INDIANS OFF THE RESERVATION--ALONE IN CAMP--PROMPT ACTION.
During the summer of ’68, a large party of Pawnee Indians, men and
squaws, left the reservation on the Loop fork for a buffalo hunt in
the country lying between the Platte and Republican Rivers. These
semi-annual hunts were events of great interest to the tribe, for by
them they not only secured supplies of meat, but also large numbers of
robes, which were tanned by the squaws and disposed of to traders for
flour and groceries, and for any other goods which might strike the
Indian fancy.
At this time the Pawnee scouts were lying in camp on Wood River, about
a mile from the Union Pacific Railroad station of that name. The
hostile Indians had for some weeks made no aggressive demonstration,
and our duties were scarcely sufficient to edge up the dull monotony
of camp life. Once a week about half of the company would be sent on a
scout to the west along the railway, two days’ march, four days of the
week being consumed by these expeditions.
Half of the company had gone on this weekly scout, leaving but one
white officer in camp, Lieutenant Creede. He had, if I recollect
aright, but eighteen men fit for duty, a number of others being
disabled by wounds received in recent battles. The second day after the
hunting party left, the section men from the west came into Wood River
Station on their hand-car, and excitedly reported that a band of about
fifty Sioux had crossed the track near them, headed south. Joe Adams
was the agent at Wood River, and he at once sent a messenger to the
Pawnee camp to tell Lieutenant Creede of the presence of the hostiles.
Creede hastily mounted his handful of warriors, and in less than
twenty minutes was dashing forward on the trail of the Sioux. The time
consumed by the section men in running into the station, a distance of
about four miles, and the consequent delay caused by sending the news
to Creede, and the catching up and saddling of the ponies had given
the Sioux a good start, and when the scouts had reached the Platte
the hostiles had crossed over and were concealed from view in the
sand-hills beyond.
Crossing the wide stream with all possible haste, the game little
ponies, struggling with the treacherous quicksand for which that
historic river is noted, the scouts struck the trail on the opposite
bank and pushed rapidly forward. Although they knew that the Sioux
outnumbered them three to one, the Pawnees were eager for the fray--an
eagerness shared in by their intrepid commander. Chanting their
war-songs, their keen eyes scanning the country ahead from the summit
of each sand-hill, they pushed onward with the remorseless persistence
of blood-hounds up the trail of fleeing fugitives.
About three miles from the river, on reaching the top of a sand-hill,
the enemy was discovered a mile ahead, moving carelessly along,
oblivious of the fact that they were being pursued. Concealed by
the crest of the hill, the Pawnees halted to view the situation,
and Lieutenant Creede covered the hostiles with his field-glass. An
imprecation came from his lips as he studied the scene in front,
and crying out a sentence in the Pawnee tongue, his warriors crowded
about him. His experienced eye had shown him that they were Yankton
Indians, then at peace with the whites. He took in the situation in a
moment. They had learned of the departure of the Pawnee village on a
buffalo hunt, and were after them to stampede and capture their horses,
kill all of their hated enemy they could and escape back to their
reservation.
All this he told to his warriors, and the field-glass in the hands of
various members of the party corroborated the fact that, as United
States scouts, they had no right to molest the Yankton bands. The
impetuous warriors chafed like caged lions, and demanded in vigorous
terms that the chase should be resumed. One cool-headed old man, a
chief of some importance in the tribe, addressed Lieutenant Creede
substantially as follows:
“Father; you are a white man, an officer under the great war chief at
Washington, and you would rouse his anger by battling with Indians
not at war with him and his soldiers. We are Pawnee Indians, and the
men yonder are our hated foes. They go to attack our people, to kill
our fathers, sons, brothers, the squaws and children, and steal their
horses. It is our duty to protect our people. It is not your duty to
help us. Go back, father, to our camp, and we, not as soldiers, but as
Indians, will push on to the defense of our people. Listen to the words
of wisdom and go back.”
The situation was a trying one. The Lieutenant well knew that if he led
his scouts against the Yanktons he would have to face serious trouble
at Washington and meet with severe censure from General Augur, then
commanding the Department of the Platte. He realized that his official
position would be endangered, and that he might even subject himself to
arrest and trial in the United States Courts for his action. For some
moments he stood with his eyes bent upon the ground in deep reflection,
the Indians eying him keenly and almost breathlessly awaiting his
reply. It was a tableau, thrilling, well worthy the brush of a painter.
The hideously painted faces of the Indians scowling with rage; their
blazing, eager eyes reflecting the spirit of impatience which swayed
their savage souls; the hardy, faithful ponies cropping at the scant
grass which had pierced the sand; the Lieutenant standing as immovable
as a rock, his face betraying no trace of excitement, calmly, silently
gazing at the ground, carefully weighing the responsibilities resting
upon him,--all went to make up a picture so intensely thrilling that
the mind can scarcely grasp its wild features.
When the Lieutenant spoke, he did so quietly and calmly. There was a
light in his eyes which boded no good to the pursued, but his voice
betrayed not the least excitement. He said:
“For several years I have been with you--have been one of you. We
have often met the enemy in unequal numbers, but we have never been
defeated. In all the battles in which I have led you, you never
deserted me. Should I desert you now? I know that I will be censured,
perhaps punished, but those Yanktons shall never harm your people. I
will lead you against them as I would against a hostile band, and on me
will rest all the responsibility. We go now as Pawnee Indians, not as
United States scouts, and go to fight for our people. Mount!”
