WILD MIDNIGHT REVELRY IN THE CASPAR HILLS
There are spots in foreign lands, the objects of never-failing interest
because of some heroic deeds with which they are associated, the memory
of which has been perpetuated in history. Our camp near Caspar happened
to be pitched upon a spot glorified by the blood of heroes as brave and
patriotic as the Spartans who fell at Thermopylae. The desperate
conflict of our soldiers upon this Wyoming field against overwhelming
numbers was hardly less dramatic than was that of the Greeks and well
deserves an honored place in the memory of Americans. Hardly two rods
from our camp there stood a little monument marking the spot where a few
months prior to our visit Lieutenant Caspar W. Collins and his little
band were slain while voluntarily making a valorous and almost hopeless
effort to save the lives of a score of comrades, in the face of
thousands of desperate and blood-thirsty savages. Although we had some
previous knowledge of this tragedy, our first impulse was to recross the
river to the post and from eye witnesses learn the particulars of the
thrilling battle. As soon as our supper was eaten, four of our party
started down stream toward the bridge. The post formerly known as Platte
Bridge had now, in recognition of Collins' valorous deed, been named
Fort Caspar, by order of Major General Pope commanding.
The range near-by was also named the Caspar Mountains. The post lay near
the southern bank of the North Platte River, 133 miles above Fort
Laramie and less than a mile below the site of the monument. It
consisted of fifteen or twenty structures built on the sides of an open
quadrangle.
Sauntering along the river bank on our way to the post, we carefully
surveyed the scene of the fight and its environment. Back of the fort,
at no great distance from the stream, lay a high table-land, its abrupt
and barren face, where it rose from the valley, being creased with
wrinkled folds by erosion. Beyond this and further to the south the
Caspar range of mountains stood out in jagged outlines against a
cloudless Wyoming sky. Seen through the pure and wonderfully transparent
air, and illuminated by the bright light of the setting sun, the distant
deeply-wooded gorges and rocky peaks seemed hardly a mile away. Toward
the north and embracing the battle-field the valley extends back a short
distance to a steep ascent, beyond which is a rough, broken, elevated
region that might afford concealment to a numerous enemy. Where it is
crossed by the bridge, the river is about 100 yards in width. Crossing
it, we soon found ourselves among officers and soldiers; and from those
of them who had guarded that structure during the massacre we learned
the story, parts of it from some and parts from others. It came in
detached and thrilling fragments, for the incidents were still fresh in
their memory, and the thrills they had experienced on the day of the
fight were renewed in their vigorous narration. We were informed that
the death of Lieutenant Collins and his men was but one, though
doubtless the most dramatic, in a series of Indian massacres that
ensanguined that fatal trail during the few preceding months. I have
heard descriptions of several of these events from eyewitnesses.
Lieutenant Collins was born in Hillsboro, Ohio, and at the time of the
fight was in appearance but a youth and in fact only twenty years of
age. He was a son of Lieutenant-Colonel Collins, a brave Indian fighter,
in honor of whom Fort Collins in Colorado was named. Young Collins had
been in the Indian country for three years preceding his last fight, a
portion of the time with James Bridger. As we stood looking across the
river toward the plain where the battle was fought, one of the officers
said: "Last July Indians in great numbers seemed to be gathering just
north of the bridge somewhere in those hills on the other side of the
river. They came in there from various directions. Many of them were
supposed to have come over from the Bitter Creek country, where nearly
every station on that route had been raided. It was impossible to form
any definite idea of their number, except that we were certain there
were many thousands of them near us. On July 25th, Lieutenant Collins
came in from the East. On the same day several hundred savages crossed
the river and stampeded the stock on the reservation. The garrison at
the post was exceedingly small and although the loss of even a few men
would be a serious matter, a small party of cavalry and infantry was
sent out to recover the stock if possible. This effort simply resulted
in the loss of a few men on each side. The Indians finally recrossed the
river to their rendezvous in the hills. Just about day-break on the
following morning a few men from the 11th Ohio cavalry came in from Fort
Laramie and at once reported a train of wagons with a small guard from
the 11th Kansas cavalry as coming from the west and, as they must pass
along the trail at the foot of the hills among which the Indians were
holding their vigils, they were sure to be attacked. And now came
the critical moment. The men in the post were quickly called to
headquarters. It was at once decided to send out a detachment of
twenty-five men, in the feeble hope that they might accomplish a rescue.
