I
As a fitting introduction to some of the personal incidents and
sketches which I shall hereafter present to the readers of “The
Galaxy,” a brief description of the country in which these events
transpired may not be deemed inappropriate.
It is but a few years ago that every schoolboy, supposed to possess
the rudiments of a knowledge of the geography of the United States,
could give the boundaries and a general description of the “Great
American Desert.” As to the boundary the knowledge seemed to be quite
explicit: on the north bounded by the Upper Missouri, on the east by
the Lower Missouri and Mississippi, on the south by Texas, and on
the west by the Rocky Mountains. The boundaries on the northwest and
south remained undisturbed, while on the east civilization, propelled
and directed by Yankee enterprise, adopted the motto, “Westward the
star of empire takes its way.” Countless throngs of emigrants crossed
the Mississippi and Missouri rivers, selecting homes in the rich and
fertile territories lying beyond. Each year this tide of emigration,
strengthened and increased by the flow from foreign shores, advanced
toward the setting sun, slowly but surely narrowing the preconceived
limits of the “Great American Desert,” and correspondingly enlarging
the limits of civilization. At last the geographical myth was
dispelled. It was gradually discerned that the Great American Desert
did not exist, that it had no abiding place, but that within its
supposed limits, and instead of what had been regarded as a sterile
and unfruitful tract of land, incapable of sustaining either man or
beast, there existed the fairest and richest portion of the national
domain, blessed with a climate pure, bracing, and healthful, while its
undeveloped soil rivalled if it did not surpass the most productive
portions of the Eastern, Middle, or Southern States.
Discarding the name “Great American Desert,” this immense tract of
country, with its eastern boundary moved back by civilization to a
distance of nearly three hundred miles west of the Missouri river, is
now known as “The Plains,” and by this more appropriate title it shall
be called when reference to it is necessary. The Indian tribes which
have caused the Government most anxiety and whose depredations have
been most serious against our frontier settlements and prominent lines
of travel across the Plains, infest that portion of the Plains bounded
on the north by the valley of the Platte river and its tributaries,
on the east by a line running north and south between the 97th and
98th meridians, on the south by the valley of the Arkansas river, and
west by the Rocky Mountains--although by treaty stipulations almost
every tribe with which the Government has recently been at war is
particularly debarred from entering or occupying any portion of this
tract of country.
Of the many persons whom I have met on the Plains as transient visitors
from the States or from Europe, there are few who have not expressed
surprise that their original ideas concerning the appearance and
characteristics of the country were so far from correct, or that the
Plains in imagination, as described in books, tourists’ letters, or
reports of isolated scientific parties, differed so widely from the
Plains as they actually exist and appear to the eye. Travellers,
writers of fiction, and journalists have spoken and written a great
deal concerning this immense territory, so unlike in all its qualities
and characteristics to the settled and cultivated portion of the United
States; but to a person familiar with the country the conclusion is
forced, upon reading these published descriptions, either that the
writers never visited but a limited portion of the country they aim to
describe, or, as is most commonly the case at the present day, that the
journey was made in a stage-coach or Pullman car, half of the distance
travelled in the night time, and but occasional glimpses taken during
the day. A journey by rail across the Plains is at best but ill adapted
to a thorough or satisfactory examination of the general character of
the country, for the reason that in selecting the route for railroads
the valley of some stream is, if practicable, usually chosen to contain
the road-bed. The valley being considerably lower than the adjacent
country, the view of the tourist is correspondingly limited. Moreover,
the vastness and varied character of this immense tract could not
fairly be determined or judged of by a flying trip across one portion
of it. One would scarcely expect an accurate opinion to be formed of
the swamps of Florida from a railroad journey from New York to Niagara.
After indulging in criticisms on the written descriptions of the
Plains, I might reasonably be expected to enter into what I conceive a
correct description, but I forbear. Beyond a general outline embracing
some of the peculiarities of this slightly known portion of our
country, the limits and character of these sketches of Western life
will not permit me to go.
