Fort Rice was located ten miles above the mouth of the Cannon-Ball
River and twenty miles below the new town of Bismarck. Around-about
the slate-colored frame buildings stretched the sagey Dakota plains,
seemingly vaster and barer even than the rolling buffalo plains of
Kansas. Butte and coulée or dry wash broke them; the only trees were
along the water courses. The winds were fresh and strong, the short
summers hot, the long winters cold. It was a country that bred strong,
hardy, robust men and women, and such were the Sioux—the proud Dakota
nation.
The Northern Pacific Railroad from St. Paul had reached Bismarck, and
was determined to push on across Dakota and Montana, as the Union
Pacific had pushed on across Nebraska and Wyoming. Scarcely had the
Seventh Cavalry been welcomed at Fort Rice, when they prepared to take
the long trail again, as escort to protect the engineers surveying a
route westward for the railroad.
So when the Northern Pacific Railroad engineers started upon their
survey westward still, their escort numbered almost 2000 soldiers: of
the Seventh Cavalry, of infantry, of artillery, and of Indian scouts,
all under Major-General D. S. Stanley, with General Custer the “Long
Hair” in command of the ten companies of the Seventh.
It was to be a march clear across western Dakota to the Yellowstone
River of Montana. Few white men had seen this country.
The Indian scouts were not the faithful Osages or Kaws. They were
Arikaras; a war-like tribe of smaller numbers than the southern
Indians; their head scout was Bloody Knife. They hated the Sioux, and
so did the Crows of Montana. The Sioux long had fought the Arikaras,
and nowadays were constantly invading the country of the Crows, for
scalps and horses.
With the Seventh were Dr. James Honzinger, the fat, bald-headed old
veterinary surgeon of the regiment, and Mr. Baliran who was the post
sutler. They were not enlisted men but were civilian employees, and
accompanied the expedition as an outing. The general took Mary the
black cook, for his mess.
It required a month of marching before, July 19, the Yellowstone River
in Montana was reached. It had seemed much like old times, with the
general leading on Dandy or Vic, in his fringed buckskins, his fringed
gauntlets, his broad-brimmed hat, his blue shirt and crimson tie, and
high, red-topped boots; the hounds galloping right and left, and plenty
of hunting.
The engineer party, and the scientists who were along, must move
slowly, taking many notes. Dr. Honzinger and Mr. Baliran insisted upon
straggling and riding apart from the column, picking up specimens. They
were warned that this was dangerous practice, but they did not heed,
and refused even to carry any weapons.
Near where the Powder River empties into the Yellowstone the general
took Captain Moylan’s company and Lieutenant Tom’s company, and Bloody
Knife the Arikara scout, to explore the route ahead. No Indians had
yet been sighted; but now, after a mile or two, Bloody Knife, stopping
short, examining the ground, signed: “Indians have passed here.”
So they had: nineteen Sioux, by the fresh sign. They must have been
reconnoitering the camp, and had traveled on to inform the main company
of warriors.
Nevertheless, on rode the little squadron, until from the bluffs along
the Yellowstone, green before them lay the beautiful valley of the
Tongue River flowing up from the south. The general gave orders to make
camp in a clump of cottonwood trees, and to wait for the column. With
horses unsaddled and unbitted and staked out, and pickets posted, the
command stretched out upon the ground for a rest. Most of the officers
loosened their clothing and prepared to nap.
Ned was nodding, half asleep, when breaking the perfect calm, starting
everybody with a jump, spoke the “Bang! Bang!” of the pickets’ carbines.
“Indians!” were shouting the pickets’ voices.
The camp was on its feet, peering and blinking. The pickets were
kneeling and aiming; and beyond them, across the open valley were
riding for the tethered horses a short line of painted horsemen.
“To your horses, men! Quick! To your horses! Run!” The command of the
general was as sharp as the crack of a whip. Shoeless and hatless and
coatless he stood, rifle in hand.
There were only half a dozen Indians in sight. Evidently they had
intended to stampede the mounts; but they had reckoned without their
host. The Seventh Cavalry had met Indians before. Out rushed the
troopers, to grasp the lariats of the horses, and to reinforce the
picket-line. And stopping short, the squad of Indians only raced back
and forth, beyond range, gesturing as if inviting the soldiers to come
and get them. Sioux they were, by their war-dress and action, said
Bloody Knife, his eyes flaming hatred and disdain.
Now was it “Boots and Saddles” and “Mount.” The general took Adjutant
Calhoun and Lieutenant Tom and twenty men, including Ned the trumpeter,
and galloped forth boldly; Captain Moylan was to follow.
The six Sioux easily kept out of reach. As anybody ought to know,
they were only trying cunningly to lead the white chief on, into an
ambuscade. So continued the chase, up the grassy green valley.
“I’ll take my orderly and ride ahead, Tom,” presently called the
general. “Perhaps that will develop those rascals’ plan. You follow at
about two hundred yards interval, ready to rush in.”
The general was on his Kentucky horse Vic. Sergeant Butler his orderly
had a good horse, too. But the Indians would not let even them close
in, with the other soldiers so near at hand. They were smart, these six
Sioux, and knew what they were about.
