millions of our own citizens do not know, even yet, what privations our brave soldiers endured, and what noble sacrifices they made, in advancing our banner in the wilderness of the West and in subduing: the savage and sanguinary tribes that so long barred the path of progress in our Territories.
The soldier who falls wounded while battling against a civilized foe feels certain of receiving humane consideration if he should fall into hostile hands, but our soldiers who
PREFACE AND DEDICATION.
were disabled in the Indian campaigns had ever before them the terrors of fiendish torture and mutilation in case of capture by the savages.
Buried for months at a time in the very heart of the wilderness, excluded from every solace of civilization, exposed to the stealthy strategy of the most cunning and merciless of all existing human races, unsheltered, for the most part, from the fury of the elements, deprived of the ordinary food of mankind, and compelled to live at times on that against which the civilized stomach revolts, the soldiers of the regular army seldom or never complained and always went cheerfully into " the gap of danger."
In former years the Congress of our country. through a strange system of reasoning, rewarded the bravery and devotion of our regular troops by assuming that their deeds of arms against savages in revolt should not be ranked among acts of warfare deserving of national recognition! It is some satisfaction, even at this late day, to know that the national legislature no longer looks upon services rendered by the troops against hostile savages with contemptuous eyes and that the bill granting brevet rank to the more distinguished among the Indian fighters of the regular army, has now become a law.
If these frankly-written pages serve to place before the Congress and the people of the United States the deeds and the sufferings of the national army while struggling in several most important campaigns for the extension of our peaceful borders, the safety of our hardy pioneers and the honor of our martial name, I will feel greatly recompensed for the labor of their production.
PREFACE AND DEDICATION.
The gallant service in which Harney, Fremont, Sully, Stanley, Connors, Crook, Miles, Merritt, Terry, McKenzie, Gibbon, Carr, and other heroic chiefs distinguished themselves against the intrepid hostile Indians, and in which Custer, Canby, Fetterman, Kidder, Elliot, Brown, Grummond, Yates, McIntosh, Calhoun, Keogh, McKinney, and many more as brave as they were, died fighting against overwhelming numbers, deserves honor at the hands of the nation, whose glory it has maintained and whose progress it has insured.
Whether as regulars or volunteers, our soldiers, at all times and under all circumstances, have deserved well of their country. From the day of Concord bridge, when the citizen-soldiery of Massachusetts “ fired the shot heard ’round the world,” to that of the Little Big Horn, when Custer, at the head of his three hundred, died like Leonidas
at Thermopylae, the American army, whether in victory or disaster, has ever been worthy of the flag which it carries, and of the nation which it defends. In this spirit, I respectfully dedicate this book to the American army and the American nation.
JOHN F. FINERTY.
CHICAGO, April 1890.
CONTENTS.
PART I.
THE BIG HORN AND YELLOWSTONE EXPEDITION.
CHAPTER I.
BOUND FOR THE PLAINS.
Assignment to Duty—Making the Start—interview with W. F. Storey —His Peculiar Manner—Letters from General Sheridan— Westward Ho! Omaha —Interview with General Crook—His Advice “ Character —Sidney Station—The Crowd at the Depot—A Military Character —Cheyenne in “76—Fort D. A. Russell —A Ludicrous Accident —Orders to Move—General Reynolds—“ Never Trust a Horse or an Indian,” etc.
CHAPTER II.
THE BLACK HILLS FEVER.
Causes of the Indian Trouble Wars” of the Sioux and Crows—Rush of Gold Hunters to “ The Hills—Military Interference—Wagons Burned —Murders by Indians and Brigands—Stage Coaches —Attacked —Perils of Prospectors—The Invincible White Man carries his Point, etc.
CHAPTER III.
THE MARCH ON THE PLATTE.
First Day Out—Halt at Lodge Pole Creek—Incidents of the Camp— Long Short Stirrup Straps—Tired Out—Meeting with Lieutenant Schwatka—Junction with Colonel Royall’s Column—Chugwater Valley—Blockaded by Rain and Mud—Fort Laramie—Across the Platte—Regular Soldiers in Campaigning Costume—Cavalry on the March “ to Glory or the Grave,” etc.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER IV.
ON TO FORT FETTERMAN.
The Old Utah Immigrant Trail-—Savage Scenery—Blistering Heat and Stilling Guard Dust—Dearth of Water—Rough Riding with a Rear —First Glimpse of Fort Fetterman—Perils of the Platte—An Exciting 's Episode —.Cool Bravery of Lieutenant Bubb—General Crook Episode Hospitality, etc
CHAPTER V.
MARCHING ON POWDER RIVER.
On the War-path in Earnest—Scenes on the March—Peculiarities of Mules and Mule Whackers —A God-Forsaken Region —Miserable Camping Grounds—First Look at the Big Horn Range—The Snowy Summits—Pumpkin Buttes—January in the Lap of June —A False Alarm—Tales by the Camp Fires—Lieutenant Bourke Interrupted by Indian Bullets—The Pawnee Sentinel and the Sergeant's Watch—“ I Want to go Ho-o-me! "—Powder River Old Fort Reno—The Soldiers Cemetery Victims of the Hostiles Brave and Humorous’, Prospectors, etc. —
CHAPTER VI.
GLIMPSES OF THE BIG HORN RANGE.
A Morning in “ Leafy June"—Diamonds in the Dew Fall—A Glorious Panorama of Nature —Supposed Indian Signal Fires— Crazy Woman's Fork " —Strategical Montana Miners— Clear Fork—An Indian “Grave” —Military Vandals—Fort Phil. Kearney—The Fetterman Massacre —Grave of the Gallant Victims—How the Site of the Fort was Selected —The Old Bridircr Trail—“ Massacre Hill "—Camp on Tongue River—A Burial in the Wilderness, etc.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER VII.
THE FIRST FUSILLADE.
An Indian Voice at Midnight—Mysterious Disappearance of the Owner —Gold Hunters' Delusions—An Evening Call by the Sioux—Our Camp Fired Upon—Flying Bullets—Mills' Battalion Crosses the River —Charging the Bluffs—Retreat of the Savages—Ludicrous Stories — Colonel Mills and his Stove Pipe — In Camp on Goose Creek, etc.
CHAPTER VIII.
INDIANS IN WAR PAINT.
The Scout Gruard—His Eventful History — A Captive Among the Sioux — Arrival of Crow and Snake Indians—Their Wild, Warlike and Picturesque Appearance—Spears, Guns and War Bonnets— Pow-wow with the General — Indian Oratory—Infernal Nocturnal Orgies—Characteristics—An Officer’s Love Affair with an Indian Princess, etc.
CHAPTER IX.
SCOUT AND BUFFALO HUNT.
Arming and Feeding Our Indian Allies—The Mules and the Infantry— How the Latter Rose Rapidly in the World—Indians Laugh at the Mishaps of the Walk-a-heaps—The Savages as Horsemen—Preparing for Battle—Composition of the Army—Parking the Wagon Train —Medicine Men and Head Soldiers—Their Morning Harangues—The March on Rosebud—A Matchless Buffalo Hunt — Indications of an Early Fight— Laggard Allies—Position of War — Correspondents in Indian Campaigns, etc.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER X.
BATTLE OF THE ROSEBUD.
Dawn on the Rosebud—The Indians Finally Move Forward—Bearing of the Soldiers —Down the Valley—The Halt Among the Bluffs— Shots Beyond the Ridge —Indian Allies Make Good Time “ Heap Sioux, Heap Sioux!”—Saddling Up—Infantry Deploy as Skirmishers— Charges of Mills’ and Henry’s Battalions—The Sioux Fall Back but Keep on Fighting—Fierce Conflict Between our Indians and the Enemy—An Exciting Scene—Rescue of Sergt. Van Moll by the Crow “ Humpy ”—Colonel Henry Wounded—Mills’ March Down the Canon —The Movement Countermanded—He and Major Noyes Defile by Their Left and Fall Upon the Rear of the Sioux — The Latter Break and Run — Royall’s Peril—Losses in the Fight—The General Dissatisfied at the Result—How the Correspondents Acted—Treatment of the Wounded —Stuck Full of Arrows —Savage Mutilation —Indians Weeping for Their Slain—An Atrocious Crow Scoundrel — The Retrograde Movement — We Rejoin our Wagon Train, etc.
CHAPTER XI.
IN THE SHADOW OF THE MOUNTAINS.
Monotony of Camp Life—A Period of Inaction—The Indian Allies go to See their Mothers' People—Light Literature in Camp—Schwatka and Sir John Franklin —A Man in Love with his own Wife— Lieutenant Lawson's Peculiarities —Reflections on Idle Life in the Wilderness— Arrival of Lieutenant Schuyler and Party— News from Terry—and Custer — Nearer to the Foothills —Colonel Mills Sees the Smoke of Custer’s Battle on the June 25 —Supposes it to be a Prairie Fire— Military Men Petulant during Days of Idleness —The Noble Art of —14 Sitting Down On " Each Other—Capers Cut Before High Heaven—Unromantic-looking Heroes—Rumors of Custer's Disaster —A “ Heap of Pony Soldiers" Reported by Indians and Half-Breeds to have been “Wiped Out"—Exploring the Big Horn Mountians, etc.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER XII.
ACROSS THE SNOWY RANGE.
A Strong Hunting Party—Noble Scenery of the Big Horn Range— The Eternal Snows and Ever-falling Waters—A Duplicate of the Pass of St. Gothard —Picturesque Lakes and Charming Trout Streams —The Western Slope—Beautiful Nature—Killing the Big Horn Sheep— A Charming Camp—Colonel Mills and the Author Cross the Range—On the Mountain Peak—View of Wind River Valley and the Gray Bull and Big Horn Rivers—“Bring along Your Italy!”—A Few Shots at Mountain Buffalo—The Return to Camp—A New Trail—A Snowstorm in July—Hunting for Gold—No Paying Prospect—Back to Headquarters for the Fourth, etc
CHAPTER XIII.
THE SIBLEY SCOUT—A CLOSE CALL.
The Author Volunteers to Accompany a Forlorn Hope—Organization of the Scouting Party under Lieut. F. W. Sibley, of the 2d Cavalry—Leaving Camp-Halt at Big Goose Creek—A Mysterious Object—The Movement in the Gloom - On the Montana Immigrant Trail— "The Rising of the Moon"—Marching by Moonlight—A Dead Silence—The Mountains at Night—A Halt in the Early Morning—Bivouacking near the Foe—The March Resumed—The Scouts sec a War Party of Hostiles—Retreat to the Foot Hills —Our Trail Discovered—Sibley’s Remarks—We Retire to the Mountains —The Sioux Hunting Trail —An Unfortunate Halt—The Ride Resumed —Fired upon from the Rocks and Timber—Seeking Shelter in the Woods —Wounded Horses—A Skirmish Line in the Edge of the Forest —The Indian Charge Repulsed—Fighting for our Lives— The Indian Leader Killed — How it Feels to be Looking Death Squarely in the Face—A Prolonged Conflict—The Indians Reinforced —They Occupy the Passes— Gruard and Pourier advise Sibley to Abandon Remaining Horses and Retreat through the Woods and Rocks in Rear —Sibley’s
CONTENTS
Reluctance—The Scouts Declare it the Only Chance of Escape—Sibley Finally Consents—Beginning of the Retreat — We Ford the Head Waters of Tongue River—Hearing the Sioux Firing Volleys at our late Position—Gruard's Remarks Peak —Toilsome Mountain March—Midnight Halt on Unknown —Terrific Wind and Hail Storm—The March Resumed—A Dash Down a Valley—Scaling an Awful Cliff—A Dive for Water— Sighting Another War Party—Resolve to Retreat no Further— Taking up a Strong Position—Savages Fail to Observe us—Luck on Both Sides —A Welcome Rest—Night March Across the Plains—Fording a Mountain Torrent in Darkness—Two Men Weaken at the Dangerous Crossing —Still more Indians Sighted —Our Exasperation—Soldier Hunters Appear—Surprised at our Appearance—Six Miles in Four Hours — Send into Camp for Horses— Weakness of Sibley’s Men from Toil and Starvation—Arrival in Camp —Our Reception —Congratulations on our Wonderful Escape, etc.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE CUSTER MASSACRE.
General Crook goes Hunting Again—Official Account of Custers Disaster—Statement of the Crow Scout, Curly—The only Survivor of Custer’s Immediate Command —The Fire of the Sioux was “ Like the Snapping of Threads in Tearing a Blanket ” Custer Among the Last to Fall —Gall, the Sioux Leader, Confirms Curly’s Story— Custer never Crossed, the River—How the Companies of Calhoun and Keogh Died in Their Tracks—Custer’s Error—Reno and Marshal Grouchy—General Terry’s Famous Order to Custer—Desirable to Enclose the Hostiles Between Custer’s and Gibbon’s Columns— Irresolute Conduct of Major Reno—Division of the Command and March to the Little Big Horn—Reno’s Retreat to the Bluffs— Junction with Benteen and MacDougall—Benteen’s Statement— First Sight of the Hostiles—“ Hurrah! Custer’s Luck! ” Shouted the Doomed Hero —Custer and
CONTENTS
Samson—Their Shorn Locks—Horned Horse’s Version of the Fight—Captain Clark Pumps the Old Savage—First Appearance of the Troops on the Bluffs—The Indians Rush to Arms —They are Mostly on Foot—The Troops Disappear—The Head of Custer’s Column Shows Itself in a Small Ravine —Its Charge Repulsed—Soldiers Swallowd by the Quicksand —A Terrific Fusillade—Soldiers Melt like Snow Before It—They Fall Dead in Heaps—Their Steady Courage—Panic Among Their Horses —They Use their Revolvers—The Worthless Carbines— Practically Disarmed—The Custer Family Wiped Out—Reno’s Sorry Plight—The Exultant Savages Exhibit Custer’s Guidons— Arrival of Generals Terry and Gibbon—The Soldiers Cheer Them— An Exciting Scene—The Generals Console the Discouraged Troops—Ghastly Scenes on Custer’s Battlefield—The Hero’s Body Escapes Mutilation—Terry Retires on His Base of Supplies—He Rests at Rosebud Landing until August, etc.
CHAPTER XV.
MERRITT’S FIGHT ON THE WAR BONNET.
Return of the Snakes—Indian Deviltry—Arrival of the Wagon Train— Bad Women and Worse Whisky—A Captain Dismissed in the Field —General Crook’s Anger—The Women Arrested and the Whisky Seized—Arrival of Couriers from General Terry—Traveling in the Indian Country, and How it is Done—Waiting for Reinforcements— The 5th Cavalry Unexpectedly Delayed on its March to Join Crook —General Merritt’s Brilliant Conduct in Checking the Cheyenne Tribe on War Bonnet Creek—He Drives Them into Red Cloud Agency—The Chief. Yellow Hand, Killed by Buffalo Bill —Thrilling Adventure of a Scout named Kelly—He Goes Alone Through the Wilderness with Dispatches from Crook to Terry—He Gives Some Pointers on How to Make the Trip in Safety—“ Buffalo Chip ” Arrives from Merritt—Junction With that Officer —Pen Pictures—Merritt. Carr and Buffalo Bill—A Council of War —Conflagration in the Mountains—A Prairie Fire— Headlong Flight of Wild Animals—Buffalo Bill’s Opinion of the Campaign, etc.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER XVI.
MARCHING IN DARKNESS.
Down to Bed Rock—The Wagon Train Abandoned—In Light Marching Order—Through Tongue River Canon—Cross March to the Rosebud —Site of the Great Hostile Village—A Fresh Indian Trail— Weird Night March—Intense Darkness —Grewsome Surroundings —A Splendid Illumination—Lurid Grandeur of a Forest Fire in the Wilderness—Halt and Bivouac, etc
CHAPTER XVII.