The idea entertained by the greater number of people regarding the
appearance of the Plains, while it is very incorrect so far as the
latter are concerned, is quite accurate and truthful if applied to
the prairies of the Western States. It is probable, too, that romance
writers, and even tourists at an earlier day, mistook the prairies
for the Plains, and in describing one imagined they were describing
the other; whereas the two have little in common to the eye of the
beholder, save the general absence of trees.
In proceeding from the Missouri river to the base of the Rocky
Mountains, the ascent, although gradual, is quite rapid. For example,
at Fort Riley, Kansas, the bed of the Kansas river is upward of 1,000
feet above the level of the sea, while Fort Hays, at a distance of
nearly 150 miles further west, is about 1,500 feet above the level of
the sea. Starting from almost any point near the central portion of the
Plains, and moving in any direction, one seems to encounter a series
of undulations at a more or less remote distance from each other, but
constantly in view. Comparing the surface of the country to that of
the ocean, a comparison often indulged in by those who have seen both,
it does not require a very great stretch of the imagination, when
viewing this boundless ocean of beautiful living verdure, to picture
these successive undulations as gigantic waves, not wildly chasing each
other to or from the shore, but standing silent and immovable, and by
their silent immobility adding to the impressive grandeur of the scene.
These undulations, varying in height from fifty to five hundred feet,
are sometimes formed of a light sandy soil, but often of different
varieties of rock, producing at a distance the most picturesque effect.
The constant recurrence of these waves, if they may be so termed, is
quite puzzling to the inexperienced plainsman. He imagines, and very
naturally too, judging from appearances, that when he ascends to the
crest he can overlook all the surrounding country. After a weary walk
or ride of perhaps several miles, which appeared at starting not more
than one or two, he finds himself at the desired point, but discovers
that directly beyond, in the direction he desires to go, rises a
second wave, but slightly higher than the first, and from the crest
of which he must certainly be able to scan the country as far as the
eye can reach. Thither he pursues his course, and after a ride of from
five to ten miles, although the distance did not seem half so great
before starting, he finds himself on the crest, or, as it is invariably
termed, the “divide,” but again only to discover that another and
apparently a higher divide rises in his front, and at about the same
distance. Hundreds, yes, thousands of miles may be journeyed over, and
this same effect witnessed every few hours.
As you proceed toward the west from the Missouri, the size of the trees
diminishes as well as the number of kinds. As you penetrate the borders
of the Indian country, leaving civilization behind you, the sight of
forests is no longer enjoyed, the only trees to be seen being scattered
along the banks of the streams, these becoming smaller and more rare,
finally disappearing altogether and giving place to a few scattering
willows and osiers. The greater portion of the Plains may be said to be
without timber of any kind. As to the cause of this absence scientific
men disagree, some claiming that the high winds which prevail in
unobstructed force prevent the growth and existence of not only trees
but even the taller grasses. This theory is well supported by facts,
as, unlike the Western prairies, where the grass often attains a height
sufficient to conceal a man on horseback, the Plains are covered by a
grass which rarely, and only under favorable circumstances, exceeds
three inches in height. Another theory, also somewhat plausible, is
that the entire Plains were at one time covered with timber more or
less dense, but this timber, owing to various causes, was destroyed,
and has since been prevented from growing or spreading over the Plains
by the annual fires which the Indians regularly create, and which sweep
over the entire country. These fires are built by the Indians in the
fall to burn the dried grass and hasten the growth of the pasturage in
the early spring. Favoring the theory that the Plains were at one time
covered with forests, is the fact that entire trunks of large trees
have been found in a state of petrifaction on elevated portions of the
country, and far removed from streams of water.