Grunts of satisfaction greeted his words. They would have been followed
by wild yells of savage delight had there been no fear of such a
demonstration disclosing their presence to the Yanktons. Horses were
quickly mounted, and the band again took the trail with an impatience
which could scarcely be curbed.
The Yanktons were soon again sighted, and the scouts adopted the Indian
tactics of stealing upon their foes. Skirting the bases of sand-hills,
keeping from sight in low grounds and following the bed of gulches,
they pressed on, until the enemy was discovered less than three-fourths
of a mile ahead, and yet unconscious of the presence of a foe.
Halting in a low spot in the hills, the Pawnees hastily unsaddled their
ponies and stripped for the fight. Indians invariably go into a battle
on bareback horses, as saddles impede the speed of the animals in quick
movements. When again mounted, the Lieutenant gave the command to
advance. On reaching the crest of a sand-hill, the Pawnees discovered
their enemy just gaining the summit of the next, about five hundred
yards distant. The Yanktons discovered their pursuers at the same
moment, and great commotion was observed in their ranks. They hastily
formed themselves for battle, and then one of them who could speak
English, cried out:
“Who are you, and what do you want?”
“We are Pawnee Indians, and we want to know where you are going,”
Creede shouted in reply.
“You are Pawnee scouts, and are soldiers of the United States. We are
Yankton Sioux at peace with the Government, and you cannot molest us.”
“You are moving against the Pawnee village, now on a buffalo hunt,”
Creede replied. “You want to kill our people and steal their horses. We
are Pawnee Indians, and are here to fight for our people. If you take
the trail back across the Platte, we will not disturb you, but if you
attempt to move forward, we will fight you. Decide quick!”
The leaders of the Yankton band gathered about the interpreter in
council, while Creede interpreted what had been said to his warriors.
It was with difficulty he could restrain them from dashing forward to
the attack. In a few moments the Yankton interpreter shouted:
“If you attack us, the Government will punish you and reward us for
our loss. We do not fear you as Pawnees, but we are at peace and do
not want to fight you because you are soldiers of the great father at
Washington. We are many and you are few, and we could soon kill you
all, or drive you back to your camp. Go away and let us alone.”
“You are the enemy of our people, and you go to kill them,” the
Lieutenant replied. “We will fight for them, not as soldiers, but
as Pawnees. You must make a move now, instantly. We will wait but
a minute. If you take the back trail, it will be good. If you move
forward, we will make you halt and go back.”
The only reply was a command from the Yankton leader to his followers,
in obedience to which they started forward in their original direction.
Creede shouted a command to his men, and with wild yells they dashed
down the slope and up the side of the hill on which their enemy had
last been seen. On a level flat beyond the hill, the Yanktons were
found hastily forming for battle, and with tiger-like impetuosity, the
scouts dashed forward, firing as they advanced.
The wild dash of the Pawnees seemed to bewilder the Yanktons, and
they were thrown into confusion. They quickly rallied, however, and
for fully an half-hour they fought desperately. The mad impetuosity
of the Pawnee again threw them into confusion, and scattering like
frightened sheep, they fled from the field. The Pawnees pursued them,
and a running fight was maintained over several miles of country. The
Yanktons were at last so scattered that they could make no show of
resistance, and with all possible speed sought the river crossing and
fled toward their agency. It was afterwards learned that they sustained
a loss of eight killed and quite a large number wounded. The Pawnees
lost but one man killed, but many were wounded on the field. Several
horses were killed. Creede’s army blouse was riddled with bullets and
arrows.
[Illustration: AMETHYST MINE.]
Returning from the field, “Bob White,” a Pawnee, reached Wood River in
advance of the scouts, and by making motions as of a man falling from
a horse, and, repeating the word, “Lieutenant,” created the impression
that Creede had been killed, and the agent telegraphed the news to
Omaha, where it was published in the daily papers. When the scouts
reached the station, however, the gallant Lieutenant was at their head.
When he dismounted, it was observed that he limped painfully, and in
explanation said, that in one of the charges his horse had fallen upon
him, severely bruising and spraining one of his legs. This was what
“Bob” had tried to tell, but the agent interpreted his signs to mean
that the intrepid leader had been killed in battle.
When the Yanktons reached their agency, they reported that while
quietly moving across the country, the Pawnee scouts, being in the
service of the United States, had attacked them in overwhelming numbers
and driven them back to their reservation. The matter was laid before
the authorities at Washington, referred to General Augur, and by him
to Major North, who was already in possession of Creede’s explanation
of the affair. Considerable red-tape correspondence followed, and as
the Yanktons were off their reservation without permission, and in
direct violation of orders, the matter was allowed to drop. Creede was
doubly a hero in the eyes of his scouts after this episode, and when
the Pawnee village returned, and it was learned how the Lieutenant
had battled in their behalf, they bestowed upon him the most marked
expressions of gratitude and adoration.