The most perilous adventure of my life occurred September 12, 1874, in
what was known as the Buffalo Wallow Fight. My escape from death was
miraculous. The year 1874, as the reader doubtless may have observed,
brought me full measure of things I had dreamed of doing when a boy. I
came in contact with hostile Indians as frequently as the most devoted
warrior might wish, and found that it was serious business.
On September 10, 1874, General Nelson A. Miles, in command of the
troops campaigning against the Indians in the Southwest, was on
McClellan Creek, in the Panhandle, when he ordered Amos Chapman and
myself, scouts, and four enlisted men to carry dispatches to Fort
Supply. The enlisted men were Sergeant Z. T. Woodhull, Troop I;
Private Peter Rath, Troop A; Private John Harrington, Troop H; and
Private George W. Smith, Troop M, Sixth Cavalry. When General Miles
handed us the dispatches, he told us that we could have all the
soldiers we thought necessary. His command was short of rations. We
preferred the smallest possible number.
Leaving camp, we traveled mostly at night, resting in secluded places
during the day. War parties were moving in every direction, and there
was danger of attack at every turn. On the second day, just as the sun
was rising, we were nearing a divide between the Washita River and
Gageby Creek. Riding to the top of a little knoll, we found ourselves
almost face to face with a large band of Kiowa and Comanche warriors.
The Indians saw us at the same instant and, circling quickly,
surrounded us. We were in a trap. We knew that the best thing to do
was to make a stand and fight for our lives, as there would be great
danger of our becoming separated in the excitement of a running fight,
after which the Indians could the more easily kill us one by one. We
also realized that we could do better work on foot, so we dismounted
and placed our horses in the care of George Smith. In a moment or two
poor Smith was shot down, and the horses stampeded.
When Smith was shot, he fell flat on his stomach, and his gun fell
from his hand, far beyond his reach. But no Indian was ever able to
capture that gun; if one ventured near Smith, we never failed to bring
him down. We thought Smith was dead when he fell, but he survived
until about 11 o'clock that night.
[Illustration: _Ermoke and His Band of Murderous Kiowa Raiders._]
I realized at once that I was in closer quarters than I had ever been
in my life, and I have always felt that I did some good work that day.
I was fortunate enough not to become disabled at any stage of the
fight, which left me free to do my best under the circumstances. I
received one wound--a bullet in the calf of my leg. I was wearing a
thin cashmere shirt, slightly bloused. This shirt was literally
riddled with bullets. How a man could be shot at so many times at
close range and not be hit I could never understand. The Indians
seemed to feel absolutely sure of getting us, so sure, in fact, that
they delayed riding us down and killing us at once, which they could
easily have done, and prolonged the early stages of the fight merely
to satisfy their desire to toy with an enemy at bay, as a cat would
play with a mouse before taking its life.
We saw that there was no show for us to survive on this little
hillside, and decided that our best fighting ground was a small
mesquite flat several hundred yards distant. Before we undertook to
shift our position a bullet struck Amos Chapman. I was looking at him
when he was shot. Amos said, "Billy, I am hit at last," and eased
himself down. The fight was so hot that I did not have time to ask him
how badly he was hurt. Every man, save Rath and myself, had been
wounded. Our situation was growing more desperate every minute. I knew
that something had to be done, and quickly, or else all of us in a
short while would be dead or in the hands of the Indians, who would
torture us in the most inhuman manner before taking our lives.
I could see where the buffaloes had pawed and wallowed a depression,
commonly called a buffalo "wallow," and I ran for it at top speed. It
seemed as if a bullet whizzed past me at every jump, but I got through
unharmed. The wallow was about ten feet in diameter. I found that its
depth, though slight, afforded some protection. I shouted to my
comrades to try to come to me, which all of them save Smith and
Chapman, commenced trying to do. As each man reached the wallow, he
drew his butcher knife and began digging desperately with knife and
hands to throw up the dirt round the sides. The land happened to be
sandy, and we made good headway, though constantly interrupted by the
necessity of firing at the Indians as they dashed within range.