While dwarfed specimens of almost all varieties of trees are found
fringing the banks of some of the streams, the prevailing species
are cottonwood and poplar trees (_Populus monilifera_ and _Populus
angulosa_). Intermingled with these are found clumps of osiers (_Salix
longifolia_). In almost any other portion of the country the cottonwood
would be the least desirable of trees; but to the Indian, and, in many
instances which have fallen under my observation, to our troops, the
cottonwood has performed a service for which no other tree has been
found its equal, and that is as forage for horses and mules during
the winter season, when the snow prevents even dried grass from being
obtainable. During the winter campaign of 1868–’69 against the hostile
tribes south of the Arkansas, it not unfrequently happened that my
command while in pursuit of Indians exhausted its supply of forage,
and the horses and mules were subsisted upon the young bark of the
cottonwood tree. In routing the Indians from their winter villages,
we invariably discovered them located upon that point of the stream
promising the greatest supply of cottonwood bark, while the stream
in the vicinity of the village was completely shorn of its supply of
timber, and the village itself was strewn with the white branches of
the cottonwood entirely stripped of their bark. It was somewhat amusing
to observe an Indian pony feeding on cottonwood bark. The limb being
usually cut into pieces about four feet in length and thrown upon the
ground, the pony, accustomed to this kind of “long forage,” would place
one fore foot on the limb in the same manner as a dog secures a bone,
and gnaw the bark from it. Although not affording anything like the
amount of nutriment which either hay or grain does, yet our horses
invariably preferred the bark to either, probably on account of its
freshness.
The herbage to be found on the principal portion of the Plains is
usually sparse and stunted in its growth. Along the banks of the
streams and in the bottom lands there grows generally in rich abundance
a species of grass often found in the States east of the Mississippi;
but on the uplands is produced what is there known as the “buffalo
grass,” indigenous and peculiar in its character, differing in form
and substance from all other grasses. The blade under favorable
circumstances reaches a growth usually of from three to five inches,
but instead of being straight, or approximately so, it assumes a curled
or waving shape, the grass itself becoming densely matted, and giving
to the foot, when walking upon it, a sensation similar to that produced
by stepping upon moss or the most costly of velvet carpets.
Nearly all graminivorous animals inhabiting the Plains, except the
elk and some species of the deer, prefer the buffalo grass to that of
the lowland; and it is probable that even these exceptions would not
prove good if it were not for the timber on the bottom land, which
affords good cover to both the elk and the deer. Both are often found
in large herds grazing upon the uplands, although the grass is far
more luxuriant and plentiful on the lowlands. Our domestic animals
invariably choose the buffalo grass, and experience demonstrates beyond
question that it is the most nutritious of all varieties of wild grass.
The favorite range of the buffalo is contained in a belt of country
running north and south, about two hundred miles wide, and extending
from the Platte river on the north to the valley of the Upper Canadian
on the south. In migrating, if not grazing or alarmed, the buffalo
invariably moves in single file, the column generally being headed by
a patriarch of the herd, who is not only familiar with the topography
of the country, but whose prowess “in the field” entitles him to become
the leader of his herd. He maintains this leadership only so long as
his strength and courage enable him to remain the successful champion
in the innumerable contests which he is called upon to maintain. The
buffalo trails are always objects of interest and inquiry to the
sight-seer on the Plains. These trails made by the herds in their
migrating movements are so regular in their construction and course as
to well excite curiosity. They vary but little from eight to ten inches
in width, and are usually from two to four inches in depth; their
course is almost as unvarying as that of the needle, running north
and south. Of the thousands of buffalo trails which I have seen, I
recollect none of which the general direction was not north and south.
This may seem somewhat surprising at first thought, but it admits of a
simple and satisfactory explanation.
The general direction of all streams, large and small, on the Plains,
is from the west to the east, seeking as they do an entrance to the
Mississippi. The habits of the buffalo incline him to graze and
migrate from one stream to another, moving northward and crossing
each in succession as he follows the young grass in the spring, and
moving southward seeking the milder climate and open grazing in the
fall and winter. Throughout the buffalo country are to be seen what
are termed “buffalo wallows.” The number of those is so great as to
excite surprise; a moderate estimate would give from one to three
to each acre of ground throughout this vast tract of country. These
wallows are about eight feet in diameter and from six to eighteen
inches in depth, and are made by the buffalo bulls in the spring when
challenging a rival to combat for the favor of the opposite sex. The
ground is broken by pawing--if an animal with a hoof can be said to
paw--and if the challenge is accepted, as it usually is, the combat
takes place; after which the one who comes off victorious remains in
possession of the battle-field, and, occupying the “wallow” of fresh
upturned earth, finds it produces a cooling sensation to his hot
and gory sides. Sometimes the victory which gives possession of the
battle-field and drives a hated antagonist away is purchased at a dear
price. The carcass of the victor is often found in the wallow, where
his brief triumph has soon terminated from the effects of his wounds.