A patch of timber was before to the left. The general had halted; also
halted the six Indians. The general rode in a circle, for a parley; the
six Indians paid no attention. Now here came Sergeant Butler, back with
a message from the general. He saluted Lieutenant Tom.
“The general’s compliments, and he would suggest that you keep a sharp
eye on that bunch of trees, yonder,” said the sergeant.
“Very well,” responded Lieutenant Tom.
Sergeant Butler galloped off.
“In my opinion, that brush is full of Sioux, and those six bucks would
be only too glad to lead us past,” said Adjutant Calhoun, to Lieutenant
Tom.
“The general had better join us or we him,” answered the lieutenant,
gazing anxiously. “He’s too near. He’s liable——” but from all the
detachment issued a sudden cry.
The six Sioux had wheeled, and were charging, and from the timber patch
had burst, as if at a breath, fully three hundred others. At full speed
they came, whooping and firing, and in splendid line. Evidently these
Sioux were fine warriors.
All eyes leaped to the general. Around he had whirled, around had
whirled the sergeant, and back they were spurring for dear life. They
were three hundred yards from the timber, almost opposite to them, and
two hundred yards from the soldiers.
On sped the line of Sioux, dividing, part to head off the general, part
to ride to rear of the detachment and head off Captain Moylan, coming
from behind.
“Prepare to fight on foot!” It was Lieutenant Tom’s clear voice.
From the saddle swung three men from each squad, leaving Number Four to
hold the horses.
“As skirmishers, men! Quick!” and “Company—halt!” issued the commands.
There was no time for regulation orders. Out in front of the horses
had run the dismounted men, to halt in loose line, kneel, and without
waiting for more orders, to aim.
“Don’t fire, men, until I give the word,” spoke Lieutenant Tom,
revolver in hand, behind the line. “Aim low.”
Racing in toward one another the Sioux, and the general and Sergeant
Butler, seemed about to join. But the general and the sergeant were
beating. They would arrive first. Good!
The Sioux were well within range. Their war-paint and their feathers
showed plain. There were enough of them to ride over the little line of
cavalry and trample it to death. Ned, revolver drawn as he knelt at the
rear of the line, felt himself trembling, although he was not afraid.
Out rang the voice of Lieutenant Tom.
“Let them have it!”
“Crash!” belched the fifteen carbines. And with smart rattle as
chambers opened, closed, reloaded they belched again: “Crash!” Through
the smoke Indian horsemen were reeling and falling, ponies were
sprawling or galloping wildly; and away to either side were scampering
the Sioux warriors.
“Bang! Bang-bang! Bang!” for the third time roared the carbines.
“Hooray! Yah! Yah!” cheered loudly the soldiers. With answering cheer
up raced at full speed the support of Captain Moylan. Breathing hard,
his eyes blazing blue from his red burned face, the general also was
arrived and eager.
“Prepare to fight on foot!” shouted Captain Moylan.
The Sioux were many; the soldiers few; but with the horses protected by
a semi-circle of skirmishers they steadily fell back to the grove of
the noonday nap. Yet even here matters might have gone hard—for these
Sioux were determined fighters—had not appeared, coming on with cheers
and guidons flying, four more companies of the Seventh, sent ahead by
the wise General Stanley. And the Sioux galloped away.
The companies brought bad news. That morning, after the general had
left, along the line of march had been found the lifeless bodies of
Dr. Honzinger and Mr. Baliran, pierced by ball and by arrow. The two
cronies had wandered, as customary, and must have been two miles from
help when Indians—Sioux, of course—had struck them down.
Two soldiers also were killed, and another battle was fought—a longer,
harder battle—with more Sioux, up the Yellowstone, before, the last
week in September, the Seventh returned again to barracks.
These were new barracks, the post of Fort Abraham Lincoln, built this
summer and fall beside the Missouri, above Fort Rice and opposite the
town of Bismarck which was the end of the railroad.
Fort Abraham Lincoln belonged to the Seventh Cavalry. It was their
headquarters post, housing six companies. The four other companies on
Dakota duty were stationed at Fort Rice.
’Twas rather dull being a soldier at Fort Lincoln, or Rice either, in
the long, snowy, below-zero winter. No trains came into Bismarck; mail
and supplies must arrive by horse and sleigh. There was little mounted
drill for the soldiers, and the men moved about well muffled in fur
caps and buffalo-hide shoes and mittens.
Out near the agencies the friendly Sioux gathered, waiting till spring;
and further in the reservation had gathered in their villages the
unfriendly Sioux, under Sitting Bull the medicine chief. But who was
friendly and who was unfriendly could not be told; so that nobody in
the post was permitted to wander beyond rifle shot, except on business.
The Arikara or Ree scouts and their families were camped at the edge of
Fort Lincoln. Bloody Knife the chief scout was the general’s favorite.
The best white scout at Fort Lincoln was “Lonesome” Charley Reynolds.
He had long-lashed, dark-blue eyes, and small, fine features. He was
quieter than even Will Comstock; and rarely spoke unless spoken to. He
did not look like a scout or act like a scout, yet he was one of the
bravest men of the West.
