AWAY TO THE YELLOWSTONE.
Never before, and never since, has the valley of the Rosebud beheld such
a gathering as was there to be seen on that brilliant 10th of August,
1876--brilliant, that is to say, as nature could make it, for in General
Crook's command, at least, there was nothing of embellishment. The war
of the Revolution, the huts of Valley Forge, never exhibited so sombre
an array of soldiery as we presented when General Terry and his brigade
confronted us at the great bend.
It may be said that we were surprised at the meeting, and it can be
established that they were astonished. Marching up the valley, General
Terry was in daily expectation of finding a mass of Indians in his
front. At latest accounts they were in strong force--in thousands, no
doubt--between him and General Crook's position at the base of the Big
Horn, and he commenced his aggressive move with every precaution, and
with supplies for a long and stirring campaign. He had with him a
complete wagon train, tents and equipage of every description. We had a
few days' bacon and hard-tack, coffee and sugar, and a whole arsenal of
ammunition on our mules, but not a tent, and only one blanket apiece. He
had artillery in the shape of a few light field-pieces, and was making
slow, cautious advances up the Rosebud at the rate of eight or ten miles
a day. He had not come upon a single recent Indian "sign," yet knew that
the country to the south must have been full of them within the
fortnight. So when his scouts reported an immense cloud of dust coming
down the valley above the bend, and his Indian allies began the same
absurd gyrations and uproar which we had observed in ours, he very
naturally supposed that a horde of hostiles was sweeping down to the
attack, and made his dispositions accordingly.
It was my good-fortune to be in our advance, and to witness the
beautiful deployment of the Seventh Cavalry over the plains in our
front, and it is hard to say which side would have whipped if we had not
discovered that neither was Sioux. A report gained credence later in the
day that Dr. Clements, Crook's medical director, said that it would be
Sioux-icidal to fight under the circumstances; but his friends believed
that this eruptiveness was due to professional disappointment at the
non-employment of himself and his able assistants, and the matter was
hushed up.
Pending the solution of the problem as to the whereabouts of our common
foe, the two brigades were ordered to camp at once, and make themselves
at home. The generals met and discussed the situation, the scouts made
hurried examination of the surrounding country, and the mystery was at
an end. Leaving the valley of the Rosebud at the very point where our
two commands had confronted each other on the 10th, a broad trail of
recent date led away eastward over the divide towards Tongue River. The
low hills were stamped into dust by the hoofs of countless ponies.
Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, Spotted Eagle, and the hosts of different
kinds of wolves and bears and vultures in which their savage
nomenclature rejoices, had fairly given us the slip, and probably ten
thousand Indians of various ages and both sexes had swarmed across
Terry's long front on the Yellowstone, but beyond the range of his
scouts. That a large portion of them would attempt to cross the great
rivers farther to the east and escape towards the Canada line was
instantly divined, and a prompt man was needed to head a rush back to
and then down the Yellowstone to hold the stream and its crossings and
check the Indian flight, while our main body pursued along the trail. In
less than an hour General Miles had gone to the right about with his
regiment and the light guns, and was making long strides towards the
north. The world has since read of the tireless energy with which this
vigorous soldier has continued the work he commenced that day. Winter
and summer, from one end of the Yellowstone valley to the other, he has
persistently and most successfully hunted the hostiles, until his name
has become a synonym for dash and good luck. Two of his companies had
been stationed with us all the previous winter at Fort Riley, in Kansas,
and I was eager to get over to their camp to see them as soon as my
duties were through; but long before our horses were herded out on the
foot-hills, and I had seen Captain Montgomery and Company "B" posted as
our guards, a new column of dust was rising down the valley, and our
Fifth Infantry friends were gone.