In the early spring, during the shedding season, the buffalo resorts
to his “wallow” to aid in removing the old coat. These “wallows” have
proven of no little benefit to man, as well as to animals other than
the buffalo. After a heavy rain they become filled with water, the
soil being of such a compact character as to retain it. It has not
unfrequently been the case when making long marches that the streams
would be found dry, while water in abundance could be obtained from the
“wallows.” True, it was not of the best quality, particularly if it
had been standing long and the buffalo had patronized the wallows as
“summer resorts”; but on the Plains a thirsty man or beast, far from
any streams of water, does not parley long with these considerations.
Wherever water is found on the Plains, particularly if it is standing,
innumerable gadflies and mosquitoes generally abound. To such an
extent do these pests to the animal kingdom exist, that to our
thinly-coated animals, such as the horse and mule, grazing is almost an
impossibility, while the buffalo with his huge shaggy coat can browse
undisturbed. The most sanguinary and determined of these troublesome
insects are the “buffalo flies”; they move in myriads, and so violent
and painful are their assaults upon horses that a herd of the latter
has been known to stampede as the result of an attack from a swarm of
these flies.
But here again is furnished what some reasoners would affirm is
evidence of the “eternal fitness of things.” In most localities where
these flies are found in troublesome numbers, there are also found
flocks of starlings, a species of blackbird; these, more, I presume, to
obtain a livelihood than to become the defender of the helpless, perch
themselves upon the backs of the animals when woe betide the hapless
gadfly who ventures near, only to become a choice morsel for the
starling. In this way I have seen our herds of cavalry horses grazing
undisturbed, each horse of the many hundreds having perched upon his
back from one to dozens of starlings, standing guard over him while he
grazed.
One of the first subjects which addresses itself to the mind of the
stranger on the Plains, particularly if he be of a philosophical or
scientific turn of mind, is the mirage, which is here observed in all
its perfection. Many a weary mile of the traveller has been whiled away
in endeavors to account for the fitful and beautifully changing visions
presented by the mirage. Sometimes the distortions are wonderful, and
so natural as to deceive the most experienced eye. Upon one occasion I
met a young officer who had spent several years on the Plains and in
the Indian country. He was, on the occasion alluded to, in command of
a detachment of cavalry in pursuit of a party of Indians who had been
committing depredations on our frontier. While riding at the head of
his command he suddenly discovered, as he thought, a party of Indians
not more than a mile distant. The latter seemed to be galloping toward
him. The attention of his men was called to them, and they pronounced
them Indians on horseback. The “trot” was sounded, and the column
moved forward to the attack. The distance between the attacking party
and the supposed foe was rapidly diminishing, the Indians appearing
plainer to view each moment. The charge was about to be sounded, when
it was discovered that the supposed party of Indians consisted of the
decayed carcasses of half a dozen slain buffaloes, which number had
been magnified by the mirage, while the peculiar motion imparted by the
latter had given the appearance of Indians on horseback.
I have seen a train of government wagons with white canvas covers
moving through a mirage which, by elevating the wagons to treble their
height and magnifying the size of the covers, presented the appearance
of a line of large sailing vessels under full sail, while the usual
appearance of the mirage gave a correct likeness of an immense lake or
sea. Sometimes the mirage has been the cause of frightful suffering and
death by its deceptive appearance.