It was probably about noon before we reached the wallow. Many times
that terrible day did I think that my last moment was at hand. Once,
when the Indians were crowding us awfully hard, one of the boys raised
up and yelled, "No use, boys, no use; we might as well give it up." We
answered by shouting to him to lie down. At that moment a bullet
struck in the soft bank near him and completely filled his mouth with
dirt. I was so amused that I laughed, though in a rather sickly way,
for none of us felt much like laughing.
By this time, however, I had recovered from the first excitement of
battle, and was perfectly cool, as were the rest of the men. We were
keenly aware that the only thing to do was to sell our lives as dearly
as possible. We fired deliberately, taking good aim, and were picking
off an Indian at almost every round. The wounded men conducted
themselves admirably, and greatly assisted in concealing our crippled
condition by sitting upright, as if unhurt, after they reached the
wallow. This made it impossible for the Indians accurately to guess
what plight we were in. Had they known so many of us were wounded
undoubtedly they would have rode in and finished us.
After all had reached the wallow, with the exception of Chapman and
Smith, all of us thinking that Smith was dead, somebody called to
Chapman to come on in. We now learned for the first time that
Chapman's leg was broken. He called back that he could not walk, as
his left knee was shattered.
I made several efforts to reach him before I succeeded. Every time the
Indians saw me start, they would fire such a volley that I was forced
to retreat, until finally I made a run and got to Chapman. I told him
to climb on my back, my plan being to carry him as I would a little
child. Drawing both his legs in front of me, and laying the broken one
over the sound one, to support it, I carried him to the wallow, though
not without difficulty, as he was a larger man than myself, and his
body a dead weight. It taxed my strength to carry him.
We were now all in the wallow, except Smith, and we felt that it would
be foolish and useless to risk our lives in attempting to bring in his
dead body. We had not seen him move since the moment he went down. We
began digging like gophers with our hands and knives to make our
little wall of earth higher, and shortly had heaped up quite a little
wall of dirt around us. Its protection was quickly felt, even though
our danger was hardly lessened.
When I look back and recall our situation, I always find myself
thinking of how my wounded companions never complained nor faltered,
but fought as bravely as if a bullet had not touched them. Sometimes
the Indians would ride toward us at headlong speed with lances
uplifted and poised, undoubtedly bent upon spearing us. Such moments
made a man brace himself and grip his gun. Fortunately, we were able
to keep our heads and to bring down or disable the leader. Such
charges proved highly dangerous to the Indians, and gradually grew
less frequent.
Thus, all that long, hot September day the Indians circled round us or
dashed past, yelling and cutting all kinds of capers. All morning we
had been without water, and the wounded were sorely in need of it. In
the stress and excitement of such an encounter, even a man who has not
been hurt grows painfully thirsty, and his tongue and lips are soon as
dry as a whetstone. Ours was the courage of despair. We knew what
would befall us if we should be captured alive--we had seen too many
naked and mangled bodies of white men who had been spread-eagled and
tortured with steel and fire to forget what our own fate would be. So
we were determined to fight to the end, not unmindful of the fact that
every once in a while there was another dead or wounded Indian.
About 3 o'clock a black cloud came up in the west, and in a short time
the sky shook and blazed with thunder and lightning. Rain fell in
blinding sheets, drenching us to the skin. Water gathered quickly in
the buffalo wallow, and our wounded men eagerly bent forward and drank
from the muddy pool. It was more than muddy--that water was red with
their own blood that had flowed from their wounds and lay clotting and
dry in the hot September sun.
The storm and the rain proved our salvation. The wind had shifted to
the north and was now drearily chilling us to the bone. An Indian
dislikes rain, especially a cold rain, and these Kiowas and Comanches
were no exception to the rule. We could see them in groups out of
rifle range sitting on their horses with their blankets drawn tightly
around them. The Plains country beats the world for quick changes in
weather, and in less than an hour after the rain had fallen, the wind
was bitterly cold. Not a man in our crowd had a coat, and our thin
shirts were scant protection. Our coats were tied behind our saddles
when our horses stampeded, and were lost beyond recovery. I was
heart-sick over the loss of my coat, for in the inside pocket was my
dearest treasure, my mother's picture, which my father had given me
shortly before his death. I was never able to recover it.