CROOK AND TERRY MEET.
Down the Rosebud —Great Bituminous Coal Deposits—Daring Ride of Captain “Jack” Crawford, the Scout, and Captain Graves, the Montana Miner — A Cheerless Camping Place—Letters from Home—A Cloud of Dust —“ Is It Terry? Is It Sitting Bull ?” Buffalo Bill Rides Forward to Find Out —Panic of Terry's Crows—Line of Battle Formed Across the Valley—Our Snakes Mistaken for Hostiles, the Cause —Indian Sagacity—Terry and Crook Temporarily Unite Their Forces —The Remnant of the Ill-starred 7th Cavalry—Correspondents with Terry’s Column—Back to Tongue River—A Ghastly Discovery—The Sioux Scalping Knife—Drenched to the Bone —Off for the Lower Powder River—Excellent Infantry— Exhaustion of the March —Pitiful Examples—In Camp on the Yellowstone —A Steamboat and a Colored Woman— Humors of the Situation, etc.
CHAPTER XVIII.
UNDER A DELUGE.
Sleeping in “Everlasting Wet”— A Senseless Change of Camp —Vivid Lightning —Awful Thunder——Stampeded Mules—Soldiers Chaff Each Other Under Down-pour —Farewell to The Yellowstone —the Commands Separate—Indians Again
CONTENTS
Desert Us—Buffalo Bill Goes Down the River—So do Some Correspondents—“ Ute John ”— Following the Trail—Hardships of the Cross March— Irremovable Boots
—The Eternal Mud and Water—A Fine Grazing Country-Great Coal Deposits —Burning Coal Beds, etc.
CHAPTER XIX.
HALF-RATIONS AND HORSE MEAT.
On the Little Missouri —Loads of Wild Fruit—An Old Camping Ground —Discomforts of Campaigning on Short Allowance of Food and Clothing — The American Army— Some Tyrannical Shoulder-Straps —Crook Makes a Bold Resolve—— ”If Necessary We Can Eat Our Horses ” —Lieut. Lawson’s Disgust —Steam from Wet Human Bodies — Losing Horses by the Score— ” Shank’s Mare ”— Mills Advance Party —A Country Without Wood—Soldiers, Almost ' Starved to Death—,Kill and Eat Horses —Dining on Roasted Cacti Leaves — “44 The Curse of Camps” Attacks the Command Horses Ordered Shot for Food—General Discomfort, etc.
CHAPTER XX.
FIGHTING AT SLIM BUTTES—AWFUL SCENES.
Mills Strikes an Indian Camp and Captures a Pony Herd—Gallant Conduct of Lieutenants Schwatka, Crawford and Von Leutwitz—The Latter Loses a Leg—Crook Goes to the Rescue—Custer's Guidons Recaptured— The Gauntlets of Colonel Keogh —Other Relics of the Battle of the Little Big Horn—Personal Bravery of General Crook —Several Officers Distinguish Themselves in Trying to Dislodge a Party of Intrenched Indians—Pourier takes a Scalp—A Fire of
Hell —The Indian Death Chaunt—Women and Children Surrender —Warriors Fight On—American Horse, Fatally Wounded, Surrenders with Two Young Men—They are Given Quarter—A Revolting Group of Dead—Scalping the Slain—Remarkable Death of Private Wenzel —” Buffalo Chip ” Shot
CONTENTS
Through the Heart— ”My God, Boys, I’m Done For!”—A Dead Pappoose—Hungry Soldiers —Crazy Horse Calls Around in the Afternoon—Daring Bravery of the Hostiles —They Attempt to Recapture Their Village—A Picturesque Fight—A Cordon of Fire Around the Valley—A Dashing Indian Leader—Was it Crazy Horse Himself ?—The Savages Finally Baffled and Forced to Retreat—A Burial by Night—The March Resumed —Attack Made on the Rear Guard—The Savages Repulsed by a Battalion of the 5th Cavalry, under General Eugene A. Carr, etc.
CHAPTER XXI
MARCHING IN THE MUD.
The Tramp to Clay Ridge— A Peculiar Geological Formation —Distant Profile View of Black Hills —Mills Again Sent Forward for the Supplies—The Horrible March From Owl Creek to Willow Creek —The Soldiers Straggle Into Camp All Through the Night— Colonel Royall’s Grit—Camping in the Dark—The Lowing of the Beef Herd —“ Hurrah for Old Crook!"—Quick Butcher Work— Different Styles of Horse Beef — A Cure for Epicureanism—Startling Adventure of Sergeant Van Moll and Corporal Bessie—What Crook Accomplished by His Extraordinary March—The Abandoned Horses —On the Belle Fourche, etc.
CHAPTER XXII.
INVADING THE BLACK HILLS.
General Sheridan Orders Crook to Meet Him at Fort Laramie
—The Command Turned Over to General Merritt —Black Hillers Visit the Camp— Black Hills Scenery— Approaching Crook City—The Deadly Frontier Whisky—Deadwood in '76—A Mountain Municipality—Firing Salutes in the General's Honor—A Public BathHouse —At Night the Entire Population Give Crook “ an Ovation" — Deadwood Characters and Characteristics— Gold Dust as Currency, etc.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER XXIII.
CLOSING THE CAMPAIGN.
Hunting for Horse Shoers—Artillery in “ The Hills"—Crook as Pathfinder —Grand Scenery — Harvey’s Peak and—Hill City A Stout Hearted Ranch-Keeper —" Indian’s Scare No Gold "——Arrival at Custer City—Capt. “ Teddy ” Egan—An Infant Prodigy—Sheridan Impatient—A Remount and a Hard, Rough Ride—Crook Tries a Short Cut —A Hunters’ Dinner —The South Cheyenne—A Wild Gallop Over the Plains—An Early Morning Halt—Red Cloud in the Distance —The Arrival—A Hard-Looking Crowd— Crook Leaves for Fort Laramie—Military Hospitality—A Night at the Sutler’s
—Lieutenants McKinney and Clark—A Meeting with Gen.
R. S. McKenzie —Back to Civilization, etc.
CHAPTER XXIV.
DEFEAT OF DULL KNIFE-DEATH OF CRAZY HORSE.
The Winter Campaign—McKenzie's Prediction Fulfilled—Expedition Against the Village of Dull Knife—A Brilliant Victory—Lieut. McKinney Killed—The Cheyennes Badly Broken Up—Their Subsequent Sad Fate—Crazy Horse, the Famous War Chief of the Sioux, Surrenders—He Conspires to Murder General Crook and Escort —His Arrest and Tragical Death—Sitting Bull and Other Hostile ChiefsaRemain Obdurate—They Seek Shelter on British Soil.
CONTENTS.
PART II.
CAMPAIGN ON THE BRITISH LINE
CHAPTER I.
BEGINNING OF THE '79 EXPEDITION.
Sioux Raiders Trouble the White Settlers and Friendly Indians in Montana —General Miles Ordered to take the Field—Ilis Career During 1876-7—His Defeat of Lame Deer.
CHAPTER II.
MILES’ BATTLE WITH CHIEF JOSEPH.
Battle of Bear’s Paw Mountains — Capture of Chief Joseph—Death of Capt. Owen Hale and Lieutenant Biddle—Other Martial Episodes —Sufferings of the Wounded—General Miles’ Humane Recommendations.
CHAPTER III.
ENCAMPED ON THE BIG MUDDY.
The Author en route from Bismarck to Old Fort Peck, via the Missouri River —A Dangerous Cargo on Board—Lieutenant Quinton’s Command of 100 Recruits for Miles —The Redoubt on the River Bank —Speculations as to the Whereabouts of the Savages—A Friendly Call by Red Stone and the Assiniboines— Scared Hunters—Red Stone and Lieutenant Quinton—Celebrating July Fourth Under Difficulties—Joy of the Recruits, etc.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER IV.
MILES ARRIVES AT FORT PECK.
A Change of Commanders—Ponies for the “ Conscripts”—The Mosquito Pest—“ Smudging” the Varmints Out—Absurdities of the Service —The American Recruit—An Advance Guard—General Miles Arrives with the Main Body—Old Friends—Reminiscences of 76 —Testy Officers— Rudely Aroused—Indian Generosity— Two Moons and Long Dog—The Fort Custer Battalion—The Whole Command United—General Miles’ Reply to Old Necklace— Recruits as Horsemen—The Hotchkiss Guns, etc.
CHAPTER V.
SITTING BULL’S LAST FIGHT.
The March Toward “The Line ”—Signaling by Heloistat—Characteristics of Milk River —Buffalo in Sight—Cheyennes Pursue Fugitive Horsemen —Something about Sitting Bull as a Leader—Black Catfish and the Yanktonnais Delegation—A Frightened Half-breed— A Long Chase and Capture—Philo Clark makes a Forward Movement—He Runs into Sitting Bull’s Band on Beaver Creek—Miles Hastens to his Relief — A Sharp Fight—Effect of Rice’s Artillery—Retreat of the Sioux—A Retrograde March—Terrible Thunder and Wind Storm—A Singular Phosphorescent Phenomenon—The Wagon Train—Confusion in the Darkness—Mr. Booth and His Pistol —A Wild Scene in General Miles’ Tent—A Ghastly Trophy, etc.
CHAPTER VI.
ON JOHN BULL’S FRONTIER.
Fording Milk River—Contrary Horses—How Indians Cross Rivers— Crossing Frenchman’s Creek—General Miles’ Energy—Gallant Act of Private Dowd —Narrow Escape of Colonel Whistler—Recovering Lost Scalps—Cheyenne
CONTENTS.
Notables—Young Sitting Bull Murdered by the Crows—Old Smoke—Degenerate Assiniboines—Hunting for the British Line—We Find It—In Camp Near the Line —,Scouts See Hostiles —Major Walsh, of the Northwestern Police, Arrives in Camp—He Confers with Captain Whelan —Natural Pitfalls—General Miles and Major Walsh Confer—A Cold Snap—Stagnation in Camp—Death of Shadow-Comes Out, etc.
CHAPTER VII.
FACE TO FACE WITH SITTING BULL.
The Author Visits the Camp of Sitting Bull with Major Walsh—Medicine Lodge Creek—Millions of Mosquitoes—Fine Grazing Land— Long Dog Grows Restive—His Admiration of Artillery—In Sight of the Hostile Camp—Sioux Come to Meet Us—A Lying Halfbreed —A Scalp Dance—A Formidable Turn-out —Indian Costumes — Big Necklace—A Savage Council—The Author as a Suspect—A Deep Circle of Savages in War Paint—First Look at Sitting Bull—His Personal Appearance and Manner—A Group of Famous Warriors—They Hurl Speeches at the Author—He Replies in Kind —Broad Trail and Spotted Eagle—Bad Soup’s Sullen Demeanor—Major Walsh’s Remarks—Sitting Bull Leaves the Council —A Case of Mistaken Indentity —Sitting Bull as a Horse-breaker— He Explains His Retreat from Milk River—Wailing for the Slain, etc
CHAPTER VIII.
HOBNOBBING WITH THE HOSTILES.
Looking at the Teton Village—Immense Array of Tepees—Young Warriors Haughty and Hostile— A Message to Sitting Bull—His Peculiarities—An Immense Pony Herd—A Reminiscence of the Little Big Horn—Arrival of White Eagle—He Calls Upon the Author —An Unfortunate Skirmish— A Sioux Mortally Wounded —White Eagle’s Remarks—Remarkable Tenacity of Life—An Old Indian Acquaintance—A Critical Situation— White Eagle Gives a Warning—Danger of Retaliation, etc.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER IX.
FRENCH HALF-BREEDS—BALAKLAVA.
Savages Short of Supplies—About Pretty Squaws—Indians not Christians — Not Half as Dirty as Painted —Trained to Endure Suffering—The Half-breeds —A Peculiar People— Primitive Vehicles— Wooden wheel Tires—Farewell to the Sioux Chiefs Back to the Frontier — My Escort—Peculiar Reflections—A Hero of Balaklava —His Story of the Charge of the “ Six Hundred”—Nolan ’s Order—— How Cardigan Led—Headlong Rapture of the Charge—A Mad Impulse to Kill—Terrible Sabre Strokes—Right Through the Russian Ranks —The Ride Back Out of “the Jaws of Death "—An Irish Soldier’s Humor —An Ungrateful Country—The Homeward Ride —Bivouacking Under the Moon Rays—Captured Half-breeds —Exciting Adventure with the Cheyennes—Back in Miles' Camp, etc.
CHAPTER X.
IN THE LAST DITCH.
The Half-breed Camp—A Light-hearted Set of Prisoners—Dancing in the Moonlight—Miles Breaks Camp—The Expedition Scattered— Last View of the Great Northern Bison Herd —Extinction of That Race of Animals —Effect on the Hostile Indians—Captain M and The Coyotes —Starved Out Final Surrender of Sitting Bull the Sioux Conquest Consummated—, etc.
ADDENDA
CHAPTER I.
DESERTERS AND DOG ROBBERS.
About Army Abuses—“ Dog Robbers" Very Often Better and Braver Soldiers Than the Fellows Who Insult Them —
CONTENTS
Captain’s Instructions to His “ Striker": “ If Any Man Calls You a 4 Dog Robber ’ You Have my Permission to Knock Him Down ’’—The Very Satisfactory Result—Causes of Desertion From the Regular Army— Ennui, Inaction, and Discontent, Owing to the Stagnation of Peace, Have More to do with It than Anything Else—Private McIntyrc's Reply to the Author When He Was Told to Keep His Place in the Ranks Until the Column Halted—An Unpremeditated Military Compliment—Characteristics and Qualities of the Different Elements That go to Make up the American Regular Army, etc.
CHAPTER II.
SANDY FORSYTH'S FAMOUS FIGHT.
Stories by the Camp Fires—A Fighting Parson—His Heroic Conduct at Crazy Woman's Fork, as Told by Colonel Baker—There is a Time for Praying—“There is also a Time for Fighting"—The Chaplain Takes His Choice — He Adopts Muscular Christianity—His Gallant March Through the Indian Lines—He Brings Succor to the Besieged—” Sandy ” Forsyth's Famous Fight on an Island Sandbar in the Republican River—How Fifty Brave Frontiersmen "Looked Through the Sights of Their Rifles"—The Outnumbering Force of Indians — A Terrible Situation—Forsyth Twice Wounded—Dr. Movers Mortally Hurt—A Tremendous Fusillade—Undaunted Bravery of Forsyth and His Command—Desperate and Gallant Charge of the Cheyenne Chief Roman Nose and the Flower of His Warriors on Forsyth’s Position—They are Bloodily Repulsed and Roman Nose Falls at the Head of HisBrave Warriors —Lieutenant Beecher Killed —Seven Days of Awful Privation—Scouts Succeed in Getting Through to Fort Wallace—Arrival of a Rescuing Party Under Colonel Carpenter, etc.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER III.
GENERAL CROOK’S CAREER.
His Birthplace and Education—Campaigning against the Indians long before the Civil War —His Career in the Union Army—Conduct at Cedar Creek and Elsewhere —His Promotion—Lieutenant-Colonel of the 23d Regular Infantry—Appointed to Command in Arizona— He Conquers the Apaches—Promoted Brigadier-General in the Regular Army— Appointed to the Department of the Platte— He is Again Victorious—Subsequent Actions—His Sudden and Lamented Death, while Major-General Commanding the Military Division of the Missouri, etc.
CHAPTER IV.
GENERAL GEORGE A. CUSTER.
His Native Place and Admission to West Point-Brilliant Career in the Army of the Potomac—He Leads Sixty Successful Charges—He Captures Innumerable Battle-Flags and Cannon—His Campaigns in Kansas and the Indian Territory—Brilliant Victory over Black Kettle on the Washita —The Tactics of the Little Big Horn Foreshadowed —Death of Major J. A. Elliott, Captain Lewis McLain Hamilton, and Several Soldiers.