In casting about for a leader for this hazardous venture, one after
another declined the service. Lieutenant Collins, although he had just
arrived, offered himself at the first opportunity, saying, "I will
undertake the task, if I can have a good, fresh horse, as mine is badly
fagged from my ride." The Lieutenant appeared to be but a boy, but he
had a known record for bravery and endurance. Major Howard accepted the
volunteer, and although some of the older soldiers openly discouraged
the undertaking, the young leader quickly mounted a fresh, spirited
horse and in the early morning, at the head of his little body of
mounted men, rapidly galloped over the bridge, followed more slowly by
thirty infantry. Caspar's band had not proceeded more than three-fourths
of a mile, when the hills on both sides of it were suddenly alive with
savages, who in thousands rushed down the slopes and out from every
ravine, closing in upon the detachment with hideous howls and yells, "as
if all the devils of the infernal regions had been turned loose." At
this point, the men who knew the story pointed dramatically now in one
direction and now in another, to the actual places where these movements
occurred. "A desperate but hopeless hand-to-hand fight was described as
having taken place right over the river, in plain sight from the post.
The infantry halted because they were already in the battle, pouring
their bullets as rapidly as possible into the savages. The only big gun
at the fort was quickly brought into action by the guard left at the
post, and did good service, as its shells reached the enemy across the
river. Some of our men detailed to guard the bridge held their positions
and brought many Indians low. But the great Chief Red Cloud was over
there, and could be seen rushing across the field as if to inspire his
red warriors to annihilate our men, and, as far as the cavalry, which
was at the front, was concerned, they practically did it."
In the tumult of this unequal combat young Caspar was seen surrounded by
savages. His spirited steed, seemingly conscious of defeat and
panic-stricken by the hideous din of Indian yells and war-whoops, became
unmanageable, both horse and rider fell fighting, precisely where the
gravestone stands. The greater number of his men were already
slaughtered. The bridge held by the infantry afforded retreat for a few
men. And thus ran the story into many other details.
The day after the fight a detachment of cavalry crossed the bridge and
recovered the body of the brave hero. An effort was made by the Indians
to cut off these riders, but our men succeeded in reaching the guarded
bridge. The next day the beleagured garrison saw the little train, the
arrival of which was anticipated, coming over a distant hill from the
west. Suddenly and within full view of the fort, Red Cloud and about
five hundred warriors made a dash upon them. Three of the soldiers
escaped by swimming the river but the remaining men fought bravely until
the last man fell. A messenger had previously been dispatched from the
fort to General Connor to send assistance at once. Several companies of
the 6th Michigan cavalry responded, making forced marches. The Indians
had withdrawn before the arrival of these reinforcements. The bitter
war continued, however, until the winter set in, when, through the
vacillating policy of the War Department, General Connor was withdrawn
from Wyoming.
Before we separated from the officers at the post they advised us that
it would be imprudent for us to leave Caspar except with a strong party.
The regular order was still in force providing for the minimum number of
armed men that would be permitted to go out from a post. Accordingly we
settled down in our camp and remained four days, awaiting the arrival of
reinforcements. There were very few travelers on that road.
During our sojourn in that valley the experience of one particular night
led us to comprehend at least one of the reasons why the Indians so
earnestly desired to retain undisturbed possession of this territory.
Their wealth was the wild game, but the only means by which we could
learn the extent of this wealth was for each wild beast living along
that range to come out from its lair and speak so as to be easily heard
and counted. An opportunity for an approximate enumeration was offered
by a festive gathering of those wild inhabitants of the hills. It
occurred on the second night at Caspar. Paul had been standing guard
until midnight. At about that hour he quietly awakened me and asked me
to come outside the tent. Taking my rifle, which as usual was lying at
my side, I stepped out into the bright moonlight. "I wished you to hear
this wonderful concert," said Paul in explanation. My ears instantly
caught the multitude of wild, weird sounds that came from far and near
and from every point of the compass. Although those voices were legion,
yet, since the greater number of them came from miles away, they were so
softened by distance that they did not jar upon the ear. It was a
wonderfully still, calm night; hardly a zephyr stirred the air; and
distance both to the eye and ear seemed to be eliminated. The moon shone
from the cloudless Wyoming sky with extraordinary brilliancy and
apparent nearness. The outlines of the well-wooded Caspar range were
sharply defined against the blue expanse beyond. Their dark shadows by
contrast emphasized the undulations of the intervening valley and the
glittering waters of the river that flowed through it, all of which were
flooded by the soft, resplendent moonlight. Was it that big, bright moon
that had brought out the myriad denizens of the hills to howl their wild
refrains?