Trains of emigrants making their way to California and Oregon have,
while seeking water to quench their thirst and that of their animals,
been induced to depart from their course in the endeavor to reach
the inviting lake of water which the mirage displayed before their
longing eyes. It is usually represented at a distance of from five to
ten miles. Sometimes, if the nature of the ground is favorable, it
is dispelled by advancing toward it; at others it is like an _ignis
fatuus_, hovering in sight, but keeping beyond reach. Here and there
throughout this region are pointed out the graves of those who are said
to have been led astray by the mirage until their bodies were famished
and they succumbed to thirst.
The routes usually chosen for travel across the Plains may be said to
furnish, upon an average, water every fifteen miles. In some instances,
however, and during the hot season of the year, it is necessary in
places to go into what is termed “a dry camp,” that is, to encamp where
there is no water. In such emergencies, with a previous knowledge
of the route, it is practicable to transport from the last camp a
sufficient quantity to satisfy the demands of the people composing the
train, but the dumb brutes must trust to the little moisture obtained
from the night grazing to quench their thirst.
The animals inhabiting the Plains resemble in some respects the
fashionable society of some of our larger cities. During the extreme
heat of the summer they forsake their accustomed haunts and seek a more
delightful retreat. For, although the Plains are drained by streams
of all sizes, from the navigable river to the humblest of brooks, yet
at certain seasons the supply of water in many of them is of the most
uncertain character. The pasturage, from the excessive heat, the lack
of sufficient moisture, and the withering hot winds which sweep across
from the south, becomes dried, withered, and burnt, and is rendered
incapable of sustaining life. Then it is that the animals usually found
on the Plains disappear for a short time, and await the return of a
milder season.
Having briefly grouped the prominent features of the central Plains,
and as some of the incidents connected with my service among the Indian
tribes occurred far to the south of the localities already referred to,
a hurried reference to the country north of Texas, and in which the
Wichita mountains are located, a favorite resort of some of the tribes,
is here made. To describe as one would view it in journeying upon
horseback over this beautiful and romantic country, to picture with
the pen those boundless solitude--so silent that their silence alone
increases their grandeur--to gather inspiration from nature and to
attempt to paint the scene as my eye beheld it, is a task before which
a much readier pen than mine might well hesitate.
It was a beautiful and ever-changing panorama which at one moment
excited the beholder’s highest admiration, at the next impressed him
with speechless veneration. Approaching the Wichita mountains from the
north, and after the eye has perhaps been wearied by the tameness and
monotony of the unbroken Plains, one is gladdened by the relief which
the sight of these picturesque and peculiarly beautiful mountains
affords.
Here are to be seen all the varied colors which Bierstadt and Church
endeavor to represent in their mountain scenery. A journey across and
around them on foot and upon horseback will well repay either the
tourist or artist. The air is pure and fragrant, and as exhilarating
as the purest of wine; the climate entrancingly mild; the sky clear,
and blue as the most beautiful sapphire, with here and there clouds of
rarest loveliness, presenting to the eye the richest commingling of
bright and varied colors; delightful odors are constantly being wafted
by; while the forests, filled with the mocking bird, the colibri, the
humming bird, and the thrush, constantly put forth a joyful chorus,
and all combine to fill the soul with visions of delight and enhance
the perfection and glory of the creation. Strong indeed must be that
unbelief which can here contemplate nature in all her purity and glory,
and, unawed by the sublimity of this closely-connected testimony,
question either the Divine origin or purpose of the beautiful firmament.
Unlike most mountains, the Wichita cannot properly be termed a range or
chain, but more correctly a collection or group, as many of the highest
and most beautiful are detached, and stand on a level plain “solitary
and alone.” They are mainly composed of granite, the huge blocks of
which exhibit numerous shades of beautiful colors, crimson, purple,
yellow, and green predominating. They are conical in shape, and seem to
have but little resemblance to the soil upon which they are founded.
They rise abruptly from a level surface--so level and unobstructed that
it would be an easy matter to drive a carriage to any point of the
circumference at the base; and yet so steep and broken are the sides
that it is only here and there that it is possible to ascend them. From
the foot of almost every mountain pours a stream of limpid water, of
almost icy coldness.