APPENDIX
OFFICIAL REPORTS.
Echoes from the Little Big Horn—General Sheridan’s Report — Lieutenant De Rudio’s Interesting Statement—Extracts from the Journal of one of General Gibbon’s Officers — General Crook’s Account of Rosebud Fight—List of Killed and Wounded at Rosebud and Slim Buttes —Colonel Poland’s Indian Version of the Little Big Horn Disaster —List of the Killed and Wounded in that Conflict— Organization of the Different Military Columns, etc.
PART I.
THE BIG HORN AND YELLOWSTONE
EXPEDITION.
CHAPTER I.
BOUND FOR THE PLAINS.
In the beginning of May 1876, I was attached to the city department of the Chicago Times. One day Mr. Clinton Snowden, the city editor, said to me, "Mr. Storey wants a man to go out with the Big Horn and Yellowstone expedition, which is organizing under Generals Crook and Terry, in the departments of the Platte and Dakota. There is apt to be warm work out there with the Indians, so if you don't care to go, you needn't see Mr. Storey."
"I care to go, and I'll see Mr. Storey," was my answer.
The famous editor of the Chicago Times did not, at that period, show any significant indication of that " withering at the top" which subsequently obscured his wonderful faculties. He was a tall, well-built, white-haired, white-bearded, gray-eyed, exceedingly handsome man of sixty, or thereabout, with a courteous, but somewhat cynical, manner.
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"You are the young man Mr. Snowden mentioned for the Plains?" he asked, as soon as I had made my presence known by the usual half shy demonstrations, because everybody who did not know him well, and who had heard his reputation on the outside, approached the formidable Vermonter in somewhat gingerly fashion.'
I replied in the affirmative. "Well, how soon can you be ready?" he inquired.
"At any time it may please you to name," was my prompt reply.
"You should have your outfit first. Better get some of it here—perhaps all. You are going with Crook's column," said Mr. Storey, with his customary decisiveness and rapidity.
"I understood I was to go with Custer," I rejoined. " I know General Custer, but am not acquainted with General Crook."
"That will make no difference, whatever," said he. "Terry commands over Custer, and Crook, who knows more about the Indians, is likely to do the hard work. Custer is a brave soldier—none braver—but he has been out there some years already, and has not succeeded in bringing the Sioux to a decisive engagement. Crook did well in Arizona. However, it is settled that you go with Crook. Go to Mr. Patterson (the manager) and get what funds you may need for your outfit and other expenses. Report to me when you are ready."
It did not take me long to get ready. I called first upon General Sheridan and asked him for a letter of introduction
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to General Crook, and also for a general letter to such officers as I might meet on the frontier.
The gallant General very promptly, and in a spirit of the most generous cordiality, acceded to my request. He gave me some advice, which I afterward found valuable, and wished me every success in my undertaking.
"I'll try and do your kindness no discredit, General," I ventured to remark, as I took my leave.
"I am fully confident of that, but let me warn you that you will find General Crook a hard campaigner," said he, laughingly.
My next care was to purchase arms and a riding outfit, and, having said farewell to friends and received the final instructions of Mr. Storey, who enjoined me to " spare no expense and use the wires freely, whenever practicable," I left Chicago to join General Crook's command on Saturday morning, May 6, 1876.
The rain fell in torrents, and the wind shrieked fiercely, as the train on the Northwestern road, well freighted with passengers, steamed out of the depot, bound for Omaha. I reached the latter city on Sunday morning, and found General Crook at his headquarters, busily engaged in reading reports from officers stationed on the Indian frontier. He was then a spare but athletic man of about forty, with fair hair, clipped close, and a blonde beard which seemed to part naturally at the point of the chin. His nose was long and aquiline, and his blue-gray eyes were bright and piercing. He looked, in fact, every inch a soldier, except that he wore no uniform.
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The General saluted me curtly, and I handed him the letter of introduction which I had procured in Chicago from General Sheridan, who then commanded the Military Division of the Missouri. Having read it, Crook smiled and said, " You had better go to Fort Sidney or Fort Russell, where the expedition is now being formed. You will need an animal, and can purchase one, perhaps, at Cheyenne. Can you ride and shoot well?"
"I can ride fairly, General. As for shooting, I don't know. I'd engage, however, to hit a hay-stack at two hundred yards."
He laughed and said, "Very well. We'll have some tough times, I think. I am going with my aide, Mr. Bourke, to the agencies to get some friendly Indians to go with us. I fear we'll have to rely upon the Crows and Snakes, because the Sioux, Cheyennes and Arapahoes are disaffected, and all may join the hostiles. However, I'll be at Fort Fetterman about the middle of the month. You can make messing arrangements with some officer going out from Fort Russell. You had better be with the cavalry."
I thanked the General, and proceeded to my hotel. Next morning found me en route, over the Union Pacific road, to Cheyenne. The weather had greatly improved, but, after passing the line of what may be called Eastern Nebraska, nothing could beautify the landscape. Monotonous flats, and equally monotonous swells, almost devoid of trees, and covered only partially by short, sickly-looking grass, made up the main body of the " scenery." In those days the herds of antelope still roamed at will over the plains of Nebraska
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and Wyoming, and even the buffalo had not been driven entirely from the valley of the Platte; but there was about the country, even under the bright May sunshine, a look of savage desolation. It has improved somewhat since 1876, but not enough to make any person mistake the region between North Platte and Cheyenne for the Garden of Eden. The prairie dogs abounded by the million, and the mean-looking coyote made the dismal waste resonant, particularly at night, with his lugubrious howls.
That night I stood for a long time on the rear platform of the Pullman car, and watched the moonbeams play upon the rippled surface of the shallow and eccentric Platte. I thought of all the labor, and all the blood, it had cost to build the railroad, and to settle the country even as sparsely as it was then settled; for along that river, but a few years previously, the buffalo grazed by myriads, and the wild Indians chased them on their fleet ponies, occasionally varying their amusement by raiding an immigrant train, or attacking a small party of railroad builders. The very ground over which the train traveled slowly, on an upgrade toward the Rocky Mountains, had been soaked with the best blood of the innocent and the brave, the air around had rung with the shrieks of dishonored maids and matrons, and with the death groans of victims tortured at the stake. Nathless the moonlight, the region appeared to me as a "dark and bloody ground," once peopled by human demons, and then by pioneers, whose lives must have been as bleak and lonesome as the country which they inhabited. Filled with such thoughts, I retired to rest.
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"We're nearing Sidney, sah," said the colored porter, as he pulled aside the curtain of my berth. I sprang up immediately, and had barely dressed myself, when the train came to a halt at the station. The platform was crowded with citizens and soldiers, the barracks of the latter being quite close to the town. Nearly all the military wore the yellow facings of the cavalry. I was particularly struck by the appearance of one officer—a first lieutenant and evidently a foreigner. He wore his kepi low on his forehead, and, beneath it, his hooked nose overhung a blonde moustache of generous proportions. His eyes were light blue; his cheeks yellow and rather sunken. He was about the middle stature and wore huge dragoon boots. Thick smoke from an enormous pipe rose upon the morning air, and he paced up and down like a caged tiger. I breakfasted at the railroad restaurant, and, as the train was in no hurry to get away, I had a chance to say a few words to the warrior already described.
"Has your regiment got the route for the front yet, lieutenant?" I inquired.
"Some of it," he replied in a thick German accent, without removing his pipe. "Our battalion should have it already, but 'tis always the vay, Got tamn the luck! 'tis alvays the vay!"
"I guess 'twill be all right in a day or two, lieutenant!" I remarked.
"Vell, may be so, but they're always slighting the 3d Cavalry, at headquarters. Ve ought to have moved a Veek ago. "
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"I saw General Crook at Omaha, and he said he would be at Fetterman by the 15th."
"You don't zay so? Then ve get off. Veil, dat is good. Are you in the army ?"
"No; I am going out as correspondent for the Chicago Times."
"Veil, I am so glad to meet von. My name is Von Leutwitz. The train is going. Good-bye. We shall meet again."
We did meet again, and, to anticipate somewhat, under circumstances the reverse of pleasant for the gallant, but unfortunate, lieutenant, who, after having campaigned over Europe and America, and having fought in, perhaps, a hundred pitched battles, lost his leg at Slim Buttes fight on the following 9th of September.
The train proceeded slowly, toiling laboriously up the ever-increasing grade toward Cheyenne, through a still bare and dismal landscape. Early in the afternoon we passed the long snow sheds, and, emerging from them, beheld toward the southwest, the distant summits of Long's and Gray's peaks of the Rocky mountains. Less than an hour brought us to Cheyenne, which is only three miles from Fort D. A. Russell, my immediate objective point. As at Sidney, the railroad platform was crowded with soldiers and citizens, many of the latter prospectors driven from the southern passes of the Black Hills of Dakota, by the hostile Indians. I "put up" at an inviting hotel, and was greatly interested in the conversation around me. All spoke of "the Hills," of the Indian hostilities, and of the probable result of the contemplated military expedition.
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As I was well acquainted in Cheyenne, I had little difficulty in making myself at home., Nobody seemed to know when the expedition would start, but all felt confident that there would be "music in the air" before the June roses came into bloom. At a book store, with the proprietor of which I was on friendly terms, I was introduced to Col. Guy V. Henry, of the 3d Cavalry. He was, then, a very fine-looking, although slight and somewhat pale, officer, and, what was still better, he was well up in all things concerning the projected Indian campaign.
"We will march from this railroad in two columns," said he. "One will form at Medicine Bow, ninety miles or so westward, and will cross the North Platte Paver at Fort Fetterman. The other will march from Fort Russell to Fort Laramie, cross the North Platte there, and march by the left bank, so as to join the other column in front of Fetterman. This I have heard not officially, but on sufficiently good authority. From Fetterman we will march north until we strike the Indians. That is about the programme."
I asked the colonel's advice in regard to procuring a horse, and was soon in possession of a very fine animal, which subsequently met with a tragical fate in the wild recesses of the Big Horn mountains. Colonel Henry's "mess" being full, a circumstance that he and I mutually regretted, I made arrangements with a captain of the 3d Cavalry to join his, and, having thus provided for the campaign, I set about enjoying, myself as best I could until the hour for marching would strike. Cheyenne, in 1876, still
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preserved most of the characteristics of a crude frontier town. Gambling was openly practiced, by day as well as by night, and the social evil, of the very lowest type, was offensively visible wherever the eye might turn. No respectable maid or matron ventured out unattended after nightfall, while occasional murders and suicides "streaked the pale air with blood."
Notwithstanding these almost inevitable drawbacks, there were then, as there are now, level heads, and loyal hearts, in Cheyenne, and I can never forget the many pleasant evenings I spent there in company with some officers of the Fort Russell garrison, and such distinguished citizens as Editors Swan and Glascke, Col. Luke Murrin, Dr. Whitehead, Sheriff O'Brien, Messrs. French, Harrington, Dyer, MacNamara, Miller, Haas and many other "right good fellows," who will ever live in my grateful remembrance. I believe that all of the gentlemen mentioned, with the exception of Mr. MacNamara, still survive. If I have omitted the names of any of the friends of that period, the omission, I can assure my readers, is entirely unintentional, for a manlier, more generous or hospitable group of men it has rarely been my good fortune to encounter.
On the 12th or 13th of May, it was known that General Crook and his staff had arrived during the night, but were off on the wings of the wind, overland, to Fort Laramie in the morning. Captain Sutorius, with whom I had arranged to mess, sent me word, on the 14th, that the command was under orders, and that I had better take up my residence at Fort Russell during the night. Messrs. Dyer
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and MacNamara insisted on taking my "traps" to the Fort in a spring wagon, drawn by a spirited horse. I rode on horseback beside them. Just as we neared the entrance of the parade ground, their beast took fright and ran away with great skill and energy. I attempted in vain to keep up with the procession. In front of the quarters of Captain Peele, of the 2d Cavalry, an officer who has since suffered many misfortunes, the wagon was upset. MacNamara, a pretty heavy man, described the arc of a circle in the air, and fell upon the crown of his head. His high hat was crushed down upon his face, and he presented a ludicrous spectacle enough, but, most fortunately, he escaped serious injury, and relieved his feelings by thundering anathemas against the runaway animal, and all concerned in the catastrophe. Dyer was thrown out also, and suffered a gash over the eye-brow, the scar of which still remains. My effects were strewn all over Fort Russell, and half a dozen orderlies were, by the courtesy of Captain Peele and other officers, engaged for some time in picking them up. I have since learned the wisdom and the beauty of moving in light marching order. Both Captains Peele and Sutorius treated us most kindly, and, in view of their subsequent misfortunes, I feel bound to bear witness that on that occasion, as on many others, they showed that their hearts were in the right place, although their heads might be sometimes weak.
Next day I called upon the commandant of the fort, Gen. J. J. Reynolds, colonel of the 3d Cavalry, who received me with that courteous bearing so characteristic of the American regular officer. He spoke pleasantly of the
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approaching campaign, but regretted that he personally could have no part in it. He did not say why, but I understood perfectly that he and the department commander, General Crook, were not on good terms, owing to a disagreement relative to Reynolds' action during the short Crazy Horse village campaign of the preceding March. Reynolds stormed the village, but was unable to retain it, and, in his retreat, the Indians attacked his rear guard and stampeded the pony herd of 800 horses he had captured. General Crook held that General Reynolds ought to have shot the ponies rather than allow them to fall again into the hands of their savage owners. A court martial grew out of the controversy, but nothing serious came of it, as far as I can remember, and General Reynolds was soon afterward, at his own request, placed upon the retired list of the army.
As I was taking my leave, General Reynolds said: "As you have not been out after Indians previously, allow an old soldier to give you this piece of advice—Never stray far from the main column, and never trust a horse or an Indian."
I promised to follow the General's advice as closely as possible, and made my adieux. Orders had readied the Fort that the troops were to move to Fort Laramie on the morning of the 17th, and all felt grateful that the period of inaction was almost at an end.
Before giving my account of the famous campaign, I must briefly relate the causes that led to the great Indian War of 1876.
CHAPTER II.
THE BLACK HILLS FEVER
There had raged for many years a war between the Sioux Nation, composed of about a dozen different tribes of the same race under various designations, and nearly all the other Indian tribes of the Northwest. The Northern Cheyennes were generally confederated with the Sioux in the field, and the common enemy would seem to have been the Crow, or Absarake, Nation. The Sioux and Cheyennes together were more than a match for all the other tribes combined, and even at this day the former peoples hold their numerical superiority unimpaired. There must be nearly 70,000 Sioux and their kindred tribes in existence, and they still possess, at least, 5,000 able-bodied warriors, more or less well armed. But times have greatly changed since the spring "of 1876. Then nearly all of Dakota, Northern Nebraska, Northern Wyoming, Northern and Eastern Montana lay at the mercy of the savages, who, since the completion of the treaty of 1868, which filled them with ungovernable pride, had been mainly successful in excluding all white men from the immense region, which may be roughly described as bounded on the east by the 104th meridian; on the west by the Big Horn mountains; on the south by the North Platte, and on the north by the Yellowstone river. In fact, the northern boundary, in Montana, extended prac-
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tically to the frontier of the British possessions. About 240,000 square miles were comprised in the lands ceded, or virtually surrendered, by the Government to the Indians — one-half for occupation and the establishment of agencies, farms, schools and other mediums of civilization; while the other half was devoted to hunting grounds, which no white man could enter without the special permission of the Indians themselves. All this magnificent territory was turned over and guaranteed to the savages by solemn treaty with the United States Government. The latter made the treaty with what may be termed undignified haste. The country, at the time, was sick of war. Colonel Fetterman, with his command of nearly one hundred men and three officers, had been overwhelmed and massacred by the Sioux, near Fort Phil Kearney, in December. 1866. Other small detachments of the army had been slaughtered here and there throughout the savage region. The old Montana emigrant road had been paved with the bodies and reddened with the blood of countless victims of Indian hatred, and, indeed, twenty years ago, strange as it may now appear to American readers, nobody, least of all the authorities at Washington, thought that what was then a howling, if handsome, wilderness, would be settled within so short a period by white people. Worse than all else, the Government weakly agreed to dismantle the military forts established along the Montana emigrant trail, running within a few miles of the base of the Big Horn range, namely, Fort Reno, situated on Middle Fork of the Powder river; Fort Phil Kearney, situated on Clear Fork of the same stream, and Fort C. F.