The water was gathering rapidly in the wallow and soon had reached a
depth of two inches. Not a man murmured. Not one thought of surrender.
The wounded were shivering as if they had ague.
We now found that our ammunition was running low. This fact rather
appalled us, as bullets, and plenty of them, were our only protection.
At the fight at the Walls, not only was there plenty of ammunition,
but the buildings themselves gave confidence. Necessity compelled us
to save every cartridge as long as possible, and not to fire at an
Indian unless we could see that he meant business and was coming right
into us.
Late in the afternoon somebody suggested that we go out and get
Smith's belt and six-shooter, as he had been shot early in the fight
and his belt undoubtedly was loaded with cartridges.
Rath offered to go, and soon returned and said that Smith was still
alive, which astonished us greatly, as well as causing us to regret
that we had not known it earlier in the day. Rath and I at once got
ready to bring Smith to the buffalo wallow. By supporting the poor
wounded fellow between us, he managed to walk. We could see that there
was no chance for him. He was shot through the left lung and when he
breathed the wind sobbed out of his back under the shoulder blade.
Near the wallow an Indian had dropped a stout willow switch with which
he had been whipping his pony. With this switch a silk handkerchief
was stuffed into the gaping bullet hole in Smith's back.
Night was approaching, and it looked blacker to me than any night I
had ever seen. Ours was a forlorn and disheartening situation. The
Indians were still all around us. The nearest relief was seventy-five
miles away. Of the six men in the wallow, four were badly wounded, and
without anything to relieve their suffering. We were cold and hungry,
with nothing to eat, and without a blanket, coat or hat to protect us
from the rain and the biting wind. It was impossible to rest or sleep
in the two inches of water in wallow.
I remember that I threw my hat, a wide-brimmed sombrero, as far from
me as I could when our horses stampeded--the hat was in my way and too
good a target for the Indians to shoot at.
We were unable to get grass for bedding, as the whole country had been
burnt off by the Indians. It was absolutely necessary, however, that
the men should have some kind of bed to keep them off the cold, damp
ground. Rath and I solved the problem by gathering tumble-weeds which
in that country the wind would drive for miles and miles, until the
weeds lodged and became fast. Many of them were bigger than a bushel
basket, and their twigs so tough that the weeds had the "spring" of a
wire mattress. We crushed the weeds, and lay down on them for the
night, though not a man dared close his eyes in sleep.
By the time heavy darkness had fallen every Indian had disappeared.
Happily, they did not return to molest us during the night. There was
a new moon, but so small and slender that in the clouded sky there was
little light. While there was still light, I took the willow switch
and sat down on the edge of the bank and carefully cleaned every gun.
While I was cleaning the guns, we held a consultation to decide what
would be best for us to do. We agreed that somebody should go for
help. No journey could have been beset with greater danger. Rath and I
both offered to go. The task was squarely up to us, as all the other
men were injured. I insisted that I should go, as I knew the country,
and felt confident that I could find the trail that led to Camp
Supply. I was sure that we were not far from this trail.
My insistence at once caused protest from the wounded. They were
willing that Rath should go, but would not listen to my leaving them.
Once I put my hand on my gun with the intention of going anyway, then
yielded to their wishes against my better judgment, and decided to
remain through the night. The wounded men relied greatly upon my skill
as a marksman.
Bidding us goodbye, Rath disappeared in the darkness. After he had
been gone about two hours he came back, saying that he could not find
the trail.
By this time Smith had grown much worse and was begging us in piteous
tones to shoot him and put an end to his terrible sufferings. We found
it necessary to watch him closely to prevent his committing suicide.
There was not a man among us who had not thought of that same
melancholy fate. When the fight was at its worst, with the Indians
closing in on all sides, and when it seemed that every minute would be
our last, I was strongly tempted to take my butcher knife, which I
kept at razor edge, and cut off my hair. In those days my hair was
black and heavy and brushed my shoulders. As a matter of fact, I was
rather proud of my hair. Its luxuriance would have tempted any Indian
to scalp me at the first opportunity. I had a further and final
plan--to save my last bullet for self destruction.