If the character given to the Indian by Cooper and other novelists, as
well as by well-meaning but mistaken philanthropists of a later day,
were the true one; if the Indian were the innocent, simple-minded being
he is represented, more the creature of romance than reality, imbued
only with a deep veneration for the works of nature, freed from the
passions and vices which must accompany a savage nature; if, in other
words, he possessed all the virtues which his admirers and works of
fiction ascribe to him, and were free from all the vices which those
best qualified to judge assign to him, he would be just the character
to complete the picture which is presented by the country embracing the
Wichita mountains. Cooper, to whose writings more than to those of any
other author are the people speaking the English language indebted for
a false and ill-judged estimate of the Indian character, might well
have laid the scenes of his fictitious stories in this beautiful and
romantic country.
It is to be regretted that the character of the Indian as described in
Cooper’s interesting novels is not the true one. But as, in emerging
from childhood into the years of a maturer age, we are often compelled
to cast aside many of our earlier illusions and replace them by beliefs
less inviting but more real, so we, as a people, with opportunities
enlarged and facilities for obtaining knowledge increased, have been
forced by a multiplicity of causes to study and endeavor to comprehend
thoroughly the character of the red man. So intimately has he become
associated with the Government as ward of the nation, and so prominent
a place among the questions of national policy does the much mooted
“Indian question” occupy, that it behooves us no longer to study this
problem from works of fiction, but to deal with it as it exists in
reality. Stripped of the beautiful romance with which we have been so
long willing to envelop him, transferred from the inviting pages of
the novelist to the localities where we are compelled to meet with
him, in his native village, on the war path, and when raiding upon
our frontier settlements and lines of travel, the Indian forfeits his
claim to the appellation of the “_noble_ red man.” We see him as he
is, and, so far as all knowledge goes, as he ever has been, a _savage_
in every sense of the word; not worse, perhaps, than his white brother
would be similarly born and bred, but one whose cruel and ferocious
nature far exceeds that of any wild beast of the desert. That this is
true no one who has been brought into intimate contact with the wild
tribes will deny. Perhaps there are some who, as members of peace
commissions or as wandering agents of some benevolent society, may
have visited these tribes or attended with them at councils held for
some pacific purpose, and who, by passing through the villages of the
Indian while _at peace_, may imagine their opportunities for judging
of the Indian nature all that could be desired. But the Indian, while
he can seldom be accused of indulging in a great variety of wardrobe,
can be said to have a character capable of adapting itself to almost
every occasion. He has one character, perhaps his most serviceable one,
which he preserves carefully, and only airs it when making his appeal
to the Government or its agents for arms, ammunition, and license to
employ them. This character is invariably paraded, and often with
telling effect, when the motive is a peaceful one. Prominent chiefs
invited to visit Washington invariably don this character, and in their
“talks” with the “Great Father” and other less prominent personages
they successfully contrive to exhibit but this one phase. Seeing them
under these or similar circumstances only, it is not surprising that
by many the Indian is looked upon as a simple-minded “son of nature,”
desiring nothing beyond the privilege of roaming and hunting over the
vast unsettled wilds of the West, inheriting and asserting but few
native rights, and never trespassing upon the rights of others. This
view is equally erroneous with that which regards the Indian as a
creature possessing the human form but divested of all other attributes
of humanity, and whose traits of character, habits, modes of life,
disposition, and savage customs disqualify him from the exercise of all
rights and privileges, even those pertaining to life itself. Taking
him as we find him, at peace or at war, at home or abroad, waiving all
prejudices, and laying aside all partiality, we will discover in the
Indian a subject for thoughtful study and investigation. In him we
will find the representative of a race whose origin is, and promises
to be, a subject forever wrapped in mystery; a race incapable of being
judged by the rules or laws applicable to any other known race of
men; one between which and civilization there seems to have existed
from time immemorial a determined and unceasing warfare--a hostility
so deep-seated and inbred with the Indian character, that in the
exceptional instances where the modes and habits of civilization have
been reluctantly adopted, it has been at the sacrifice of power and
influence as a tribe, and the more serious loss of health, vigor, and
courage as individuals.