The afternoon and evening were spent by the officers of the two commands
in pleasant reunion. We had nowhere to "receive" and no refreshments to
offer; so, by tacit agreement, Terry's people became the hosts, we the
guests, and it was fun to mark the contrast in our appearance. General
Terry, as became a brigadier, was attired in the handsome uniform of his
rank; his staff and his line officers, though looking eminently
serviceable, were all in neat regimentals, so that shoulder-straps were
to be seen in every direction. General Crook, as became an old
campaigner and frontiersman, was in a rough hunting rig, and in all his
staff and line there was not a complete suit of uniform. Left to our
fancy in the matter, we had fallen back upon our comfortable old Arizona
scouting-suits, and were attired in deerskin, buckskin, flannels, and
corduroy; but in the Fifth Cavalry, you could not have told officer from
private. It may have been suitable as regarded Indian campaigning, but
was undeniably slouchy and border-ruffianish. It needed some persuasion
to induce old and intimate friends to believe in our identity; and
General Terry's engineer officer and his commissary, who had been chosen
"chums" of mine in West Point days, roared with laughter at the
metamorphosis.
Their tents were brightly lighted and comfortably furnished. Even the
Seventh Cavalry were housed like Sybarites to our unaccustomed eyes.
"Great guns!" said our new major, almost exploding at a revelation so
preposterous. "Look at Reno's tent--he's got a Brussels carpet!" But
they made us cordially welcome, and were civilly unconscious of our
motley attire.
While the chieftains and their staffs discussed the plans for the
morrow, we unresponsible juniors contentedly accepted the situation, but
by nine p.m. it was known that at early dawn we of Crook's command were
to reload our pack-mules with rations from Terry's wagons and continue
the pursuit. Now it began to dawn upon us that we had seen the last of
our comforts--our wagons, tents, beds, and clothing--for an indefinite
period; and in Indian warfare particularly, is a stern chase a long
chase--unless you have the lead at start.
That night we were bivouacked in the thick underbrush along the Rosebud,
hugging the tortuous bends of the stream, and as much as possible
keeping our herds between our lines and the river. Suddenly the
stillness was broken by a snort of terror among the horses; then a rush
as of a mighty whirlwind, the crash of a thousand hoofs, a shot or two,
and the shouts of excited men, and the herds of Companies "A," "B," and
"M" disappeared in a twinkling. Seized by some sudden and unaccountable
panic, they had snapped their "side lines" like pack-thread, torn their
picket-pins from the loose, powdery soil, and with one wild dash had
cleared the company lines, and, tracked by the dying thunder of their
hoofs, were fleeing for dear life far to the westward. Officers and men
sprang to arms, anticipating attack from Indians. Many of the First
Battalion had been trampled and bruised in the stampede; but in a moment
a dozen experienced campaigners were in saddle and off in pursuit, and
towards morning, after miles of hard riding, the runaways were skilfully
"herded" back to camp. But the night's adventure cost us the services of
one of our very best officers, as Lieutenant Eaton's pistol was
accidentally discharged in the rush, and tore off a portion of the index
finger of his right hand.
The following morning, August 11th, was by General Crook's people, at
least, spent in drawing rations from the wagons of Terry's command. At
ten o'clock our pack-mules were again loaded up, and by eleven the Fifth
Cavalry were filing eastwardly out of the valley; marched rapidly on the
Indian trail, found the valley of the Tongue River only nine miles away
across a picturesque divide, descended into a thickly timbered bottom,
marched only a couple of miles down stream, and there received orders to
halt, bivouac again, and were told to wait for Terry's command to join
us. We moved into a dense grove of timber--lofty and corpulent old
cottonwoods. Company "D" (Sumner's) posted its guards and pickets, and
the rest of us became interested in the great quantity of Indian
pictures and hieroglyphics on the trees. We were camping on a favorite
"stamping-ground" of theirs, evidently, for the trees were barked in
every direction for some distance from the ground, and covered with
specimens of aboriginal art. Sketches of warriors scalping soldiers,
carrying off women on horseback, hunting buffalo, etc., but with the
perceptible preference for the stirring scenes of soldier fighting. That
had become more popular than ever since the Custer massacre. While
examining these specimens, I was attracted by a shout and the gathering
of a knot of soldiers around some fallen timber. Joining them, and
stepping over the low barrier of logs, I came upon the body of a white
man, unscalped, who had evidently made a desperate fight for life, as
the ground was covered with the shells of his cartridges; but a bullet
through the brain had finally laid him low, and his savage foeman had
left him as he fell, probably a year before we came upon the spot.