Paul and I stood for a time spellbound as this vision, seemingly unreal,
came to our eyes. To our ears a chorus of unblended sounds came down
from the mountain from points far removed one from another, as if here
and there a concourse of wild beasts had by prearrangement assembled in
various places to engage in a nocturnal carousal. Every creature native
to the hills, that had a voice, seemed to take some part in the orgies;
and though dissonant, yet those wild voices of the night were in harmony
with the rugged setting of the gorges from which they came, and were
wonderfully fascinating. The mountain lions entered into the
convivialities with tremendous earnestness. Their vicious screams at
times were intense and fierce as if the animals were in deadly strife,
but when their fervent notes softened down to a low, attenuated,
sympathetic purring we recognized in them a marked similarity to the
midnight duets of their congener, the domestic cat. It was not the
mountains alone that furnished the stage for this midnight serenade to
the moon. From other quarters came other yelpings and roars and growls
impossible to classify. The wolves in the valley near-by howled
ceaseless responses in this remarkable antiphonal chorus. Coyotes
without number joined in the _Saturnalia_ of nocturnal revelry, and
barked incessantly from every direction; while the bloodhounds at the
distant fort bayed deep-toned warning of their guardianship. Even the
bull frogs from the pool near the river bank, serene in their watery
home, peacefully croaked in plaintive monotone. These numberless,
inarticulate voices, so varied in quality, were evidence that along that
range there was a remarkable abundance of wild animal life, which in the
daytime lurked unseen in unfrequented places; but these sounds did not
reveal the presence of the hosts of antelope, elk, deer, and other timid
animals with which the country also abounded.
The situation was so interesting and fascinating that I finally aroused
Ben and Fred, and together we wandered down toward the river and up its
bank, listening to the concert as we proceeded. Observing upon a little
bluff a man's form with a rifle upon his shoulder silhouetted against
the clear sky beyond we called "hello" as a friendly announcement,
assuming that he also was on guard. He responded with a similar
salutation and invited us to come up. He proved to be the father of the
young ladies with whom we had returned from the "cut off," who had now
camped with his party some distance beyond. We will refer to him as Mr.
Warne, a name similar to his true name. We asked him if he was standing
guard. "Yes," he replied, "it is a beautiful night, and as we cannot
travel tomorrow I decided to give one of our men a rest. The girls are
down below on the rocks. I brought them out to hear the music from the
hills. They are sitting there wrapped in blankets." Sure enough, there
they were, quite out of sight. As we approached, one of the young ladies
lifted a rifle into view and with a laugh demanded the pass word. Fred
responded immediately, "Peach pie," for he was addressing the young
lady who had sent the pie with her compliments when we were on the
Montana road. The pass word was accepted as satisfactory. The girls
remarked that they were not out ordinarily at that unseemly hour, but
they had been invited by their father to listen to the animals. As each
fresh squall came from the mountain lions over the river, a subdued
exclamation of some sort, generally bordering on both admiration and
apprehension, came from their lips. While there, our attention was
attracted by two or three long-legged wolves that skulked near-by within
easy rifle range--but a shot at that hour would bring out the camp, and
wolf meat was not a desirable diet. Not wishing to protract our midnight
call we said "Good-morning" and sauntered back toward our tents, being
confident with regard to the concert, that we had listened to the star
artists from over the river.