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Smith, situated on the Big Horn river, all these being on the east side of the celebrated mountain chain. The Sioux had no legitimate claim to the Big Horn region. A part of it belonged originally to the Crows, whom the stronger tribe constantly persecuted, and who, by the treaty of '68, were placed at the mercy of their ruthless enemies. Other friendly tribes, such as the Snakes, or Shoshones, and the Bannocks, bordered on the ancient Crow territory, and were treated as foemen by the greedy Sioux and the haughty Cheyennes. The abolition of the three forts named fairly inflated the Sioux. The finest hunting grounds in the world had fallen into their possession, and the American Government, instead of standing by and strengthening the Crows, their ancient friends and allies, unwisely abandoned the very positions that would have held the more ferocious tribes in check. The Crows had a most unhappy time of it after the treaty was ratified. Their lands were constantly raided by the Sioux. Several desperate battles were fought, and, finally, the weaker tribe was compelled to seek safety beyond the Big Horn river.
Had the Sioux and Crows been left to settle the difficulty between themselves, few of the latter tribe would be left on the face of the earth to-day. The white man's government might make what treaties it pleased with the Indians, but it was quite a different matter to get the white man himself to respect the official parchment. Three-fourths of the Black Hills region, and all of the Big Horn, were barred by the Great Father and Sitting Bull against the enterprise of the daring, restless and acquisitive Caucasian race. The military expe-
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ditions, under Generals Sully, Connors, Stanley and Custer —all of which were partially unsuccessful—had attracted the attention of the country to the great region already specified. The beauty and variety of the landscape, the immense quantities of the noblest species of American game; the serrated mountains, and forest-covered hills; the fine grazing lands and rushing streams, born of the snows of the majestic Big Horn peaks; and, above all else, the rumor of great gold deposits, the dream of wealth which hurled Cortez on Mexico and Pizarro on Peru, fired the Caucasian heart with the spirit of adventure and exploration, to which the attendant and well-recognized danger lent an additional zest. The expedition of General Custer, which entered the Black Hills proper—those of Dakota—in 1874, confirmed the reports of "gold finds," and, thereafter, a wall of fire, not to mention a wall of Indians, could not stop the encroachments of that terrible white race before which all other races of mankind, from Thibet to Hindostan, and from Algiers to Zululand, have gone down. At the news of gold, the grizzled '49or shook the dust of California from his feet, and started overland, accompanied by daring comrades, for the far-distant "Hills;" the Australian miner left his pick half buried in the antipodean sands, and started, by ship and saddle, for the same goal; the diamond hunter of Brazil and of "the Cape;" the veteran "prospectors" of Colorado and Western Montana; the "tar heels" of the Carolinian hills; the "reduced gentlemen" of Europe; the worried and worn city clerks of London, Liverpool, New York or Chicago; the stout English yeoman, tired of high
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rents and poor returns; the sturdy Scotchman, tempted from stubborn plodding after wealth to seek fortune under more rapid conditions; the light-hearted Irishman, who drinks in the spirit of adventure with his mother's milk; the daring mine delvers of Wales and of Cornwall; the precarious gambler of Monte Carlo—in short, every man who lacked fortune, and who would rather be scalped than remain poor, saw in the vision of the Black Hills, El Dorado; and to those picturesquely sombre eminences the adventurers of the earth—some honest and some the opposite—came trooping in masses, "like clouds at eventide."
In vain did the Government issue its proclamations; in vain were our veteran regiments of cavalry and infantry, commanded by warriors true and tried, drawn up across the path of the daring invaders; in vain were arrests made, baggage seized, horses confiscated and wagons burned; no earthly power could hinder that bewildering swarm of human ants. They laughed at the proclamations, evaded the soldiers, broke jail, did without wagons or outfit of any kind, and, undaunted by the fierce war whoops of the exasperated Sioux, rushed on to the fight for gold with burning hearts and naked hands! Our soldiers, whom no foe, white, red or black, could make recreant to their flag upon the field of honor, overcome by the moral epidemic, deserted by the squad to join the grand army of indomitable adventurers. And soon, from Buffalo Gap to Inyan Kara, and from Bear Butte to Great Canon, the sound of the pick and spade made all the land resonant with the music of Midas. Thickly as the mushrooms grow in the summer nights on
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the herbage robbed sheep range, rose "cities" innumerable, along the Spearfish and the Deadwood and Rapid creeks. Placer and quartz mines developed with marvelous rapidity, and, following the first, and boldest, adventurers, the eager, but timid and ease-loving, capitalists, who saw Indians in every sage brush, came in swarms. Rough board shanties, and hospital tents, were the chief " architectural " features of the new "cities," which swarmed with gamblers, harlots and thieves, as well as with honest miners. By the fall of 1875, the northern segment of the irregular, warty geological formation, known as the Black Hills, was prospected, "staked" and, in fairly good proportion, "settled," after the rough, frontier fashion. Pierre and Bismarck, on the Missouri river, and Sidney and Cheyenne, on the Union Pacific railroad, became the supply depots of the new mining regions, and, at that period, enjoyed a prosperity which they have not equaled since. All the passes leading into "the Hills," from the points mentioned, swarmed with hostile Indians, most of whom were well fed at the agencies and all of whom boasted of being better armed, and better supplied with fixed ammunition, than the soldiers of our regular army. The rocks of Buffalo Gap and Red Canyon, particularly, rang with the rifle shots of the savages, and the return fire of the hardy immigrants, many of whom paid with their lives the penalty of their ambition. The stages that ran to " the Hills" from the towns on the Missouri and the Union Pacific rarely ever escaped attack—sometimes by robbers, but oftenest by Indians. All passengers, even the women, who were, at that time, chiefly composed of the
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rough, if not absolutely immoral, class, traveled with arms in their hands ready for immediate action. Border ruffians infested all the cities, and, very soon, became almost as great a menace to life and property as the savages themselves. Murders and suicides occurred in abundance, as the gambling dens increased and the low class saloons multiplied. Notwithstanding these discouragements, the period of 1874, '75 and '76 was the Augustan era, if the term be not too transcendental, of the Black Hills. The placer mines were soon exhausted, and, as it required capital to work the quartz ledges, the poor miners, or the impatient ones, who hoped to get rich in a day, quickly "stampeded " for more promising regions, and left the mushroom "cities" to the capitalists, the wage workers, the gamblers, the women in scarlet, and to these, in later days, may be added the rancheros, or cattle men. Morality has greatly improved in " the Hills" since 1876, and business has settled down to a steady, oldfashioned gait, but the first settlers still remember, with vague regret, the stirring times of old, when gold dust passed as currency; when whisky was bad and fighting general; when claims were held dear and life cheap; when the bronzed hunter, or long-haired "scout," strutted around in half savage pride, and when the renowned " Wild Bill," who subsequently met a fate so sudden and so awful, was at once the glory and the terror of that active, but primitive, community. But enough of historical retrospection. I will now resume my narrative of the long and weary march, which began at Fort Russell in "the ides of May," and terminated at Fort Laramie in the last days of September, 1876.
CHAPTER III.
THE MARCH OF THE PLATTE.
The final order to move out on the expedition readied Fort Russell, as I think I have already stated, on May 16th. On the morning of the 17th, several troops of the 3d Cavalry, and, I think, one or two of the 2d Cavalry, under the orders of Col. 'W'. B. Royall, marched northward toward the Platte. It was my desire to accompany this column, but Captain Sutorius, Company E, of the 3d Cavalry, had to wait, under orders, until the morning of the 19th. Captain Wells, Troop E, of the 2d Cavalry, had orders to march with Sutorius. As I messed with the latter, I was compelled to wait also, and I occupied myself during the brief interval in visiting Cheyenne, and taking final leave of my kind friends in that city. I met there Mr. T. C. McMillan, now a State senator, who was going out as correspondent for another Chicago newspaper. Mr. McMillan was in feeble health at the time, but he was determined not to be left behind. He was fortunate in making messing arrangements with Captain Sutorius, who was the soul of hospitality. As McMillan had to purchase a horse and some outfit, we determined to follow, rather than accompany, the two troops mentioned, who marched for Lodge Pole creek, eighteen miles distant from Fort Russell, at daybreak. When McMillan had made his purchases, we set out on horseback, accom
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panied for a few miles by the late George O'Brien, to overtake the command. Neither of us had been used to riding for some time, and, as the day was fairly warm, we did not over-exert ourselves in catching up with the column. There was a well-marked road to Lodge Pole creek, through a country greatly devoid of beauty, so that we had no difficulty in keeping the trail. Mr. O'Brien bade us adieu on a little rising ground, about five miles from the Fort, and then Mac and I urged our animals to a trot, as the afternoon was well advanced. A little before sundown we came in sight of the shallow valley of Lodge Pole creek, and saw tents pitched along the banks of that stream, while, hobbled or lariated, horses were grazing around. Several canvas-covered army wagons, and a number of soldiers engaged in attending to their horses, completed the picture. Captain Sutorius welcomed us warmly, and explained that he had no lieutenants — one being on sick leave and the other detailed for other duty. He introduced us to the two officers of the 2d Cavalry, Captain Wells and Lieutenant Sibley. The former was a veteran of the Civil War, covered with honorable scars, bluff, stern and heroic. Lieutenant Sibley, with whose career I was destined to be linked under circumstances which subsequently attracted the attention of the continent, and which will live long in the tales and traditions of our regular army, was a young West Pointer, who had distinguished himself under General Reynolds in the attack upon, and capture of, Crazy Horse's village on March 17th of that eventful year. He was about the middle height, well but slightly built, and with a handsome, expressive
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face. It does not take very long to become thoroughly at home with soldiers, if they take a liking to you, and we were soon seated in Captain Sutorius' tent, partaking very industriously of plain military fare. The conversation turned chiefly on the campaign upon which we were enter ing. Captain Wells said that the Indians were in stronger force than most people imagined, and that General Crook, accustomed mostly to the southern Indians, hardly estimated at its real strength the powerful array of the savages. He joked, in rough soldier fashion, McMillan and myself on having had our hair cropped, as, he said, it would be a pity to cheat the Sioux out of our scalps. The bugle soon sounded, the horses were placed "on the line " — that is, tied by their halters to a strong rope stretched between wagons — curried and fed. The mules joined in their usual lugubrious evening chorus. 'We had a smoke, followed by a moderately strong "toddy," and, very soon, the sentinels having been posted, Sutorius, Mac and I lay down to rest on blankets and buffalo robes spread in the captain's commodious wall tent. I slept the sleep of the just, although I was occasionally conscious of McMillan's eternal cough and the captain's profound snore, and thus opened, for me, the Big Horn and Yellowstone campaign.
In the midst of a dream, in which Indians, scalping- knives, warwhoops and tomahawks figured prominently, I was aroused by the shrill blast of the cavalry trumpets sounding the reveille. I sprang up instantly, as did my companions, made a very hasty and incomplete toilet, and, having swallowed a cup of coffee, served in an army " tin,"
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was ready for the road. The little "outfit" moved like clockwork, and, by six o'clock, everything had " pulled out" of camp. The previous day's ride had rendered me quite stiff in the knee joints, as I had been riding with short stirrups. I soon learned that if a man wishes to avoid acute fatigue on a long march, it is better to lengthen the stirrup leathers. I accordingly adopted the military plan, and found some relief. Indians, by the way, generally ride with short stirrups on long journeys. I suppose they get used to it, but I never could.
The country through which we were passing was monotonously ugly. In most places the ground was covered with sage-brush and cacti, and the clouds of alkaline dust, raised by the hoofs of the troop horses, were at once blinding and suffocating. I was tormented by thirst, and soon exhausted all the water in my canteen. The captain, who was an old campaigner, advised me to place a small pebble in my mouth. I did so, and saliva was produced, which greatly relieved my suffering. I found afterward, on many a hard, hot, dusty march, when water was scarce, that this simple remedy against thirst is very effective. The less water a soldier drinks on the march, the better it will be for his health.
The command was halted several times in order that the horses might have a chance to graze, and also to enable the inexperienced among the soldiers to get some of the soreness out of their bones. I was devoutly grateful for every halt. The shadows from the west were lengthening as we rode into camp at a place called Bear Springs, where wood
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and water abounded. The scenes and incidents of the preceding camp were duplicated here, but I learned that, on the morrow, we were to catch up with the column in advance, which was under the orders of Col. William Royall, of the 3d Cavalry, since colonel of the 4th Cavalry, and now retired.
We were in the saddle at daybreak, and marched with greater rapidity than usual. There were no halts of any great duration. About noon we encountered a stout young officer, attended by an orderly, riding at break-neck pace toward us. He halted, saluted the captain, and said, "Colonel Royall's compliments, and he requests that you march without halting until you join him. The other battalion is halted about a dozen miles further on. I am going to the rear with orders, and will rejoin to-morrow or the day after."
The captain introduced me to Lieut. Frederick Schwatka, whom I was to meet often afterward in that campaign, and whose name has since become familiar to all the reading world as the intrepid discoverer of the fate of Sir John Franklin, amid the eternal snows and unspeakable perils of the polar regions. Schwatka briefly but courteously acknowledged the captain's introduction, and, having drained a little "elixir of life" from his superior's canteen, set out like a whirlwind to fulfill his mission.
"Close up there! Trot!" shouted Captain Sutorius, who was in advance. "Trot!" repeated Captain Wells, in stentorian tones; and away we went, up hill and down dale, leaving the wagon tram to the care of its ordinary escort.
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After going at a trot for what seemed to me, galled and somewhat jaded as I was, an interminable time, we finally reached an elevation in the road, from which we beheld, although at a considerable distance, what seemed to be a force of cavalry, apparently going into camp. We continued advancing, but at a slower pace, and, within an hour, came upon the rearmost wagons of Royall's train, guarded by a troop of horse. We soon reached the main body, and I had then the pleasure of meeting Colonel Royall, a tall, handsome Virginian, of about fifty, with a full gray mustache, dark eyebrows, overhanging a pair of bright blue eyes, and a high forehead, on the apex of which, through the cropped hair, as he raised his cap in salute, appeared one of several scars inflicted by a rebel sabre in front of Richmond during the Civil War. Among the other officers to whom I was introduced, I remember Col. Anson Mills, then in his prime; Lieutenant Lemley, Captain Andrews, Lieutenant Foster, Lieut. Joseph Lawson and Lieut. Charles Morton, all of the 3d Cavalry; and Captain Rawolle, Lieutenant Huntington and others of the 2d Cavalry. As it was still early in the day, and, as our halting place was not desirable for the horses, Colonel Royall, after our wagon train had closed up, changed his mind about going into camp, and the march was continued to a place called Hunton's Ranch, in the Chugwater valley, where, having ridden over thirty miles since morning, I was rendered exceedingly happy by the order to halt and pitch our tents. These latter did not come up for some time, and, being as hungry as a bear, I was glad to satisfy my craving with raw army bacon, hard
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tack and a tin full of abominably bad water. Then I lay down on my horse-blanket, under a tree, and fell fast asleep.