Towards sunset the clouds that had gathered all day, and sprinkled us
early in the afternoon, opened their flood-gates, and the rain came down
in torrents. We built Indian "wickyups" of saplings and elastic twigs,
threw ponchos and blankets over them, and crawled under; but 'twas no
use. Presently the whole country was flooded, and we built huge fires,
huddled around them in the squashy mud, and envied our horses, who
really seemed pleased at the change. General Terry and his cavalry and
infantry marched past our bivouac early in the evening, went on down
stream, and camped somewhere among the timber below. We got through the
night, I don't remember how, exactly; and my note-book is not very full
of detail of this and the next four days. We would have been wetter
still on the following morning--Saturday, the 12th--if we _could_ have
been, for it rained too hard to march, and we hugged our camp-fires
until one p.m., when it gave signs of letting up a little and we saddled
and marched away down the Tongue ten or eleven miles, by which time it
was nearly dark, raining harder than ever. General Carr and Mr. Barbour
Lathrop (the correspondent of the San Francisco _Call_, who had turned
out to be an old acquaintance of some older friends of mine, and whose
vivacity was unquenchable, even by such weather as this) made a double
wickyup under the only tree there was on the open plain on which we
camped for the night, and, seeing what looked to be a little bunch of
timber through the mist a few hundred yards away, I went to prospect for
a lodging; found it to be one of the numerous aerial sepulchres of the
Sioux, which we had been passing for the last four days--evidences that
Custer's dying fight was not so utterly one-sided, after all. But,
unattractive as this was for a mortal dwelling-place, its partial
shelter was already pre-empted, and, like hundreds of others, I made an
open night of it.
Sunday morning we pushed on again, wet and bedraggled. No hope of
catching the Sioux now, but we couldn't turn back. The valley was filled
with the parallel columns--Crook's and Terry's--cavalry and infantry
marching side by side. We made frequent halts in the mud and rain; and
during one of these I had a few moments' pleasant chat with General
Gibbon, who, as usual, had a host of reminiscences of the grand old Iron
Brigade to speak of, and many questions to ask of his Wisconsin
comrades. It was the one bright feature of an otherwise dismal day. At
4.30 p.m. the columns are halted for the night, and the cavalry lose not
a moment in hunting grass for their horses. Fortunately it is abundant
here, and of excellent quality; and this adds force to the argument that
the Indians must have scattered. The scouts still prate of big trails
ahead; but our horses are becoming weak for want of grain, our Indian
allies are holding big pow-wows every evening, the Crows still talk war
and extermination to the Sioux, but the Shoshones have never been so far
away from home in their lives, and begin to weaken. Several of them urge
additional reasons indicative of the fact that the ladies of the tribe
are not regarded by their lords as above suspicion in times of such
prolonged absence. That evening Captains Weir and McDougall, of the
Seventh Cavalry, spent an hour or so at our fire, and gave us a detailed
account of their actions [TN 5.] on the 25th, on the Little Big Horn.
They were with Reno on the bluffs, and had no definite knowledge of the
fate of Custer and his five companies until high noon on the 27th, when
relieved by General Gibbon. Then they rode at once to the field, and
came upon the remains of their comrades.
"It must have been a terrible sensation when you first caught sight of
them," said one of their listeners.
"Well, no," replied McDougall. "In fact, the first thought that seemed
to strike every man of us, and the first words spoken were, 'How white
they look!' We knew what to expect, of course; and they had lain there
stripped for nearly forty-eight hours."
That night the rain continued, and at daybreak on the 14th the Fifth
Cavalry got up and spent an hour or so in vain attempts at wringing the
wet from blanket and overcoat. By 7.15 we all moved northward again,
though I could see scouts far out on the low hills on our right flank.