Poor Smith endured his agony like a brave soldier. Our hearts ached
but we could do nothing to relieve his pain. About 10 o'clock that
night he fell asleep and we were glad of it, for in sleep he could
forget his sufferings. Later in the night one of the boys felt of him,
to see how he was getting along. He was cold in death. Men commonly
think of death as something to be shunned. There are times, however,
when its hand falls as tenderly as the touch of a mother's hand, and
when its coming is welcomed by those to whom hopeless suffering has
brought the last bitter dregs of life. We lifted the body of our dead
comrade and gently laid it outside the buffalo wallow on the mesquite
grass, covering the white face with a silk handkerchief.
Then the rest of us huddled together on the damp ground, and thought
of the morrow. That night is indelibly stamped in my memory; many a
time have its perils filled my dreams, until I awoke startled and
thrilled by a feeling of imminent danger. Every night the same stars
are shining way out there in the Panhandle, the winds sigh as
mournfully as they did then, and I often wonder if a single settler
who passes the lonely spot knows how desperately six men once battled
for their lives where now may be plowed fields, and safety and the
comforts of civilization.
Like everything else, the long night finally came to an end, and the
sun rose clear and warm next morning. By this time all the men were
willing that I should go for help, and I at once started. Daylight
exposed me to many dangers from which the night shielded me. By moving
cautiously at night, it was possible to avoid the enemy, but if
surprised, to stand a good chance of escape. In the daytime, however,
the enemy could lie in hiding and scan the country in every direction.
On the Plains, especially in the fall when the grass is brown, the
smallest moving object may be perceived by the trained eye at an
astonishingly long distance. I knew that I must proceed with utmost
caution, lest I fall into an ambush or be attacked in the open by
superior numbers.
I had traveled scarcely more than half a mile when I struck the plain
trail leading to Camp Supply. Hurrying along as rapidly as possible
and keeping a constant lookout for Indians, I checked myself at the
sudden sight of an outfit that seemed to cover about an acre of
ground, two miles or so to the northwest. The outfit at first did not
appear to be moving and I could not tell whether it was made up of
white men or Indians. I skulked to a growth of tall grass and hid for
a while. My nerves were too keen to endure hiding and waiting, so I
stole back and took another look. The outfit was moving toward me.
Shortly I was able to see that they were troops--Indians always
traveled strung out in a line, while these were traveling abreast.
I never felt happier in my life. I whanged loose with my old "50" to
attract the attention of the soldiers, and saw the whole command come
to a halt. I fired my gun a second time, which brought two soldiers to
me. I told them of our condition, and they rode rapidly back to the
command and reported. The commanding officer was Major Price, with a
troop, accompanying General Miles' supply train which was on its way
with supplies from Fort Supply to field headquarters.
The same Indians that we had been fighting had been holding this
supply train corralled for four days near the Washita River. Major
Price, luckily for the outfit, happened along and raised the siege.
The Indians had just given up the attack when we ran into them.
Major Price rode over to where I was waiting, bringing his army
surgeon with him. I described the condition of my comrades, after
which Major Price sent the surgeon and two soldiers to see what could
be done for the wounded. I pointed out the place, which was about a
mile distant, and asked the surgeon if he thought he could find it
without my going along, as Major Price wanted me to tell him about the
fight. The surgeon said that he could and rode away.
I was describing in detail all that had happened when I looked up and
saw that the relief party was bearing too far south. I fired my gun to
attract their attention, and then waved it in the direction which they
were to go. By this time they were within gunshot of my comrades in
the buffalo wallow. To my utter astonishment, I heard the roar of a
gun and saw a puff of smoke rise from the wallow--one of the men had
fired at the approaching strangers, killing a horse ridden by one of
the soldiers.
I ran forward as rapidly as possible, not knowing what the men would
do next. They were soon able to recognize me, and lowered their guns.
When we got to them the men said that they had heard shooting--the
shots I had fired to attract the attention of the troops--and supposed
that the Indians had killed me and were coming for them. They were
determined to take no chances, and shot at the surgeon and the two
soldiers the moment they got within range.