Supper was being served in Captain Sutorius' tent before I thought of waking up, and it took a good, honest poke in the ribs from the hardy captain to recall me from the land of dreams. In spite of my long nap, I slept soundly throughout the night, and awoke early in the morning to hear the rain falling in torrents, and pattering on our canvas shelter like a thousand drumsticks. An orderly came with the compliments of the commanding officer, to instruct the captain not to strike tents, as, if the rain did not cease before 8 o'clock, the battalion would remain in camp, as the wagons could not be moved in the dense mud. This was welcome news to Mr. McMillan and myself, as we were both exceedingly fatigued. The rain did not cease to fall for twenty-four hours longer, and it was well on toward noon, on the morning of May 23d, when we dragged ourselves painfully out of the Chugwater mud and took up our march to Fort Laramie. This march was brief and uneventful, and we were in camp on the prairie surrounding the Fort shortly after 1 o'clock. We picked up a few more troops at this point, and, as Colonel Royall was fearful of being late at the rendezvous of still distant Fort Fetterman, no time was lost in getting the command ready for the hard road before it. The entire column crossed the Laramie and North Platte rivers early on the morning of the 24th. The sky was cloudy, and a raw wind blew from the east. All of us hoped that the cool weather would continue, but we were doomed to sore disappointment in that, as in other, respects.
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The men of the command were, for the most part, young, but well seasoned, and in their blue shirts, broad felt hats, cavalry boots and blue, or buckskin, pantaloons, for on an Indian campaign little attention is paid to uniform, looked both athletic and warlike. Their arms were bright as hard rubbing could make them, and around the waist of every stalwart trooper was a belt filled with sixty rounds of fixed ammunition for the Springfield carbine. Each man carried also a supply of revolver cartridges. The sabres had been left behind at the different posts as useless encumbrances. I well remember the martial bearing of Guy V. Henry's fine troop of the 3d, as with arms clanking, and harness jingling, it trotted rapidly along our whole flank, in the dawn twilight, to take its place at the head of the column. "There goes Henry !" said our Captain, as the troopers trotted by. They were fine fellows that morning, and proved themselves to be as brave, and enduring, as they were imposing in appearance, throughout the campaign.
CHAPTER IV.
ON TO FORT FETTERMAN.
Our route was over an unfrequented path, known as the Old Utah route, through the Indian reservation on the left bank of the North Platte. This road was selected in order that the delay and expense of crossing the rapid river at Fetterman might be avoided. The portion of the territory through which we moved had not been described, at least by the newspapers, for the reason that very few people cared to roam at that time through so dangerous and desolate a region in small parties.
Our first day's march from Fort Laramie was begun at 6 o'clock A. M., and by 12:30, including two halts, we went into camp on a bend of the Platte, twenty-four miles from our starting point. The first part of our route lay through an undulating grass country, lying within easy distance of the river. Ten miles through this kind of land brought us to an immense "park," situated in the midst of five dotted bluffs, where we halted for some minutes. This " park" was simply the portal to one of the longest, darkest and most tortuous " passes" that can well be imagined.
It was a perfect labyrinth. Bluffs rose on each side to an immense altitude, and the turns were so abrupt that our advancing column frequently expected to bring up in a culdesac. It was up hill and down dale for eight long miles, and
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had Colonel Royall been opposed to a capable foe, his part of Crook's expedition would never have reached the rendezvous. A couple of hundred resolute men could there have prevented the march of a vast army. In fact, the larger the latter the less chance would there be for successful battle. But we passed on unharmed through this "Killecrankie" of Wyoming.
The sun shone magnificently, and it was a splendid sight to see our seven companies of cavalry, their arms glittering and their equipments rattling; as they "wound like a monstrous serpent around that gloomy vale." In some places, the ascents and descents were so steep and rugged that the command had to dismount from front to rear, and lead their horses. "Sitting Bull" lost a fine opportunity for clipping Crook's wings, and nearly all the officers recognized the fact. But we neither saw, heard, nor felt any Indians. Our troops moved on unmolested.
Where's the embattled foe they seek?
The camp or watch-fires, where?
For save the eagle screaming high
No sign of life is there.
A solitary elk, standing on the edge of a cliff far above our pathway, was the only living thing that, to all appearances, beheld our column.
After more than two hours of unceasing travel through the gorge, we finally unwound ourselves therefrom and struck a red-clay country, where we could not find enough grass to give our weary horses a decent lunch; we did not, therefore, halt, but pushed on to a camp on the river bend, when we thankfully left the saddle and stretched our limbs
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upon the parched earth. Owing to the roughness of the road, the wagon-train and rear guard were more than five hours behind. Yet, in that lone camping ground, we found the graves of two Mormon emigrants, killed, it was supposed, by Indians. One grave had over it a rude slab, with the name, "Sarah Gibbons, July,l854," cut upon it. The other inscription was absolutely indecipherable. Reveille sounded at dawn on Thursday, May 25th, and the march was resumed one hour later. Prepared as we were to encounter a desert country, the scene that met our view was far beyond all expectation.
Our line of march was through what appeared to be a succession of brick-yards and extinct limekilns. In order to secure a good wagon-road, we were compelled to avoid the Platte, and, with the exception of one stagnant pool, during that weary ride of thirty-five miles we saw no water until we struck the river again. The sun burned us almost to the bone, and every man's complexion was scarlet. Despite all injunctions to the contrary, the tired and thirsty troops made a general raid upon the Platte, when we reached that stream, and drank to satiety. The cheekiest of land speculators, or the most conscienceless of newspaper correspondents, could not say a word in behalf of that infernal region, which it would be the acme of exaggeration to term "land." But some of our old Indian scouts said it was Arabia Felix compared with what lay between us and the Powder river. Why the government of the United States should keep an army for the purpose of robbing the Indians of such a territory, is an unsolvable puzzle. It is a solemn
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mockery to call the place "a reservation," unless dust, ashes and rocks be accounted of value to mankind. Not even one Indian could manage to exist on the desert tract over which we rode. Trees, there were absolutely none, unless down by the river, where some scrub timber occasionally appeared.
Some of the scenery was striking and savage. In the early morning we had the huge peak of Laramie, snow-covered, on our left. At 10 o'clock it was behind us, and at 2 o'clock, when we went into camp, it was almost in our front. This will give some idea of the zig-zag course we had to follow. Laramie peak is a gigantic landmark, a fit sentinel over that portion of the great American desert.
"Boots and saddles" put us once more on the road, Friday morning. Instead of growing better, the country increased in worthlessness as we proceeded. We struck what are significantly termed "the bad lands"—a succession of sand-pits and hills, with neither cacti nor sage-weed—which are almost universal there—nor blade of grass to relieve the wearied eve. Persons afflicted with weak vision are compelled to wear goggles while riding through those sands which are white as chalk and dazzling as quicksilver. After making over twenty miles, we again went to sleep upon the Platte, and our colonel said we were just twenty miles from Fort Fetterman.
Daybreak, on Saturday, May 27th, found us once more en route. The company of the 3d Cavalry with which I messed, having been in advance on the previous day, formed the rear guard, and, consequently, marched at will. It was pretty tedious, as the unfortunate mules of the wagon train were
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nearly worn out, their backs galled by heavy loads, and their legs swollen by a long march.
We again struck a hilly country, full of red sandstone, and cut up by countless ravines, some of which were of incredible depth. The captain determined to take a short cut from the wagon road, in order to explore the nature of the ground. Mounting a high hill, some ten miles from where we had camped, we beheld a long, low, white building on a bold, bare bluff, to the northwest. This was our first glimpse of Fort Fetterman, called after the gallant and unfortunate Colonel Fetterman, who perished only a few years previously in the Fort Phil Kearney massacre. Taking " the short cut," we found ourselves in a regular trap, and were obliged to ride up and down places that would make some of our city riders feel like making their wills. Our captain had, however, a sure-footed horse, and did not dismount. Neither did any of his men, and I, for the honor of my calling, was compelled to follow their example. Our horses nearly stood upon their heads, but they did not go over. They were all bred in that country, and were sure-footed as mules. Try to hold them up with the rein, and down they go. Give them their own way, and they'll carry you in safety over a glacier.
Having traversed about fifty ravines, we again reached the upper trail, much to my delight, for I had grown tired of steeple-chasing. Our experiment revealed nothing new in the character of the soil—if sand can be designated by that name. If neither flat nor stale, it certainly was unprofitable. By the time we regained the road, the place of ren-
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dezvous lay right beneath us, and long lines of tents and clouds of cavalry horses and pack mules grazing in the valley informed us that Colonel Evans' column from Medicine Bow, the shorter route by one-half, had already gone into camp. At the same moment a long cloud of dust, through which carbine-barrels and bridle-bits occasionally flashed, four miles ahead, showed us our main body entering the lines. The march was then down hill. Our teamsters lashed up their beasts until they cantered. The rear guard put spurs to their horses and trotted after. Half an hour later we were on the camping ground, and saw the desolate fort grinning at us from the bleak hill on the other side of the Platte. And thus we completed the ride from Russell to Fetterman.
Some officers informed us that the ferry between the camp and Fort Fetterman had broken down, and that we could not get our mail or send despatches. The river at that point is so rapid and so full of whirlpools that few men care to swim it, and most horses refuse to do so. A wagon driver, together with a sergeant and two private soldiers of the 2d Cavalry, tried the experiment of swimming their horses over a few days before and all were drowned. It was absolutely necessary for me to cross the river, and some other correspondents were in the same position. When we reached the ferry, we found that it had been patched up in a temporary manner, and concluded to go across. When near the Fetterman bank, the rope broke, and we should have been swept down stream, at the imminent risk of drowning, but for the heroism of Lieutenant and Commissary Bubb, who plunged into the stream on horseback, caught a cable
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which somebody threw toward him, and towed us in safety to shore amid the plaudits of the spectators. We proceeded to the fort immediately, and found General Crook at the commandant's quarters, busily engaged in forwarding the organization of his troops. He appeared to be in high spirits, and laughed grimly at our rough and miserably tanned appearance, stubble beards, dirty clothes and peeled noses.
"Oh," said he, "this is only the prelude. Wait until the play proper begins. After that you can say you were through the mill."
"We came over a pretty rough road, General," said one of our party.
"Yes," he answered, " that is a bad road, but there are worse in Wyoming. We've got to go over many of them."
He kindly invited us to dinner, but we preferred the sutler's establishment, and he directed an orderly to show us there. Fort Fetterman is now abandoned. It was a hateful post—in summer, hell, and in winter, Spitzbergen. The whole army dreaded being quartered there, but all had to take their turn. Its abandonment was a wise proceeding on the part of the government.
CHAPTER V.
MARCHING ON POWDER RIVER
General Crook, impatient for action, hardly gave us time to have our soiled clothing properly washed and dried, when, everything being ready, he marched us northward at noon on the 29th of May. Two companies of the 3d Cavalry, commanded by Captain Van Vliet and Lieut. Emmet Crawford, had preceded us on the road to Fort Reno, to look out for the expected contingent of Crow Indians from Montana. The remainder, a formidable cavalcade, cemented, as it were, by a few companies of stalwart infantry, who furnished escort for the long wagon-train, streamed away from the Platte at a brisk pace, and came to a halt at Sage creek, thirteen miles north of Fetterman, in the afternoon. We were then fairly on the road to the Indian country proper—the lands secured to the Sioux, so far as that intangible instrument called a treaty could secure them anything. By the precautions taken in posting pickets and keeping the command well closed up on the march, even the most inexperienced could understand that we were in a region where active hostilities might begin at any moment. At the Sage creek camp, I was introduced by General Crook to Mr. Robert A. Strahorn, a distinguished 'Western newspaper correspondent, who had made a reputation over the nom de plume of " Alter Ego," and who, in every situa
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tion, proved himself as fearless as he was talented. The General also introduced me to Mr. Davenport, of the New York Herald, and to Mr. Wasson, of the California Alta, who had had extensive experience in many Indian campaigns. Mr. Davenport was entirely unused to frontier life, and some of the young officers and his brother correspondents used to banter him a good deal with regard to the horrors of Indian warfare. He took it all in good part, at the time, but he found means, before the campaign closed, to get more than even with some of the jokers. As a rule, all the correspondents got along well together, but one or two of them did not succeed in making themselves liked by several of the officers. Of all earthly experiences, none so tests the strength and weakness of human nature as an Indian campaign, especially when attended by hardship and hunger.
As we advanced, the commanding officers of the "outfit" increased and multiplied exceedingly. First, as a matter of course, came General Crook. Then Colonel Royall, frank and direct of speech, and often very emphatic in his observations to his subordinates. Then came Major Evans, a melancholy, philosophically inclined officer, devoted to literature, suffering from an old wound, and having, to all appearance, registered a vow never to smile, in any sense. Maj. H. E. Noyes, commanding a company, was appointed commander of the five troops of the 2d Cavalry; while the ten troops of the 3d Cavalry were divided into three batallions, under the three senior company commanders, Col. Guy V. Henry, Maj. Anson Mills and Capt. Fred Van Vliet. Maj. Alexander Chambers commanded the five
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companies of the 4th and 9th Infantry, a very efficient body of men. Maj. John V. Furey looked after the wagon train, as he was quartermaster of the expedition, and Chief Packer, Tom Moore—an old follower of General Crook's— looked after the pack mule train, and all that appertained thereto. Nearly all of the officers mentioned had aides and adjutants, all of whom had orderlies, who blew their bugles with startling frequency, and rode from one end of the line to the other, as if the devil himself was after them. It is astonishing how much our bold dragoons can swear on proper provocation. The sentimental fair ones who so much admire our shoulder-strapped and be-frogged cavalry officers in a brilliant ball room ought to see and hear them when out on a rough campaign. They are then innocent of "boiled shirts;" their beards become a stubble, and only for the inevitable yellow stripe, which the weather turns muddy in color, on their pantaloons, they could hardly be distinguished from the private soldiers of their respective commands. The same is also true of the infantry officers. In contrast, however, with the professional mule packers, and whackers, the officers were models of the early Christian type of mankind.
We had along a trifle over 1,000 mules, all immensely loaded with ammunition and other supplies. They were unamiable and unattractive animals, awkward, yet "handy with their feet," and vilely discordant. The General, however, knew their value on a campaign, and had great respect for their eccentricities of manner and habit. Notwithstanding, I consider that the average mule is obstinate, and even
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morose, in manner, and filthy, not to say immodest, in habit. But the animal has his fine points also. He is surer, if slower, than the horse, and can live where the latter would surely starve. Ears polite would be immeasurably shocked by the sounds and observations that accompany the starting of a pack train from camp in the early morning. The hybrids are "cinched" or girthed so tight by the packers that they are almost cut in two. Naturally the beasts don't want to move under such circumstances. They therefore stand stock still. This irritates the packers, who swear in a most artistic and perfectly inexhaustible fashion. They welt the animals with their rawhides most unmercifully, and the brutes reply with their heels and the batteries of nature, in a most effective, if somewhat obscene, manner. Suddenly, and generally simultaneously, they dash forward, and matters run more tranquilly during the rest of the day. Such is a part of "the romance of war." The mule-drivers used to have an excellent time of it, and lived far better than the soldiers. The latter were expected to do all the fighting, while the mule-whackers had the better part of the feasting.