In the spring came out upon a visit from the East another Custer—Boston
Custer, the general’s youngest brother; a thin, pale stripling about
the age of Ned the trumpeter. He did not look well, but he expected
that the fresh air and the out-door life of the western plains would
make him strong.
When the spring opened, there had been much talk about the mysterious
Black Hills, which the Indians called Pah-sap-pa. The newspapers had
contained a great deal of reference to the Black Hills, and now the
frontier people of Wyoming, to the southwest of it, and of Dakota, to
the east of it, were asking that the Government let explorers in.
However, this was Sioux country, guaranteed to them by the United
States in the treaty of 1868; and it was very dear Sioux country.
“You see,” said Charley Reynolds, in one of the moments when he talked
among the men, “it’s like this. Now, I’ve never been in the Black
Hills—away in, I mean. I’ve no doubt there’s gold there. The rocks
look so, to me; and trappers, and the Injuns too, say there’s gold.
But it’s medicine country. The Injuns say those mountains are full of
bad spirits who mustn’t be disturbed. The fact is, it’s the only good
country the Sioux have. Lots of timber and fine water and grass; both
a summer and a winter country; and the Sioux don’t mean to give it
up. You can’t blame ’em. They know that as soon as the miners get in
there, the game will be scared out or killed, and timber cut, and water
spoiled, and the Indians driven off. They watch that region mighty
close.”
“You’re right, I guess,” agreed Sergeant Butler, and Odell also nodded.
“But I’ll wager my buffalo coat against a pipeful of tobacco that
the Government isn’t going to let those Black Hills stay unexplored.
The army’s got to have a map of this reservation, so that in case of
trouble we know where we’re going. Then if the Injuns retreat into the
Black Hills, we can follow ’em.”
Sure enough, when the plains grew green with grass the report spread
that the Seventh Cavalry was to explore the Black Hills, distant 200
miles southwest, in air-line.
The orders were issued June 8 from the Department of Dakota headquarters
at St. Paul, by command of Brigadier-General Alfred H. Terry, the
Department commander. The four companies of the Seventh from Fort Rice
were to come up to Fort Lincoln, and all ten companies were to take the
field together. There would be “doughboys” or “walking soldiers;” G
company of the Seventeenth Infantry and I company of the Twentieth; a
squad of army engineers under Captain William Ludlow; General George A.
Forsyth who was the famous “Sandy” Forsyth of the island fight with
Roman Nose, near the Forks of the Republican; Charley Reynolds the
scout; Skunk Head and Bull Bear and other Rees under Bloody Knife; and
some Santee Sioux whose chief guides were Goose and “Jo Lawrence.”
Boston Custer, or “Bos,” announced that he was to go; and before the
start, arrived two scientists, engaged by the Government: Professor
N. H. Winchell, the state geologist of Minnesota, and Mr. George Bird
Grinnell, of New Haven, Connecticut, who would report upon the fossils
and animals. A photographer of St. Paul arrived, to take pictures on
the trip; and a number of civilian miners attached themselves to the
column, to prospect for gold.
The start was made on July 2. The expedition must return within sixty
days. It made a formidable sight: about 1000 men in all, with three
gatling guns and a three-inch rifled cannon, 110 army wagons and
ambulances, and the forty Custer dogs!
Agard the interpreter and Charley Reynolds said the Indian scouts
expected that the white people would not dare to enter right into the
mysterious Black Hills. The general laughed.
The march was almost a picnic. Anybody who wished to hunt had hunting
of antelope and deer in plenty. The scientists were busy, examining
rocks and animals. Bos Custer was a great favorite. Of course he was
a tenderfoot, for this was his first experience on the plains. The
general and Colonel Tom, his brothers, played many jokes upon him, to
try his mettle and make fun; but he took everything so good naturedly
and made himself so useful that he was much liked. As for the general,
he was again in his element: buckskin clad, galloping on Vic or Dandy,
talking sign-language with Bloody Knife and Bull Bear and Skunk’s Head
and Goose, and picking up much information from the scientists.
After 300 miles, according to the odometer or measuring wheels of the
engineers’ cart, on July 20 through a little ravine the course suddenly
changed from dry burning prairie to green grass knee-deep, ripening
gooseberries, wild cherries, cool breezes and crystal waters. Such was
the terrible Black Hills, on the inside. Now even the scouts were
eager to go on. Never had so entrancing a country been seen by anybody
in the command.
From north to south and south to north through the Black Hills marched
the column. The soldiers hunted and napped, the scientists searched
for knowledge, the miners prospected for gold. They found considerable
“color,” which they excitedly showed at camp; but they did not make any
great strikes. Professor Winchell, the geologist, was of the opinion
that not much gold lay hidden here; however, he did not convince the
miners or the soldiers.
There was no trouble from the Sioux: the whole expedition was a perfect
success, without bother; and their wagons and saddles laden high with
horns and skins and other specimens, at halfpast four o’clock on the
afternoon of August 30, the sixtieth day to a dot, the tattered but
happy column swung their hats to Fort Abe Lincoln again.