Despite the sad plight of the wounded men, about all the surgeon did
was to examine their injuries. The soldiers turned over a few pieces
of hardtack and some dried beef, which happened to be tied behind
their saddles. Major Price refused to leave any men with us. For this
he was afterwards severely censured, and justly. He would not even
provide us with firearms. Our own ammunition was exhausted and the
soldiers carried guns of different make and caliber from ours.
However, they said they would let General Miles know of our condition.
We were sure that help would come the moment General Miles heard the
news. At the time we were glad just to have seen these men and did not
think much about how they treated us.
We watched and waited until midnight of the second day after the
troops had passed before help came. A long way off in the dark we
heard the faint sound of a bugle. It made us swallow a big lump in our
throats and bite our lips. Nearer and clearer came the bugle notes.
Our nerves were getting "jumpy," so strong was our emotion. We fired
our guns, to let them know where we were, and soon the soldiers came
riding out of the darkness.
As soon as the wounded could be turned over to the surgeon, we placed
the body of our dead comrade in the wallow where we had all fought and
suffered together, and covered it with the dirt which we had ridged up
with our hands and butcher knives for breastworks. Then we went down
on the creek where the soldiers had built a big fire and cooked a meal
for us.
Next day the wounded were sent to Camp Supply where they were given
humane and careful treatment. Amos Chapman's leg was amputated above
the knee. Amos was as tough as second growth hickory and was soon out
of the hospital and in the saddle. All the men recovered and went
right on with the army. Chapman could handle a gun and ride as well as
ever, the only difference being that he had to mount his horse from
the right side, Indian fashion.
I should like once more to meet the men with whom I fought in the
Buffalo Wallow Fight, but I seldom hear from them. When I last heard
of Amos Chapman he was living at Seiling, Oklahoma. My last letter
from Sergeant Woodhull was dated Fort Wingate, New Mexico, 1883. This
was shortly after Colonel Dodge had published his book, "Our Wild
Indians," in which he attempted to give a circumstantial account of
the Buffalo Wallow Fight. Sergeant Woodhull was displeased with the
statement of facts, and resented the inaccuracies.
[Illustration: _Drew Dixon, Son of "Billy" Dixon._ Like His Father,
a Sure Shot.]
I guess I am partly to blame in the matter. When Colonel Dodge was
writing his book, he wrote and asked me to send him an account of the
fight. I neglected to do so, and he obtained his information from
other sources. If my present narrative differs from that of Colonel
Dodge, all I can say is that I have described the fight as I saw it.
In saying this I do not wish to place myself in the attitude of
censuring Colonel Dodge. However, it should be reasonably apparent
that a man with a broken leg cannot carry another man on his back. In
correcting this bit of border history I repeat that every one of my
comrades in that fight conducted himself in the most heroic manner,
bravely doing his part in every emergency. Below will be found the
text of the report which General Miles sent to Washington:
Headquarters Indian Territory Expedition,
Camp on Washita River, Texas,
September 24, 1874.
Adjutant General, U.S.A.,
Thro Offices Asst. Adjt. Gen., Headquarters
Department and Military Division of the Missouri and of the Army.
General:
I deem it but a duty to brave men and faithful soldiers to bring
to the notice of the highest military authority, an instance of
indomitable courage, skill and true heroism on the part of a
detachment from this command, with the request that the actors may
be rewarded, and their faithfulness and bravery recognized, by
pensions, medals of honor, or in such way as may be deemed most
fitting. On the night of the 10th inst. a party consisting of
Sergt. Z. T. Woodhull, Co. I; Privates Peter Rath, Co. A; John
Harrington, Co. H. and George W. Smith, Co. M, Sixth Cavalry;
Scouts Amos Chapman and William Dixon, were sent as bearers of
despatches from the camp of this command on McClellan Creek to
Camp Supply, I.T.
At 6 a.m., of the 12th, when approaching the Washita River, they
were met and surrounded by a band of Kiowa and Comanches, who had
scarcely left their Agency; at the first attack all were struck,
Private Smith mortally, and three others severely wounded.
Although enclosed on all sides and by overwhelming numbers, one of
them succeeded, while they were under a heavy fire at short range,
and while the others, with their rifles, were keeping the Indians
at bay in digging with his knife and hands a slight cover. After
this had been secured, they placed themselves within it, the
wounded walking with brave and painful efforts, and Private Smith,
though he had received a mortal wound, sitting upright within the
trench, to conceal the crippled condition of their party from the
Indians.