Although the country through which Colonel Royall's column moved, along the left bank of the Platte to Fetterman was practically a wilderness, the section between that Fort and Crazy Woman's Fork is not particularly bad; but there are enough "bad lands" here and there to about counterbalance the more fertile portions. The grass ranges along a few small streams in spring time and the early summer are fairly good, but the soil is, as a rule, poor and sandy, and
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the winter tarries long on the old Bozeman trail, which General Crook's brigade traveled over for several hundred miles. In fact, the whole country had a kind of arid, half-starved look in the beginning of June, 1876, and I fancy it has hardly improved much in appearance since that period. The grass seemed to be exceedingly coarse in most places, and was disfigured, wherever the eye turned, by the omnipresent sage brush and cruel cacti. I wrote at the time, to the paper I represented, that ranchmen who cared little or nothing for the comforts of civilization could raise large herds of cattle in that region, if the Sioux were subdued or friendly, but that for purposes of tillage, the soil was unavailable. My candid judgment was that, during a march of about 300 miles, I had not seen a twenty-acre tract that could approach even the medium agricultural lands of Illinois or Iowa in productive power. I had not seen a single acre that could compare with the prime farming lands of the old States. The wealth of the soil must have been very deep down, for it certainly was not visible on the surface, except in the form of alkaline deposits, which resembled hoar frost. It lacked then, and I suppose it lacks still, several essentials toward making it reasonably habitable: first, water; second, timber; third, climate. In rocks, hills, ants, snakes, weeds and alkali, that portion of Wyoming is rich indeed. If there should happen to be any gold in the heart of the Big Horn mountains, God must have placed it there to make up for the comparative worthlessness of a large portion of the Territory. I observed, also, that it needed neither a professor nor a philosopher to predict that that particular range of country could never
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become a part of that great agricultural Northwest which is justly called the granary of the world; and that its highest destiny was to become a mammoth cattle range. My humble prediction has been fulfilled. Myriads of domestic cattle have taken the place of the picturesque buffalo, and where the red Indian used to ride on his wild forays, the enterprising cowboy now cracks his horse-whip and "rounds up" his herds.
Colonel Royall, at the outset of our march, used to have us on the road at 5 o'clock in the morning, but General Crook, on assuming command, fixed the hour at 6 o'clock for the infantry and at 7:30 o'clock for the cavalry, in order that the horses might have sufficient rest, as he intended to make night marches in pursuit of the hostiles, accompanied by his pack train only, after the campaign had been fully developed.
He detached from Sage creek two companies of the 3d Cavalry, under Captains Meinhold and Vroom, to patrol the country to the westward, and report the presence of fresh Indian trails, if any such existed. The detachment took along four days' rations, and was ordered to rejoin us at old Fort Reno, on the Powder river. On the 30th of May we marched from Sage creek to what is called the South Fork of the Cheyenne river, a puny, muddy-looking rivulet, the rotten banks of which were fringed with cottonwood trees and tangled, rich undergrowth. The water was shockingly bad, and made many of the men quite sick. It was at this point, during the scout of the preceding March, that the Indians shot and killed the chief herder of the
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expedition, the very first day out from Fort Fetterman. We all felt that we were on hostile and dangerous ground, but we were allowed to sleep in peace. The pickets, however, were doubled, and every precaution against a surprise was taken.
On the 31st of May the weather, which had been rather mild and pleasant for several days, suddenly changed. The thermometer fell to zero, and the wind rose to the proportions of a hurricane. The sky became deeply overcast with ominous-looking clouds, and whirlwinds raised columns of alkaline dust, which scalded our eyes and gave to every object a hazy and filthy appearance. Many of the tents were blown down, and the men shivered around their watchfires, as if it were midwinter. It was a relief to everybody when morning came and "the general" was sounded. We marched on Wind creek—a very poor apology for a stream— about twenty miles northward. Our course lay over a somewhat bare, but undulating, country. About noon the clouds partially lifted, and the sun of the last day of May shone out fitfully to cheer our weary road. We soon gained the summit of an unusually high swell in the prairie, called in frontier parlance "a divide," and beheld, with some degree of joy, to our left and front, distant perhaps one hundred miles, the chilly, white summits of the mighty Big Horn mountains. From this same "divide" we had an exceptionally fine view of that portion of Wyoming which we had marched over. Looking backward, we could see the faint blue outline of Laramie Peak, almost dipping below the horizon. On our right, and almost due east, tho dark group of
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the Black Hills of Dakota could be descried through a fieldglass. On our right front, northeastward, the Pumpkin buttes, four long, somewhat irregular, but mountain-like, formations, several hundred feet in height, arose abruptly from the very bosom of "the bad lands." Those buttes run very nearly north and south, the northernmost being nearly abreast of Fort Reno. But soon the lurking storm came back upon us with renewed fury, and there was an end, for that day at least, of our enjoyment of savage scenery.
Wind creek did not belie its name. A more comfortless bivouac rarely fell to a soldier's lot. Every inch of ground was covered with some species of cacti, each seemingly more full of thorns than its neighbor. The water was simply execrable, the wood scarce and the weather bitterly cold. By order of General Crook, who did not desire to be hampered with too many impediments, we had left our tent stoves at Fort Fetterman, and as the thermometer continued to fall, we began to think that we had accidentally marched into Alaska. The storm, as night advanced, increased in fury, and came near playing us the shabby trick which it inflicted on the English army in 1854, when nearly all the tents of the Crimean expeditionary force were swept into the bay of Balaklava. When the grim morning of Thursday, June 1, 1876, broke upon Wind river, snow was falling as thickly as it does in Chicago about New Year's. The shower did not continue very long, and when it ceased, we found the temperature much more comfortable. We marched on that day to a dreary place known as the "dry fork" of the Powder river—something over twenty miles. As every
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officer and soldier wore a service overcoat, the brigade looked much better, because more uniform, than usual. The first half of our journey lay through and over a mountainous region, but when we reached the highest crest of " the divide," and the valley of Powder river lay stretched out before and beneath us, mile on mile, we concluded that we had, at last, struck a portion of Wyoming which we could praise with a fairly good conscience. Although the soil was marred by the brushwood and weeds which disfigure, more or less, most portions of the Territory, the valley showed evidences of fertility. It is inundated periodically by copious mountain torrents, which follow the " snow melts" and the rain storms. The vegetation is comparatively good, and a belt of cottonwood timber follows the whole course of the river, from its source among the Big Horn mountains to where it falls into the Yellowstone, opposite Sheridan buttes, in Montana. We found many traces of Indian villages near our encampment, which indicated that the valley was a favorite haunt of the savages in the days, not so long removed, when the buffalo covered the range as far as the eye could reach. Antelope were the largest game we found in the locality, because the buffalo had chosen, temporarily, to graze on the then great ranges of the Yellowstone and Tongue rivers.
As we approached the river, a young staff officer raised his field-glass to his eyes, and looked steadily to the westward for some minutes. He soon rode up to General Crook, and informed him that he had observed what he believed to be a cloud of Indians hovering on our left. The distance was
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too great to allow any of us to make out the precise character of the rapidly moving objects. Colonel Henry's company of the 3d Cavalry was at once ordered to reconnoitre, and set out at a fast trot over the prairie. Our column had begun to straggle somewhat, owing to the uneven character of the road, and an aide-de-camp came riding rapidly from front to rear, shouting, " Close up, close up!" which we did with great alacrity. Judging by the amount of bustle, the uninitiated among us began to believe that Sitting Bull and all his warriors must be close upon our heels. A fight was expected—muskets were examined and carbines unslung. The saddle girths were tightened, and nearly every man in the outfit assumed a proper look of martial ferocity. Very soon we observed Henry's command approaching the rapidly-moving " enemy," who seemed to be coming on with great fearlessness. The troop came to a halt, while the other party continued their movement in advance. Through our field-glasses we could then see that those dreaded "Indians" wore blue uniforms, rode American horses, and had a small pack train with them. They were, in fact, the two troops of cavalry detached under Meinhold and Vroom, at Sage creek, by the General, returning from their scout. "What a fuss about nothing!" observed Crook, as he closed his telescope and resumed his place at the head of the column. We rode almost immediately into camp on the "dry fork " of Powder river, and then we learned that the scouting party had seen no Indians, or traces of Indians, during their long ride. Captain Meinhold, a very fine-looking German officer, with a romantic history, told me smilingly,
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that the party had found no water since leaving the Platte, but that they had shot some deer, and, in order to quench their thirst, had emptied their brandy flasks with true military promptitude. Captain Vroom was then a magnificent specimen of the human race, tall, well-built and good-looking. He has since grown much stouter, the result, doubtless, of the absence of Indian campaigns, which would now seem to be almost at an end. One of Meinhold's men had wounded himself mortally by the accidental discharge of his pistol, and the poor fellow had suffered intensely on the subsequent march. He was placed in an ambulance, and made as comfortable as possible.
The absence of Indians surprised the men who had been over the road previously. Around the camp-fires, that evening, both officers and rank and file asked, "Where are the Sioux?" This interrogation was addressed by Captain Sutorius to Captain Wells, at a bivouac fire of the 3d Cavalry.
"Don't be alarmed," said Wells, in his grim, abrupt way, "if they want to find us, we will hear from them when we least expect. If they don't want to find us, we won't hear from them at all, but I think they will."
"They have neglected us strangely up to date," remarked Lieutenant Lemley. "Last time they serenaded us with rifle-shots every evening after we crossed the Platte. You have heard, I suppose, the joke on Lieutenant Bourke, of Crook's staff?"
"No, let's hear it," shouted half a dozen future generals.
"Very well. We were camped on Crazy Woman's—a
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d—d mean place—and no Indians had been disturbing us for some nights. The thing was growing stale, and we were all impatient for some kind of excitement, as it was awfully cold, and we were slowly freezing to death. 'Let us go up to Bourke's tent,' some one suggested that night, and there all of us went. The lieutenant was engaged in scanning a military map by the light of a candle. 'Hello, Bourke,' said one of the party,' ain't you afraid the Indians will ventilate your tent if you keep that light burning?'
"'Oh, no,' said Bourke. 'The Indians that have been firing into us are a small flying party. You may rely on it that you won't hear anything more from them this side of Tongue river. The distance is too great from their villages and the weather is too cold. Mr. Indian doesn't care to be frozen. Now, I'll show you on this map the point where they will, most likely, make their first real at—'
"Whizz! pop! bang! zip! came a regular volley from the bluffs above our camp. A bullet struck the candle and put it out. Another made a large-sized hole in the map. The group scattered quicker than a line of skirmishers, and Bourke was left alone to meditate on the instability of Indian character."
It doesn't take much to make men laugh around a camp fire, and there was general hilarity at the expense of the gallant and genial staff-officer, who was one of the most efficient men connected with the expedition, and who has since been so much distinguished in successive Indian campaigns.
"Now, Lieutenant Schwatka, tell us about that Pawnee Indian picket you had on Powder river, last March," said
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Captain Sutorius to a young officer, already introduced to my readers.
"You mean about the watch?" inquired Schwatka. "It happened in this way: We were ordered to make a detail for picket duty, and as the Pawnees were doing nothing in particular we thought we would give them a turn. My sergeant took half a dozen of them with the regular guard, and, having placed the picket post, explained to the chief Indian, as well as he could, that he and his men would have two hours on and four hours off duty until the guard was relieved. He said to the Pawnee: 'I will lend you my watch.' He struck a match and pointed to the dial. 'It is now 6 o'clock,' said he. 'When the shorter hand moves two points your first watch will be relieved. Do you understand me?'
"'Hey—hey—good!' said the Indian, and stalked away upon his rounds. The sergeant, who was greatly fatigued, dropped into a fitful sleep by the low watch-fire of the main guard, and was suddenly aroused by a hand laid heavily upon his shoulder. He started up in some affright, and saw the Pawnee standing over him, with the watch he had lent him in his hand. 'Well what the deuce do you want?' asked the startled sergeant. 'Injun heap cold—much heap stiff,' replied the warrior. 'Ugh ! that thing (indicating the watch) much lie. Long finger (the minute hand) him all
right. Short finger (the hour hand) him heap d d tired!'
"The sergeant laughed and tried to enlighten the chief as to his mistake, for he had really been but a short time on
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guard. 'Ugh!' was all the disgusted brave would say, and, thereafter, he would have nothing more to do with picket duty."
"By the way," said Lieutenant Reynolds, "you all remember how on the night Bourke's tent was fired into at Crazy Woman, a soldier got out of his tent, and in the frosty air of midnight, shouted loudly enough for all the command to hear him, 'I want to go ho-o-o-ome !'"
A roar of laughter rewarded the Lieutenant's anecdote, and we all, soon afterward, "turned in " for the night.
Next morning, June 2d, we marched for old Fort Reno, sixteen miles distant. It was one of the three forts abandoned by the government, under treaty with the Sioux, in 1868-9. We approached the dismantled post through Dry Fork canon, which extended about three-fourths of the way. The bottom lands were covered thickly with cottonwood, and showed very many remains of Indian villages. Emerging, at last, from the canon, we mounted a bluff, and saw, about two miles ahead of us, a small line of what appeared to be shelter tents, with animals grazing in the foreground. We soon discovered that they belonged to the two troops of the 3d Cavalry, sent forward under Captain Van Vliet and Lieut. Emmet Crawford, to meet the expected Crow Indian allies, who were, however, not yet visible. Above their little camp, on the left bank of the Powder river, we observed the ruins of Fort Reno—nothing left but bare walls, scorched timbers and rusty pieces of iron. We forded the stream, which was at low water, and speedily reached the camping ground. We were very kindly received
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by the officers who had preceded us. Captain Van Vliet, now Major, was tall, thin and good looking. He introduced his second in command of the company, Lieutenant Yon Leutwitz, whom I had already seen at Sidney. Lieutenant, since Captain, Emmet Crawford was over six feet high, with a genuine military face, and a spare but athletic form. He and I formed a friendship then and there which was only terminated by his unfortunate death on Mexican soil, and by Mexican hands, several years later, while he was leading a scouting party in search of the murderous Apaches. The scout was made under what may be called a treaty, and I have always looked upon the shooting of gallant Crawford as a deliberate and cruel murder, which ought to have been promptly avenged on the dastardly perpetrators. Crawford treated several officers and myself to a most welcome stimulant. He was one of the most abstemious of men, but the virtue of hospitality had a large place in his noble nature. Van Vliet also did much for our comfort, and Von Leutwitz made us all laugh heartily at a ballad of lamentation he had written, because of the non-appearance of the Crow Indians, and the refrain of which was, "Crows, dear Crows, vere the d—1 you are?"
Powder river is narrow, but rather rapid. In the rainy season it rises above its banks and inundates the country for miles on both sides of its course. Then it is both difficult and dangerous to attempt a crossing. The clay that composes its banks is generally of a black, brittle, gunpowdery appearance, and hence, it is commonly believed, the peculiar name of the river. The water is, at most seasons, exceed
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ingly muddy, and is thoroughly impregnated with alkali, as many soldiers discovered to their sorrow before and after we left the place. The fort was beautifully situated, commanded a view of the country far and near, and to surprise it would have been impossible, with even ordinary vigilance. The low lands along the river were plentifully wooded, a circumstance that caused the death of many a brave fellow of the former garrisons, as the Indians used to lie in wait for the small wood parties sent out to cut timber, and massacred them in detail. The grazing was about the best we had seen in Wyoming Territory up to that period. The entire mountain barrier of the Big Horn, softened and beautified by distance, is visible to the westward. Fort Reno had been the main defense of the old Montana road, and since its abandonment, up to within about ten years, few white people, even in large parties, were venturous enough to travel that route. The fort had a strong stockade, and must have been quite a fortress. Loads of old metal, wheels, stoves, parts of gun carriages, axles and other iron debris, sufficient to make a Chicago junk dealer rich, were lying there, then, uncared for. I suppose most of the stuff has since passed into nothingness.