For half an hour we of the Fifth marched side by side with the Seventh,
and our gaunt horses and ragged-looking riders made but a poor
appearance in such society. Nearing a ford of the Tongue River, we found
some little crowding and confusion. The heads of columns were
approaching the same point upon the bank, and we were just about hunting
for a new ford when the Seventh Cavalry made a rapid oblique, and Major
Reno doffed his straw hat to General Carr, with the intimation that we
had the "right of way"--a piece of courtesy which our commander did not
fail to acknowledge.
Another ford, from the left bank this time, and before us, coming in
from the east, is a valley bounded by low, rolling hills for a few
miles, but farther to the eastward we note that high bulwarks of rock
are thrown up against the sky. Into this valley we turn; the grass is
good, the water is all too plentiful; occasional fallen trees in the
stream promise fuel in abundance; but we look somewhat wistfully down
the Tongue, for not more than fifteen miles away rolls the Yellowstone.
And now once more, as the rain comes down in torrents, we unsaddle, turn
our horses out to graze, Kellogg and Company "I" are posted as guards,
and we wonder what is going to be done. Only noon, and only ten miles
have we come from last camp. Colonel Royall marches his "brigade"
farther up stream and follows our example, and then comes over to
exchange commiserations with General Carr. The veterans are neither of
them in best possible humor. A story is going the rounds about Royall
that does us all good, even in that dismal weather. A day or two before,
so it was told, Royall ordered one of his battalion commanders to "put
that battalion in camp on the other side of the river, facing east." A
prominent and well-known characteristic of the subordinate officer
referred to was a tendency to split hairs, discuss orders, and, in fine,
to make trouble where there was a ghost of a chance of so doing
unpunished. Presently the colonel saw that his instructions were not
being carried out, and, not being in a mood for indirect action, he put
spurs to his horse, dashed through the stream, and reined up alongside
the victim with, "Didn't I order you, sir, to put your battalion in camp
along the river--facing east?"
"Yes, sir; but this ain't a river. It's only a creek."
"Creek be d--d, sir! It's a river--a river from this time forth, _by
order_, sir. Now do as I tell you."
There was no further delay.
All that day and night we lay along Pumpkin Creek. "Squashy Creek" was
suggested as a name at once more descriptive and appropriate. The soil
was like sponge from the continuous rain. At daybreak it was still
raining, and we mounted and rode away eastward--Terry and Crook, cavalry
and infantry, pack-mules and all, over an unmistakable Indian trail that
soon left the Pumpkin, worked through the "malpais," and carried us
finally to the crest of a high, commanding ridge, from which we could
see the country in every direction for miles. The rain held up a
while--not long enough for us to get dry, but to admit of our looking
about and becoming convinced of the desolation of our surroundings. The
trail grew narrow and more tortuous, plunged down into a canyon ahead,
and as we left the crest I glanced back for a last view of the now
distant valley of the Tongue. What it might be in beautiful weather no
words of mine would accurately describe, because at such times I have
not seen it. What it is in rainy weather no words could describe. And
yet it was comfort compared to what was before us.
At noon we were gazing out over the broad valley of Powder River, the
Chakadee Wakpa of the Sioux. Below us the Mizpah, flowing from the
southwest, made junction with the broader stream, and we, guided by our
Indians, forded both above the confluence, and went on down the valley.
And so it was for two more days; rain, mud, wet, and cold. Rations were
soaked; and we, who had nothing but salt meat and hard-tack, began to
note symptoms of scurvy among the men. But we were pushing for supplies
now. The Indians had scattered up every valley to the eastward; their
pony-tracks led in myriads over the prairie slopes east of the Powder.
We could go no farther without sustenance of some kind, and so, on the
afternoon of Thursday, the 17th, we toiled down to the valley of the
Yellowstone and scattered in bivouac along its ugly, muddy banks. The
rain ceased for a while, but not a boat was in sight, no news from home,
no mail, no supplies--nothing but dirt and discomfort. We could only
submit to the inevitable, and wait.