From early morning till dark, outnumbered 25 to 1, under an almost
constant fire and at such short range that they sometimes used
their pistols, retaining the last charge to prevent capture and
torture, this little party of five defended their lives and the
person of their dying comrade, without food, and their only drink
the rain water that collected in a pool mingled with their own
blood.
There is no doubt but that they killed more than double their
number, besides those that were wounded. The Indians abandoned the
attack on the 12th at dark.
The exposure and distance from the command which were necessary
incidents of their duty, were such, that for thirty-six hours from
the first attack, their condition could not be known, and not till
midnight of the 13th could they receive medical attendance and
food, exposed during this time to an incessant cold storm.
Sergt. Woodhull, Private Harrington and Scout Chapman were
seriously wounded. Private Smith died of his wounds on the morning
of the 13th. Private Rath and Scout Dixon were struck but not
disabled.
The simple recital of their deeds, and the mention of the odds
against which they fought, how the wounded defended the dying, and
the dying aided the wounded by exposure to fresh wounds after the
power of action was gone, these alone present a scene of cool
courage, heroism and self-sacrifice which duty, as well as
inclination prompts us to recognize, but which we cannot fully
honor.
Very Respectfully,
Your obedient servant,
(Signed) NELSON A. MILES,
Col. and Bvt. Maj. Gen'l. U.S.A., Commanding.
Headquarters Indian Territory Expedition,
Camp on Oasis Creek, I.T.,
Oct. 1, 1874.
Official copy respectfully furnished William Dixon.
By command of Bvt. Maj. Gen'l. Miles.
G. W. BAIRD,
Asst. Adjt. 5th Inf., A.A.A. Gen'l.
General Miles had both the heart and the accomplishments of a soldier,
and Congress voted to each of us the Medal of Honor. He was delighted
when the Medals came from Washington. With his own hands he pinned
mine on my coat when we were in camp on Carson Creek, five or six
miles west of the ruins of the original Adobe Walls. The text of the
official correspondence concerning the award of the Medals of Honor is
appended:
Headquarters Indian Territory Expedition,
Camp near Fort Sill, I.T.,
January 24th, 1875.
General Order No. 28:
The Commanding Officer takes pleasure in announcing to the troops
of this Expedition that his recommendation that the distinguished
heroism displayed on the 12th of September, 1874, by Sergeant Z.
T. Woodhull of Co. I, Private John Harrington, Co. H, and Peter
Rath Co. A, 6th Cavalry, and Scouts Amos Chapman and William Dixon
be recognized, has been approved by the highest military
authority, and that the Congress has bestowed upon each of these
men a Medal of Honor. It is now his pleasing duty to bestow upon
men who can worthily wear them, these tokens of the recognition
and approval of their Government.
By Command of Bvt. Maj. Gen'l. N. A. Miles.
(Signed) G. W. BAIRD,
1st Lieut. and Adjutant 5th Infty.,
A.A.A. General.
Headquarters Ind. Ter. Expedition.
Camp on Canadian, Texas.
December 24, 1874.
Mr. William Dixon,
Sir:
I take pleasure in presenting to you a Medal of Honor, as a
recognition by the Government of your skill, courage and
determined fortitude, displayed in an engagement with (5) others,
on the 12th of September, 1874, against hostile Indians, in
overwhelming numbers.
This mark of honor, I trust, will be long worn by you, and though
it in a small degree compensates for the hardships endured, yet it
is a lasting emblem of distinguished services, well earned in a
noble cause. It will ever recall the fact to you and yours, of
having materially aided in clearing this fair country of ruthless
savages, and freeing it from all time to civil settlements. This
must be an ever increasing gratification to you.
This badge of honor is most worthily bestowed.
Respectfully, &c.,
NELSON A. MILES,
Bvt. Maj. Gen'l. U.S. Army,
Commanding.
It was always my intention to go back and mark the spot where the
Buffalo Wallow Fight took place and where George Smith still lies
buried. Procrastination and the remoteness of the spot have prevented
my going.