Two hundred yards north of the abandoned site is the cemetery, where thirty-five soldiers and one officer, all victims of the Sioux Indians, sleep their last sleep. A small monument of brick and stone had been erected above their resting place, but this the Indians did not respect. The moment the garrison that had erected it crossed the river, it had been set upon and almost razed to the ground. The
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slab on which were distinguishable the words: "Erected as a memorial of respect to our comrades in arms, killed in defense," was broken. The stones placed to mark the graves were uprooted by the vengeful savages, and many of the mounds were either leveled or scooped out. Even the rough headboards, which proclaimed the names of the gallant dead were shivered into fragments, but the patronymics of Privates Murphy, Holt, Slagle, Riley and Laggin, nearly all of the 18th Infantry, killed May 27, 1867, could be distinguished by putting the pieces together. The most stoical of mortals could hardly fail to look with some degree of emotion at the lonely and dishonored resting places of those hapless young men, so untimely, and even ingloriously, butchered by a lurking foe. They sleep far away from home and civilization, for even yet the place is only visited by the hardy rancheros and cowboys, who are little given to sentiment of any kind. For the poor soldiers lying out there, Decoration Day never dawns, and neither mother, wife, sister nor sweetheart can brighten the sod above their bones with the floral tributes of fond remembrance. "The Indian knows their place of rest," and follows them with his implacable hatred beyond the eternal river.
While the column was en route from Dry Fork to Reno, we came upon the trail of a party of Montana miners bound for the Black Hills. We found several rifle pits thrown up in good military fashion, which showed that some among them were old soldiers, and up to every species of Indian deviltry. Captain Van Vliet, while in advance, had picked up the following, written on a piece of board:
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Dry Fork Of Powder River, May 27, 1876.
Captain St. John's party of Montana miners, sixty-five strong, leave here this morning for Whitewood. No Indian trouble yet. Don't know exactly how far it is to water. Filled nose-bags and gum boots with the liquid and rode off singing, "There's Room Enough in Paradise I"
The names signed to this peculiar, and rather devil-may care, document were Daniels, Silliman, Clark, Barrett, Morrill, Woods, Merrill, Buchanan, Wyman, Busse, Snyder, A. Daley, E. Jackson, J. Daley and others.
As the Crows, who had promised their alliance, still failed to appear, General Crook resolved to send his three reliable half-breed scouts, Frank Gruard, Louis Richard and Baptiste Pourier, to the Crow agency, some three hundred miles away, in Montana, to bring the friendly Indians into camp. Each man was provided with an extra horse, and all were advised to travel as much as possible by night, so as to avoid any bodies of hostiles that might be " scouring the plains." It was a risky journey, and, as will be seen later on, was successfully performed. The General was particularly anxious to secure the Crows, because of their well known enmity to the Sioux, and also because it was a matter of boast with all the members of the tribe that they had never killed a white man. The latter statement is, however, open to doubt.
CHAPTER VI.
GLIMPSES OF THE BIG HORN RANGE.
Than the morning of Sunday, June 3, 1876, a lovelier never dawned in any clime. It was 6 o 'clock when our entire command — no company or troop being detached — struck their tents and prepared for their day's march. An hour later we had turned our backs on Powder river, with its gloomy associations and its three infernal "forks," facetiously christened by Lieutenant Schwatka, "Charcoal," "Sulphur" and " Spitfire." We had to make nearly thirty miles in order to reach Crazy Woman's Fork, so called on account of some obscure Indian tradition. Very little water lay between the two streams, but the " bunch grass" was plentiful, and we found some fresh "buffalo wallows "—holes made in the ground by the humps of the animals when they refresh themselves by an earth bath — but none of the noble bisons, now, alas, all but extinct, showed themselves that day.
Our column, including cavalry, infantry, wagon train, pack train and ambulances, stretched out a distance of, perhaps, four miles. The infantry generally accompanied the wagon train, and acted as a most efficient escort. On June 3d, the ten companies of the 3d Cavalry, under Major Evans, formed the van of the horse brigade, while five companies of the 2d Cavalry, under Major Noyes, formed the rear. Crook,
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with his staff, was away in advance of everything, as was his custom. Colonel Royall, commanding the whole of the horse, and mounted on a fast-going charger, regulated the time of the column, and we marched like greased lightning. Were I to live to the age of the biblical patriarchs, I can never forget the beauty of that scene. A friend and myself allowed the soldiers to file somewhat ahead, in order that we might enjoy a complete view. The cavalry rode by twos, the intervals between the companies, except those which formed the rear guard behind the pack mules, being just sufficient to define the respective commands. The wagons, 120 in all, with their white awnings and massive wheels, each drawn by six mules, covered the rising ground in advance of the horsemen, while the dark column of infantry was dimly discernible in the van, because Crook always marched out his foot, for obvious reasons, an hour or two ahead of his horse. 'We used to joke about the infantry, and call them by their Indian nickname of " walk-a-heaps," but, before the campaign was over, we recognized that man is a hardier animal than the horse, and that "shank's mare" is the very best kind of a charger. Our course lay over a gently swelling or billowy plain, nearly bare of trees, but sufficiently carpeted with young grass to render it fresh and vernally verdant. A slight white frost of the previous night, just beginning to evaporate, laid the dust and seemed to cover the prairie with countless diamonds. The sun beamed with a radiance rarely seen in the denser atmosphere of the East. Fifty miles in our front — we were marching almost due westward — rose the mighty wall of the Big
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Horn mountains, Cloud Peak, the loftiest point of the range, seeming to touch the cerulean-hued canopy of the sky, its white apex standing in bold and broad relief against the firmamental blue. The base of the mountains, timber-covered, as we discovered on nearer approach, had that purple beauty of coloring which we sometimes see in the masterpieces of the great landscape painters. The snow line, under the influence of the solar rays, gleamed like molten silver, and all this, taken in conjunction with the green fore and the dark middle ground, produced an effect of dazzling grandeur. Even the rudest among the hardy soldiery appeared to be impressed by the spectacle. It was like a glimpse of the promised land, albeit not from the mountains of Moab, but from the plains of 'Wyoming. Perhaps never again did the splendid panorama of the sierra of the Big Horn appear so magnificent to the eyes that gazed upon the fullness of its glory on that brilliant morning of leafy June.
We observed on this march, along toward noon, supposed Indian signal fires. Our pickets had been much strengthened already, but now the General sent forward a strong cavalry detachment to feel for the expected enemy, who might attack us at any moment. We then suspected, what we afterwards knew to be correct, that the main body of the Indians was in Montana, keeping watch on the columns under Terry, and particularly the command of General Gibbon, who had under him the infantry of the expedition. It was well known that General Custer, with the 7th Cavalry, had left Fort Abraham Lincoln in the middle of May, and was liable to be heard from before many days. Now, however,
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that they knew of the presence of Crook's brigade in their country, we all knew that the Indians would not leave us unmolested much longer. Bugle calls were abolished, and all orders were transmitted through the officers of the respective staffs.
Crazy Woman's Fork, like all of its sister streams, is fed from the snows of the Big Horn, and its water is icy cold, even in summer. But it was a treacherous spot in which to camp, and had been the theatre of many a direful tragedy. Scrubwood and gullies abound at the crossing of the Montana trail, and these always induce Indians to form ambuscades. The Montana miners had evidently preceded us, for we saw their well-devised fortifications. The wagons had also moved on two tracks, which showed that, in passing ravines, and other dangerous places, the practiced frontiersmen had marched between their teams, so as to be ready for instant defense. Our pickets were soon posted, supper served and we fell off to sleep as tranquilly as if there were no Indians to disturb our happiness or no gory imaginings to tinge our dreams.
Our next march was a short one, Clear Fork being only a little over twenty miles from Crazy Woman. The water of Clear Fork is absolutely translucent, and in the days of which I am writing there was not in America a more prolific haunt of the exquisite brook trout. This stream is also a tributary of the Powder, but flows independently, thus escaping contamination, through very many miles of as charming a game country as ever the eye of man rested upon.
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On that day, for the first time, I saw an Indian "grave." It was situated on a little bluff above the creek. After dismounting I went up to observe it. The Sioux never put their dead underground. This "grave" was a buffalo hide supported by willow slips and leather thongs, strapped upon four cotton-wood poles, about six feet high. The corpse had been removed either by the Indians themselves or by the miners who had passed through a few days before. Around lay two blue blankets, with red trimmings, a piece of a jacket all covered with beads, a moccasin, a fragment of Highland tartan, a brilliant shawl and a quantity of horse hair. Scarcely had I noted these objects when a squad of young fellows from the 9th Infantry walked up the hill after firewood. They, evidently, were lacking in the bump of veneration, as the following remarks will show:
"Hello, Sam, what in h— is that?"
"That—oh, that is the lay-out of some d—d dead Indian. Let's pull it down. Here, boys, each of you grab a pole and we'll tear it up by the roots."
They did tear it up by the roots, and within ten minutes the Indian tomb was helping to boil the dinners of the 9th Infantry.
Thus the relationship of all men to each other in point of savagery was established. The Sioux defaced the white graves at Reno. The whites converted the Sioux funeral pedestal into kindling-wood. It was all the same to the dead on both sides.
In the evening two rough-looking fellows came into camp and reported that they belonged to a party which was com
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ing from the Black Hills to the Big Horn. The main body, they said, was a day's inarch behind us. It was their fires we saw the day before. The men went away like Arabs, and only when they had gone did it strike our officers that they were "squaw men" from the Sioux camp, who visited us in the capacity of spies in behalf of their Indian people in-law. It seemed stupid not to have detained the rascals as prisoners.
June 5th was one of our shortest marches—only sixteen miles. We got into camp at old Fort Phil Kearney about noon, and were located in a most delightful valley, at the foothills of the Big Horn mountains. This is a celebrated spot. Here it was that Colonel Carrington founded the fort made bloodily famous by the slaughter of Fetterman, Brown, Grummond and eighty-three soldiers on December 22, 1866. The world has heard the story how the wood party was attacked down Piney creek, half a mile from the post. How Fetterman and the rest, being signaled, went to their relief. How a party of Indians decoyed them beyond the bluffs and then fell upon them like an avalanche, killing every man and mutilating everybody except that of Metzker, a bugler, who fought with such desperate valor that the Indians covered the remains with a buffalo robe as a token of their savage respect. They attempted to take this brave bugler alive, but be killed so many of the warriors that he had to be finished. This much lied Cloud's people subsequently told our soldiers. From our camp we could plainly see the fatal ravine on the old Fort Smith road, where those brave but hapless soldiers fell. They call the
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place surrounding it " Massacre Hill." Alas, for glory! I visited the cemetery near the site of the fort that afternoon. The humble railing around it was torn down by the Sioux. The brick monument above the bodies of the officers was half demolished, and a long, low mound, upon which the grass grew damp, rank and dismal, indicated the last resting place of the unfortunate men who met their dreadful fate at the hands of the very Indians who were then being fed on government rations at the Red Cloud agency. Red Cloud, now old and half paralytic, was a prime mover in that butchery. The event closed Colonel Carrington's career, although the court of inquiry acquitted him, chiefly on the ground that he positively ordered Col. Fetterman not to pursue the Indians beyond the bluffs.
We passed, on our road to Phil Kearney, Lake De Smet, called after the famed Jesuit,—a sheet of salt water without visible outlet, about two and one-half miles long by about half a mile average width.
Somebody came into camp in the afternoon and told General Crook that there were buffalo grazing beyond "Massacre Hill." Acting on the information, he, with Captain Dickerson, of his staff, and Major Chambers, of the infantry, mounted his horse and rode out in pursuit. They went far beyond our lines, saw a dozen deer, one grizzly bear, but no buffalo. Crook, however, shot a cow elk.
Whosoever selected the site of Fort Phil Kearney, did not do so with an eve to the safety of its garrison. It was commanded by high wooded bluffs, within easy range, on every side. Indians could have easily approached within a
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couple of hundred yards of the stockade, without much fear of discovery. A dozen better sites could have been selected in the immediate neighborhood.
It was said that the officer who made the selection—Colonel was influenced thereto by his wife, a lady of some will. He used to delight in sounding the bugle calls himself. One morning, it is related, he was proceeding to sound reveille, when his wife asked him: "Where are you going with that bugle ?" He explained briefly.
"You may march all you please," said she, "but here I will remain. This is as good a place for your fort as any other."
The colonel, who desired domestic happiness, gave in right away, and so Fort Phil Kearney, of bloody memory, came to be built.
Crook wanted to establish his permanent camp at a place called Goose Creek, reported to be only eight miles from Phil Kearney. The whole command—wagons and all— started out to find it early on the morning of June 6th. We crossed the " Great Piney," a rapid mountain torrent, and marched through the fatal ravine in which Fetterman's column got cut to pieces. So perfect a trap was never seen. There was no way out of it. A small party had no more chance of escaping those 1,500 Sioux, in such a position, than an exhausted fly has to break away from the strong spider who has it fast in the web. Fetterman, it is said, was in bad humor with las commanding officer when he left the fort, and hence his rashness and the tragic result thereof. "Not unavenged he died," however, for 180
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Indians, by their own acknowledgment, were killed or wounded. Every man of the expedition looked with interest at a spot scarcely second to Fort William Henry as a gloomy memorial of Indian warfare.
Our road lay through one of the richest grass ranges that I have ever seen. It is capable of high cultivation. The air was laden with perfume, the ravines being filled with wild flowers of many species. We marched on for hours, but no Goose creek appeared. Crook had evidently changed his mind, for we diverged to the northeast somewhat abruptly, following the course of a stream called Beaver creek. It ran at the base of a range of red hills, scraggy and wild, and we were not long in leaving the beauteous scenery of the morning far behind us. We found out that we were on the old Bridger trail, and marched five and twenty miles before halting at the desired point. En route we struck a buffalo herd and our men killed six of the animals—all in prime condition. We saw a number of deer, and wild fowl sprang up at almost every step. The plain was indented with buffalo tracks, showing that we had struck a belt of the hunting grounds. The veterans said where you find the buffalo there you find the Indians too. But we saw no red hides that day. A heavy thunder-storm, accompanied by fierce rain, made our camp rather dreary. At the camp-fires an adjutant told us that Crook was marching on Tongue river.
The continuous marching over rough roads told severely on our stock. Many of the pack mules were half flayed alive, their loads having galled them dreadfully. Several
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cavalry horses looked worn out, and not a few of the men were suffering from inflammatory rheumatism — a disease quite prevalent in Wyoming. We had only one cavalry and four infantry ambulances, and three doctors looked after the whole command. "Put the sick in the wagons," was the order, the ambulances being full. A sick man might as well be stretched upon the rack as in an army wagon. But a man has no business to be wounded or taken ill while engaged in that kind of enterprise. In the words of Marshal Massena, before Torres Vedras, the soldier on an Indian campaign must have " the heart of a lion and the stomach of a mouse."
We reached the Prairie Dog branch of Beaver creek early on the morning of the 7th of June, and we followed that creek over hills and rocks for about eighteen miles. It was an execrable road, the stream being of a winding character, and we had to cross and re-cross it several times, drawing our knees up on our saddles, and shouldering our carbines to save them from being wet. The wagons also had a hard time in keeping up, and it was quite late when they and the rear guard finally reached camp at the junction of Prairie Dog creek with Tongue river. It was a point where few white men had been previously, and was situated about half a dozen miles from the Montana line, in the very heart of the hostile country. Tongue river wound around the neck of land on which our tents were pitched, like a horse shoe. Prairie Dog creek bounded us on the south ; a low ridge rose to our left, and in front, beyond Tongue river and commanding it and our camp, there stood
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a bold, steep bluff. The bottom lands were well covered with timber. Some of the officers found fault with the position, on account of its rather exposed situation, but others treated the matter lightly, and said there was nothing to be apprehended.
At that period General Crook seemed to be a man of iron. He endured heat, cold, marching and every species of discomfort with Indian-like stolidity. If he felt weariness, he never made anybody the wiser. While apparently frank to all who approached him, he was very uncommunicative except to his aides. He was also a born Nimrod', and always rode far in advance of the column, attended by a few officers and an orderly or two, chasing whatever species of game he might happen to find. Looking back at his conduct of that time, I cannot help thinking that luck was greatly on his side, because, as we very soon found out, the General might have run into a strong war party of the Sioux any day, and then nothing could have saved him and his few attendants. He was frequently warned of the risk he ran, but paid no attention to the advice.
