Save for the Custer dogs, who were constantly chasing rabbits and
wolves, with now and then an antelope, the march west was not
exciting. After a time signs of the railroad ceased, and there were
only the stage stations, with occasional ranches, and with one or two
settlements.
Ninety miles along the Smoky Hill route was another Seventh Cavalry
post, Fort Harker, formerly named Fort Ellsworth. This was not much
of a fort, being composed of just a few bare, sod-roofed log cabins,
bravely floating the Stars and Stripes. Still further west were Fort
Hays and Fort Wallace or Pond Creek. However, increased at Fort Harker
by two more troops of the Seventh, the expedition turned off south for
Fort Larned, seventy miles across country, down by the Arkansas River
and the old Santa Fé Trail into New Mexico. A wagon road branched off
for it, from Harker.
At Fort Harker the expedition was met by a tall, bearded, soldierly man
who, Ned speedily heard as the word traveled through the column, was
Colonel Jesse H. Leavenworth, son of the older army man for whom Fort
Leavenworth was named, and formerly an army officer himself.
“He served out on the Colorado plains during the war,” at noon halt
explained Sergeant Kennedy—whom Ned much liked. “Commanded the Rocky
Mountain Rangers. A fine officer, they say. Now he’s the agent for the
Comanches and Kiowas, down at Larned. There’s another army man and
agent, too, at the same place: Major Wyncoop. His Injuns are Arapahos,
Cheyennes and ’Paches. Each agent blames t’other one for damage done.”
“How big is Fort Larned?” queried Ned.
“Well, Larned’s a fair post, but nothing like Riley, in size. Lots of
Injuns come in there, for their supplies and to trade buffalo-robes.
Stages and emigrants stop there, too.”
The weather continued mild and pleasant, and the march might have
seemed only a practice march, had it not been for the scouts now riding
more widely in front and on the flanks, examining the landscape. By
this might it be known that the real Indian country had been reached.
However, no Indians at all came near the march. They still were in
their winter villages, awaiting the signal of the bursting willow buds
and the greening grass. On duty regularly at headquarters tent, Ned
could not help but hear most of the conversation; and he heard Colonel
Leavenworth talking with General Custer.
“My Indians are mostly camped down south, on the Texas border,” was
explaining Colonel Leavenworth. “It will be hard to get them up this
far, until they draw their rations. Satanta is coming, though, to tell
you what he thinks.”
“The red rascal,” accused General Custer, roundly.
“N-no, he’s a smart Injun. He’s quite a man, Custer,” declared the
colonel. “I can count on Satanta, and he’s the chief of the Kiowas.
The Injuns you fellows want to look close after are that crowd of
Wyncoop’s. I understand Wyncoop has sent out word for them to come in
to Larned and meet you in a council.”
“Well, we’ll hear what old Satanta has to say, and what the others have
to say; but Hancock is out to make it plain that _we_ have something
to say, too,” answered General Custer. “We’ll smoke the peace-pipe—and
if they want war we can give it to them in any shape, by horse, foot
and artillery. That’s my understanding of the situation and I’m ready
to turn my Seventh Cavalry loose, if necessary. After a winter of
drill and discipline they’re in fair shape. They need only one fight,
shoulder to shoulder, to make a real regiment of them.”
The terraced plateaus bordering the Smoky Hill Fork had been left
behind; the flatly rolling plains grew sandier and sandier; and,
finally, four days out of Fort Harker, on the seventh of April was
sighted again a garrison flag streaming red, white and blue in the
prairie wind.
Here, then, where the Pawnee Fork River from the West emptied into
the Great Bend of the Arkansas, was Fort Larned, guarding its section
of southwestern Kansas, and the Santa Fé Trail travel to Colorado and
New Mexico. Rather similar to Riley was Fort Larned, being constructed
partly of stone. It was the agency for the Arapahos and Cheyennes and a
few Apaches, who hunted north of it, and for the Kiowas and Comanches,
who hunted south of it. Hither the Indians brought in thousands of
buffalo robes, to trade for sugar, coffee and cloth and trinkets.
It might be expected that camped about Fort Larned would be Indians;
but there was not one tipi in sight, except a few rude tents sheltering
some half-breeds or squaw-men as they were called—traders and
hangers-on. It was reported that up the Pawnee Fork about thirty miles
was a winter village under Chief Pawnee Killer of the Sioux and Chief
White Horse of the Cheyennes, but the march was not continued here.
When the troops went into noon camp outside the post, General Hancock
and his staff were met by Agent Wyncoop, of the Arapahos, Cheyennes and
Apaches.
“The tribes of my agency are peacefully inclined,” proclaimed Major
Wyncoop, hotly. Whereas Colonel Leavenworth, standing near, smiled.