During the following day no travelers arrived to make up the regulation
number and enable us to proceed. On the following night, there being
some change in the weather, Ben, Fred, and I occupied one mattress in
Ben's tent, and all were soon asleep. Some time in the night I became
half conscious of two or three claps of thunder and the roaring of a
terrific fall of rain upon the roof of the tent, which came in as a mist
through the canvas. Lying near the edge of the mattress upon which we
had for that night crowded ourselves, I accidentally put my hand outside
the blanket and into a running stream of water which was flowing into
the tent. Conscious that trouble was ahead of us I took up my rifle,
which had been lying at my side, and stepped out and into the water, to
find that the tent was being rapidly flooded. I spoke to the Deacon
through the darkness. He promptly responded and informed me that he had
just discovered the flood and was rolling his mattress into a bundle
upon a small box. "Boys, wake up!" we shouted, for Ben and Fred were as
yet wholly unconscious of the impending deluge. "What do you want?" said
Ben sleepily, but before I had time to explain he shouted, "I'm all
afloat, get out of here, Fred, quick!" Fred responded with alacrity, for
the water was rising and had begun to come through the mattress. We soon
found ourselves camped in a newly-formed pond. Our previous experience
had taught us that tents should not be pitched in a depression, but the
ground was so dry when we camped and the sky had been cloudless for so
long a time, that we were careless. The lesson now was better learned.
We protected our rifles and other valuable articles as thoroughly as
possible and waded out from the pond, through the rain, to our wagons to
await the coming of the morning. The sun rose in a fairly clear sky,
although showers seemed to be lingering up in the mountains. On the
following day Pete negotiated with the post sutler for some supplies, on
the basis of 15 cents per pound for corn and 40 cents for bacon, which
were regarded as reasonable prices. The day, however, was devoted
chiefly to drying out blankets and clothing and to long trips in search
of fuel, which in the valley was exceedingly scarce. A call at the Warne
camp resulted in the information that the campers there had suffered but
little from the severe storm, as their tents were on higher ground,
although they reported the pelting of the rain as being terrific and
having a sound like hail. Toward noon of the fourth day Kreighton's
freight train of forty wagons with mules arrived from the east, having
succeeded after great hardships in crossing the Platte. After noon we
all joined the caravan and threaded our way westward along very rough
roads up and down many steep hills until we reached the vicinity of Red
Buttes, eleven miles beyond Fort Caspar, where we camped for the night.
We had bid goodbye to our interesting Caspar Camp ground and to the
Platte River, which for 500 miles had been almost constantly near us.
For this stream every traveler on these plains must be thankful,
stretching as it does through arid wastes. Without it we should have
found it difficult to exist. Since that day the tributaries of the
turbulent Platte have been diverted to irrigation purposes, leaving it
at times little else than an extinct river.
After supper Ben, Fred and I strolled out on foot for a closer
inspection of the Red Buttes, which are so named because of their deep
red coloring. They are similar in character to those in the Garden of
the Gods in Colorado, though more extensive. The summits like those of
many of the bluffs in the clay lands, are level and apparently destitute
of vegetation. The sides are nearly perpendicular, and as they offered
no temptation for a climb, we turned our footsteps toward the camp. The
sun had just sunk below the horizon, and a big, bright moon was already
on duty, to give promise of a glorious night. Overtaking a grizzled old
man who had evidently been traveling in the protection of the big train,
we accosted him, as was the free and easy custom in the West. He
answered us cheerily and congratulated us on having finally fallen in
with the train, as he was confident that no other outfit would soon be
moving westward over that road.
"Are you a freighter?" we asked.
"No," he replied, "and yet I may say that I have done considerable
traveling through this country with trains that carried freight. I have
a ranch west of here."
"Have you had much trouble with the Indians?" we naturally asked.
"They have been keeping us pretty busy the last two years. Did you hear
about Hugh Kuykendall's train?" he continued. "Yes," was the reply, "we
separated from it on Friday, the 13th of this month. Is there anything
new concerning it?"
"Yes," he replied, "it was attacked by the Sioux, and at last reports
the train was surrounded by about seven hundred Indians, and the men
were trying to hold them off and will put up a stiff fight. A herder who
was on the outside rode in and reported the situation at Horse Shoe
Creek, and a few troops were sent forward to assist, and that is the
latest. Remember, boys, that you are in the Indian country, and you
should keep pretty close to your base."
"Have you been in this country long?" we asked.
"Yes, several years. As a boy I was with Descoteaux, the trapper, who in
1842 was with Colonel John C. Fremont and with him made the ascent of
Fremont Peak."
Pursuing this line of conversation as we were approaching our camp we
asked the trapper's name. "I am known as Tom Soon, but the two words
together sound so like Thompson that I am often known by that name." On
reaching the camp we presented Tom to the Warnes.