At this camp Private Francis Tierney, alias Doyle, born in Albany, N. Y., and a member of Company B of the 3d Cavalry, who had accidentally shot himself in the bivouac on the dry branch of the South Cheyenne river, on the evening of May 30th, died. He was buried during the afternoon with military honors. Every officer and soldier not on duty attended the funeral, and the burial service was impressively read by Col. Guy V. Henry, over the grave, which was dug in a lonely spot among the low hills
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surrounding the place. The body was wrapped in an overcoat and blanket, and Captain Meinhold shoveled the first spadeful of clay on the cold remains. A rough granite boulder was rolled upon the grave, and the young soldier was shut out forever from the living world. Three volleys— the warrior's requiem—pealed above his tomb, and we left him to his ever-enduring sleep. Except, perhaps, the burial of a human being in mid ocean, the interment of a soldier in the great American wilderness of that epoch was about the gloomiest of funeral experiences. It was, indeed, a sad destiny that led this young man to <lie, accidentally, it is true, by his own hand—the first of Crook's brigade to lay his bones in the terra incognita of Wyoming.
CHAPTER VII.
THE FIRST FUSILLADE
At about 11 o'clock, on the night of June 8th, I was aroused from sleep by the loud and persistent howling of what seemed to be a band of coyotes—animals that the Indians often imitate when approaching a camp. Soon afterward a deep voice was heard shouting down by the river, to the men encamped there. Captain Sutorius, who was also aroused, said, " That sounds like the voice of an Indian." The sound appeared to come from the tall bluff above Tongue river. General Crook's attention was called to the matter, and he sent Arnold, a half-breed scout, to interview the mysterious visitor. Arnold recognized the Crow dialect, but, thinking it rather imperfect, had his suspicions aroused. The savage was invisible, being concealed among the rocks and brush on the opposite bank.
"Any half-breeds there—any Crows?" he asked, as Arnold challenged him. The scout made some reply which was not understood by the party of the first part, for the Indian asked in louder tones than previously, " Have the Crows come yet?"
The scout, unfortunately, replied in one of the Sioux idioms, whereupon the savage became silent, and was not heard from again that night. General Crook was very angry, because he believed that the nocturnal visitor was a
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runner from the expected Crow Indians, whose arrival had been so long delayed. And we were not very long in finding out that the General had made a correct guess.
It is rather singular that in 1876 most of the people skilled in mining seemed certain that gold would be found in the Big Horn mountains, and the streams that had their sources among them. A few stray miners had attached themselves to Crook's column, in the hope of "prospecting" for the precious metal. A man named Wyatt was particularly enthusiastic on the subject. He was a strange genius, and had explored most of the out-of-the-way places on the frontier. Wyatt told me, in Tongue River camp, that the two miners suspected of being " squaw men," who followed us to Clear Creek, said to him that they were from Montana, and four of them had left there for the Black Hills early in the spring. Being a small party, they were afraid to keep the lower road, and therefore footed it through the mountains, living on game. When they reached "Crazy Woman's Fork," they saw a bar in the middle of the river and determined to prospect it. Having no pan, they extemporized one out of a blanket and a willow hoop. In two days, they told Wyatt, $70 in gold was "panned out." Then they left for the Black Hills, where one of the party died. Matters not being prosperous there, they organized a party of sixty men and started for "Crazy Woman," which they reached one day after we left. They had followed Crook's command to buy sugar and coffee, of which they obtained a small quantity. They did not show Wyatt any gold specimens. It was their intention, they said, to keep track of the
OR THE CONQUEST OF THE SIOUX
expedition, and to let General Crook know what success they might meet with. Wyatt gave their story for what it was worth, but was not prepared to vouch for the truth of all they said. In view of the fact that no gold has been discovered in that locality since, the story of the two tramps must have been a fabrication.
On the morning of the 9th some cavalry soldiers, who had been out hunting buffalo, reported having found a fresh Indian trail, and during the night Captain De wees' company of the 2d Cavalry had been disturbed by something, and the firing of their pickets had aroused the whole camp, so that expectation and excitement began to run pretty high. Some of the veterans swore that a recruit had been alarmed by the swaying of a bunch of sage brush in the night breeze, and it remained for Indians in the flesh to appear, before many of them would believe that there were any hostiles in the country.
At about 6:30 o'clock, on the evening of the 9th, just as the soldiers were currying their horses on the picket line, a shot was heard on the right of the camp, and it was quickly followed by a volley which appeared to come from the commanding bluff beyond the river. This opinion was soon confirmed by the whistling and singing of bullets around our ears, and some of us did lively jumping around to get our arms. The Indians had come at last, and were ventilating our tents, by riddling the canvas, in a masterly manner. We were taken by surprise, and the men stood by their horses waiting for orders. Meanwhile Sheol appeared to have broken loose down by the river and all around the
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north line of our camp. If the casualties had borne any proportion to the sound of the firing, the mortality must have been immense. On our extreme left, the pickets of the 2d Cavalry kept up an incessant fire, which was very spiritedly responded to by the Sioux. The higher bluff, which commanded the entire camp, situated almost directly north, seemed alive with redskins, judging by the number of shots, although only two Indians, mounted on fleet ponies, were visible on the crest. They rode up and down in front of us, repeatedly, and appeared to act in the double capacity of chiefs and lookouts. Although a great number of soldiers fired upon them, they appeared to bear charmed lives. But the savages were rapidly getting the range of our camp, and making things uncomfortably warm. Crook's headquarters and the infantry lines were immediately below them, while our tents, on the southern slope, offered a very attractive target. Their guns carried admirably, and made loungers, who thought themselves comparatively safe, hop around in a very lively, if not over-graceful, manner. The firing had lasted ten minutes, when a brilliant flash of inspiration came upon the officer in command. The men had instinctively fallen in line—the worst thing they could have done under the circumstances. All at once a young staff officer, excited and breathless, rode into the camp of the 1st Battalion of the 3d Cavalry.
"Colonel Mills! Colonel Mills!" he shouted.
"Here, sir," replied the commander of the battalion.
"General Crook desires that you mount your men instantly, Colonel, cross the river and clear those bluffs of the Indians."'
OR THE CONQUEST OF THE SIOUX
"All right," said Col. Mills, and he gave the order.
All at once the four companies of our battalion—A, Lieutenant Lawson; E, Captain Sutorius; I, Captain Andrews and Lieutenant Foster, and M, Lieutenants Paul and Schwatka were in the saddle.
"Forward!" shouted the colonel, and forward we went.
A company of the 2d Cavalry was extended among the timber on the left, to cover the attack upon the bluffs. In a minute our charging companies were half wading, half swimming, through Tongue river, which is swift and broad at that point. The musketry continued to rattle and the balls to whiz as we crossed. Partially screened by cottonwood trees in the bottom-land, we escaped unhurt. In another minute we had gained the base of the bluffs, when we were ordered to halt and dismount, every eighth man holding the horses of the rest. Then we commenced to climb the rocks, under a scattering fire from our friends, the Sioux. The bluffs were steep and slippery, and took quite a time to surmount. Company A had the extreme right; M, the right center; E, the left center, and I, the extreme left. We reached the plateau almost simultaneously. The plain extended about 1,000 yards north and east, at which distance there arose a ridge, and behind that, at perhaps the same distance, another ridge. We could see our late assailants scampering like deer, their fleet ponies carrying them as fast as the wind up the first ascent, where they turned and fired. Our whole line replied, and the boys rushed forward with a yell. The Sioux gave us another salute, the balls going about 100 feet above our heads, and skedaddled to the bluff
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further back. There, nothing less than a long-range cannon could reach them, and we could pursue them no farther, as the place was all rocks and ravines, in which the advantage lay with the red warriors. The latter showed themselves, at that safe distance, on the east of the ridge, and appeared to take delight in displaying their equestrian accomplishments. I borrowed a field-glass and had a look at them. Not more than a dozen were in view, although at least fifty must have fired upon us in the first place. Those that I saw were dressed in a variety of costumes. One fellow wore what seemed to be a tin helmet, with a horse-hair plume. Another chap wore a " war bonnet," but most of them had the usual eagle feathers. To say the truth, they did not seem very badly scared, although they got out of the way with much celerity when they saw us coming in force. Our firing having completely ceased, we could hear other firing on the south side of the river, far to the left, where the 2d Cavalry had their pickets. This, we subsequently learned, was caused by a daring attempt made by the Indians to cross a ford at that point and take the camp in rear, with the object of driving off the herd. They failed signally, and lost one man killed and some wounded. Whether our party killed any of the Sioux I don't know. They did their best, which is all that could be asked of them.
Our casualties were comparatively few, owing to the prompt action of Mills' battalion, but quite sufficient to cure skeptics of the idea that there were no hostiles in the neighborhood. After the Indians retired, Mills' men were withdrawn to camp, and the bluff was garrisoned by Captain
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Rawolle's company of the 2d Cavalry, who had a most miserable experience, as they did not bring their tents to the other side and had to endure "in the open" a pitiless rainfall all through the night. The evident object of the savages was to "set us on foot" by stampeding our herd.
Many ludicrous stories grew out of this skirmish, and one in particular deserves to be recorded. During the tiring, the pipe of Colonel Mills' tent stove had been perforated, greatly to the horror of his colored servant, who was by no means in love with grim-visaged war. The correspondent of a Southern paper—an officer by the way—recorded the fact, and his paper, taking a practical view of the statement, came out in a wise editorial and condemned the colonel's rashness in wearing a stove-pipe hat in the field! When the paper finally reached us, everybody laughed immoderately, and Mills didn't hear the last of that "stove pipe" for a long time.
General Crook began to grow restive under the continued absence of the friendly Indians, and, not liking his position on Tongue river, moved his command, through a fairly fertile country, to Goose, or Wildgoose, creek, about fourteen miles from the scene of the Indian attack and repulse. The creek which bears a name so undignified is really a fine mountain stream, having two branches, known as Big and Little Goose creek, which, diverging near the foothills of the Big Horn, finally come together and empty themselves into the copious waters of Tongue river. This was a thoroughly delightful camping ground, well wooded, watered and supplied with game, while the scenery was all that
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could be asked for. That fine region, then terrorized by the war parties of the Sioux and shunned by the Caucasian race, is now thickly settled, and several thriving hamlets have been built on the sites of our old encampments. Herds innumerable now feed where only the buffalo roamed as late as 1876. We got into camp in a pelting rain, which, however, speedily ceased, and the weather became delightful.
CHAPTER VII.
INDIANS IN WAR PAINT
Just as we began to give up all hope of ever again seeing our scouts or hearing from our Indian allies, Frank Gruard and Louis Richard, accompanied by a gigantic Crow chief, came into camp at noon on the 14th, and, amid the cheers of the soldiers, rode direct to the General's headquarters. I proceeded there at once and had an interview with the celebrated scout, Gruard, who is half a Frenchman and half a Sandwich Islander. He was brought to this country from Honolulu when a mere boy; ran the mail for the government on the Pacific coast for some years, and, when only nineteen years old, was captured by Crazy Horse's band of Sioux. The chief spared the young man's life, and he lived in the Indian village, having espoused a handsome squaw, for some years. A misunderstanding with his wife's relatives made the village too hot for him, and, being allowed comparative liberty, he took the very earliest opportunity of taking "French leave." He was then about twenty-eight years of age, was familiar with every inch of the country, could speak nearly every Indian dialect, and was invaluable to General Crook, who would rather have lost a third of his command, it is said, than be deprived of Frank Gruard. The scout told the writer that he and his companions had had a hard time of it since they left Fort
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Reno to search for the Crows. A band of Sioux got sight of them the second day out, and chased them into the mountains. They eluded their pursuers, and, after four days' hard riding, reached the Big Horn river, which they had to swim with their horses. A few miles from that stream they saw an Indian village, full of women and warriors. The latter to the number of about 300, charged down upon them, mounted on ponies. The scouts had a river between them and the Indians—a small river, but sufficient to insure their safe retreat. The red men fired upon them without effect, and then Gruard, by their large, bushy heads, entirely different from the trimmer Sioux, recognized the Crows. He immediately shouted to them in their own language, and very soon the three scouts were in their midst, saluted by a storm of "Hows!" Then they learned that five Crow scouts had started to find our camp. It was this party that attempted to speak to us from Tongue river bluffs previously, but when Arnold spoke Sioux they became alarmed, suspecting a trap, and retreated. They would have come in only that Gruard told them we were going to camp on Goose creek. They saw us leave 'Fort Phil. Kearney, but when we took the Tongue river road they concluded we were not the party they were looking for, and turned back. Gruard soon set matters right, and before many hours had nearly 200 warriors ready for the road.
They were, he said, within ten miles of our camp, but, with true Indian caution, declined to come in until perfectly assured that it would be a safe proceeding. Baptiste Fourier had remained behind with the Indians to give them con-
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fidence. Five Snake, or Sho-sho-ne, scouts, sent from their tribe at Sweetwater valley to notify the Crows that they were coming to help us and should be treated as friends, were with the party. Louis Richard, the Indian scout, and Major Burt went back for the Crows. We waited impatiently for their arrival. At six o'clock a picket galloped into camp to notify Crook that his allies were in sight.
Then we saw a grove of spears and a crowd of ponies upon the northern heights, and there broke upon the air a fierce, savage whoop. The Crows had come in sight of our camp, and this was their mode of announcing their satisfaction. We went down to the creek to meet them, and a picturesque tribe they were. Their horses—nearly every man had an extra pony—were little beauties, and neighed shrilly at their American brethren, who, unused to Indians, kicked, plunged and reared in a manner that threatened a general stampede. "How! How!" the Crows shouted to us, one by one, as they filed past. When near enough, they extended their hands and gave ours a hearty shaking. Most of them were young men, many of whom were handsomer than some white people I have met. Three squaws were there on horseback—wives of the chiefs.
The head sachems were "Old Crow," "Medicine Crow," "Feather Head," and "Good Heart," all deadly enemies of the Sioux. Each man wore a gaily colored mantle, handsome leggings, eagle feathers, and elaborately worked moccasins. In addition to their carbines and spears, they carried the primeval bow and arrow. Their hair was long, but gracefully tied up and gorgeously plumed. Their features,
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as a rule were aquiline, and the Crows have the least prominent cheek bones of any Indians that I have yet encountered. The squaws wore a kind of half-petticoat and parted their hair in the middle, the only means of guessing at their sex. Quick as lightning they gained the center of our camp, dismounted, watered and lariated their ponies, constructed their "tepees," or "lodges," and, like magic, the Indian village arose in our midst. Fires were lighted without delay, and the Crows were soon devouring their evening meal of dried bear's meat and black-tailed deer. In the middle of this repast, we saw several warriors raise their heads and say "Ugh, ugh! Sho-sho-ne." They pointed southward, and, coming down the bluffs in that direction, we saw a line of horsemen, brilliantly attired, riding at whirlwind speed. Crook sent a scout to meet them. Hardly had he time to start forward when the new-comers crossed the creek, and, in column of twos, like a company of regular cavalry, rode in among us. They carried two beautiful American flags, and each warrior bore a pennon. They looked like Cossacks of the Don, but were splendidly armed with government rifles and revolvers. Nearly all wore magnificent war bonnets and scarlet mantles. They were not as large as the Crow Indians, nor as good-looking, but they appeared to be hardy and resolute. The meeting between them and the Crows was boisterous and exciting. Demoniacal yells rang through the camp, and then this wild cavalry galloped down to headquarters, rode around Crook and his staff, saluted, and, following the example of the Crows, were soon bivouacked and deep in their rough and ready suppers. Tom Cosgrove, chief