“They rarely have committed any offences against the laws, and they
have been charged with crimes perpetrated by other tribes. They have
suffered heavily because of the Kiowas in particular, who are the most
turbulent Indians on the plains and deserve punishment more than any
others. I have sent runners to the various villages, as requested, and
the chiefs have returned word that they will be in for a council on
April 10. If the commanding general will wait until then, which is only
three days, I am sure that everything will be adjusted satisfactorily.”
“We will wait,” remarked General Hancock, tersely. “Colonel Leavenworth,
have you anything that you desire to say?”
“Nothing more than I have already said, sir,” answered Colonel
Leavenworth. “I can only repeat that in my opinion the Kiowas and
Comanches are the ones who have been wronged—grossly wronged by having
had laid at their doors numerous misdeeds for which the other tribes
of this district are responsible and for which they should be severely
chastised. Here!” he added. “Here’s Satanta himself. He’ll speak for
the Kiowas.”
From down the Santa Fé trail were approaching at a gallop a small party
of Indians, their blankets and head-dresses tossing in the clear air.
Foremost rode a man who might have been a soldier, for he wore a shirt
and a sabre; but feathers in his hair announced the Indian. Diverging
from the trail, to cross the level sandy sod, at a short distance
from the gathering he dismounted, on the edge of camp, and leaving
his horse (a superb bay, gaily decorated with paint and trappings),
accompanied by the other Indians, also dismounted, he advanced on foot.
“Satanta!” ran a murmur; and officers and men stared openly.
Ned, as well as everybody else in the West, knew of Satanta, the
celebrated war chief of the fighting Kiowas; leader in many a raid, and
crafty and eloquent. Of medium height, but burly and muscular, he bore
himself proudly. His black hair, stained vermillion at the parting, was
combed smoothly down upon either side of a rather good-natured face.
At the left it lengthened into a braid but at the right it was clipped
short—the sign of the Kiowa. An eagle feather was stuck through, above
the braid. His eyes were shrewd and twinkling, his forehead was broad
and high, and under a broad straight nose was set a thin-lipped,
straight mouth. From his chin grew a few bristles, but the majority
evidently had been plucked out. All in all, he had an intelligent face,
with a humorous touch to it.
As he strode, with his powerful frame and heavy body he made a fine
figure. His sabre clanked against his bare legs, to his satisfaction,
and upon the bosom of his stained cotton shirt he wore a dangling
silver pendant.
“Satanta! Satanta!”
“How?” grunted Satanta, as the circle opened to greet him. He shook
hands all around; and with sundry “Hows?” his companions also shook
hands.
The Indians stolidly seated themselves; so did the officers. From one
of his followers Satanta accepted, in princely fashion, a long-stemmed
pipe. It had been filled, and now with flint and steel it was lighted,
and starting with Satanta was passed about. Everybody in turn solemnly
took a puff. General Custer almost choked, for he did not use tobacco.
“Let one of the scouts interpret,” bade General Hancock.
“Romeo,” bade General Custer.
“Tell him that we’re ready to hear what he has to say,” instructed
General Hancock, to Romeo the little Mexican.
Romeo spoke a guttural sentence to the chief; Satanta grunted shortly.
“He wants presents,” translated Romeo.
“Presents will be brought,” answered the general.
The preliminaries having been concluded, Satanta majestically arose,
for his speech. With shoulders back he stood, facing the half circle
of white men, his arms folded. He began to speak. As he proceeded,
Romeo the Mexican translated sentence by sentence, the chief each time
waiting for him to do so.
“I call on the sun to witness that I will talk straight,” said Satanta.
“My tongue is not forked. It cannot tell lies. I understand that you
were coming down to see us. My heart is glad and I shall hide nothing
from you. I have moved away from those Indians who want war, and
I have come also to see you and speak with you. The Kiowas and the
Comanches are not those who have been fighting. The Cheyennes are the
ones who fight. They fight in the day, and not in the night. If I
had been fighting, I would have fought by day, too. Two years ago I
made peace with your chiefs, Harney, Sanborn and Leavenworth, at the
mouth of the Little Arkansas. This peace I have never broken. I have
not done anything and I am not afraid. I am ready to listen to good
words. We have been waiting a long time to see you, and we were getting
tired. All the land south of the Arkansas belongs to the Kiowas and
Comanches, and I don’t want to give any of it away. I love the land
and the buffalo, and will not part with it. When your soldiers come
through the land, they kill many buffalo and let them lie. Is the
white man a child, that he should recklessly kill and not eat? When
the red men kill game, they do so that they may live and not starve. I
want you to understand well what I say. Put it on paper. Let the Great
Father at Washington see it, and let me know what he says. I hear a
great deal of good talk from the teachers that the Great Father sends
to us, but they never do what they say they will do. I don’t want any
of the medicine lodges (schools and churches) in my country. I want my
children raised as I was. We thank you for your presents. We know you
are doing the best you can. I and my head men also will do the best
we can. You are all big chiefs. When you are in the country we go to
sleep happy and are not afraid. I have heard that you intend to settle
us on a reservation. I don’t want to settle,” and Satanta’s voice was
high. “I love to roam the prairies. There I feel free and happy, but
when we settle down we grow pale and die. I have laid aside my lance
and shield and bow, because I feel safe in your presence. I have told
you the truth. I have no little lies hid about me, but I don’t know how
it is with you. Are you as clear as I am? A long time ago all this land
belonged to our fathers. Now when I go beside the river I see camps of
soldiers on its banks. These soldiers cut down my timber; they kill my
buffalo; and when I see that, my heart feels like bursting. As I came
here to-day, upon the trail I picked up a little switch that had been
torn up and thrown away. It hurt me to see this. I thought, if this
little twig had been allowed to grow, it would have made a mighty tree,
to shelter my people and supply them with shade and wood. The white
men destroyed it.” Satanta here made a wide gesture. “But as I look
around over the prairie I see that it is large and good, and I do not
want it stained with the blood of the whites. If the treaty brings to
us prosperity, as you say, we will like it all the better. But if it
brings us good or ill, we will not abandon it. When I make a peace, it
is a long and lasting peace. I have spoken.”
When Satanta had finished, a murmur of approval, in satisfied grunts,
arose from the other Indians; and even the officers exchanged words of
admiration. Satanta had made a great speech.
“Tell him,” quoth General Hancock, to Romeo, “that we have heard, and
are glad to know that he is our friend. We do not come in war, but in
peace. Tell him that in token of our friendship we give him the uniform
of a great white chief.”
At a sign by the general another officer brought forward, to Satanta,
the coat and sash and hat of a major-general. They were of a style that
had been changed by later regulations but this made no difference to
Satanta, who seemed much pleased with the epaulets and the double row
of brass buttons, and the red silk sash, and the cocked hat adorned
by a black curling plume. He immediately donned the new rig, to strut
about, bare-legged, in it, dragging his sabre.
Presently he and all his braves, after procuring what they could at the
fort, took the trail whence they had come.
“That, gentlemen, was a marvelous speech. It would be a credit to a
white man,” commented General Hancock, impressively, to the assembled
audience.
“I’ve known Satanta or White Bear ever since I was a small boy and
followed my father about, out here on the plains,” said Colonel
Leavenworth. “I regard him as the greatest Indian. He lives in style at
his tipi. Has a brass horn that he blows for meals, and a carpet, and
brass-studded lapboards to eat from.”
“In my opinion Satanta is a rascal, gentlemen,” spoke quietly Wild
Bill. “Nobody can deny that he makes a big talk; but deeds count, in
this country—and if that fellow doesn’t make more trouble, at his first
chance, I don’t know Injuns. He’s smart, and he’s crooked as a prairie
dog burrow.”
Ned kept his eyes open for the figure of Pawnee Killer. He hoped that
Pawnee Killer would visit, from the village, and might be made to tell
General Hancock or General Custer where his, Ned’s, sister was.
“No Injuns will come in till the tenth,” asserted Sergeant Kennedy.
“’Tisn’t Injun etiquette to appear before the date of the council.”
“The infarnal rascals may not come anyhow,” declared California Joe,
wagging his head. “They’re the onsartinest liars that ever was created.
But we’re goin’ to have our hands full without ’em, for some sort of a
pesky storm is breedin’. Do ye mark how geese are flyin’ south, ’stead
o’ north? Mebbe they think it’s fall ’stead o’ spring; but I never
ketched wild honkers bein’ mistook on dates.”
The day was warm and sunny—almost too warm. The evening stayed clear,
while the camp peacefully slept, but the morning dawned with a haze and
a chill wind from the north. Speedily the haze thickened, the wind grew
colder; and before breakfast was over the snow was sifting faster and
faster.
It was a big storm for the ninth of April. All day the flakes fell
furiously, while the cold increased. By night the snow was eight inches
deep. Long before night the officers and men had piled on all the
extra clothes that they could find, and were huddled about wrapped in
overcoats and blankets, handkerchiefs bent over their ears. California
Joe made a comical figure, his wide-brimmed sombrero tied down with a
rope into a coal-scuttle shape, so that its brim on either side touched
his shoulders. Around his neck was a red tippet that looked as if it
once might have encircled an Indian’s waist. The tail of his cavalry
overcoat was singed by camp-fires. On his feet were gunny-sacks wrapped
tightly about, to make a bundle, and his hands were deeply buried in
his overcoat pockets while under the scoop of his hat issued volumes of
smoke from his black pipe.
He looked funny, did California Joe; but not all things were funny. Of
course, there were no tents or fires for the horses. They were tied
along a picket rope stretched from stake to stake; and here they turned
tail to the cutting wind and shivered and shrank, as the snow piled
upon their backs. Yes, and undoubtedly they would have perished, if
General Custer had not ordered that they be given double rations of
oats, and that the guards pass up and down, up and down, during the
night, whipping them to make them move. Twice Ned stole away to inspect
Buckie; and found him doing as well as possible.
V