The close of the last chapter left my command in camp near General
Sheridan’s headquarters, at the point now known as Camp Supply,
Indian Territory. We had returned on the 30th of November from the
campaign of the Washita, well satisfied with the result of our labors
and exposures; but we were not to sit quietly in our tents or winter
quarters, and give way to mutual congratulations upon the success
which had already rewarded our efforts. The same spirit who, in the
Shenandoah Valley campaign of 1864, had so successfully inaugurated the
“whirling” movement, was now present, and it was determined that upon a
slightly modified principle, reinforced by the biting frosts of winter,
we should continue to “press things” until our savage enemies should
not only be completely humbled, but be forced by the combined perils
of war and winter to beg for peace, and settle quietly down within the
limits of their reservation.
Such was the import of the closing sentences in the “Congratulatory
Order” published by General Sheridan to the Seventh Cavalry and quoted
in the preceding chapter. “The _opening_ of the campaign against
hostile Indians south of Arkansas,” were the words used. We have seen
the “opening;” if the reader will accompany me, I will endeavor to
relate that which followed, introducing the principal events which, in
connection with the battle of the Washita, resulted in forcing all the
“hostile Indians south of the Arkansas” to a condition of comparative
peace, and gave peace and protection to that portion of our frontier
which had so long suffered from their murderous and thieving raids.
In less than one week from the date of our arrival at Camp Supply,
we were to be again in the saddle and wending our way southward
toward the supposed winter haunts of our enemies--this time, however,
with more than double our former numbers. So long had the thrifty
and enterprising settlers upon the frontier of Kansas, particularly
those who had selected homes in the fertile valleys of the Saline,
Solomon, and Republican rivers, been subjected to the depredations
of the Cheyennes, Arrapahoes, Apaches, Kiowas, and Sioux, and so
frequent had the murder and capture of settlers by these Indians
become, that the citizens and the officials of the State felt forced
to take measures in their own defence, and for the purpose of uniting
with the forces of the General Government, in the attempt to give
quiet and protection to life and property to the inhabitants of the
border settlements. The last needed impulse to this movement on the
part of the people of Kansas was given when the Indians, late in the
preceding summer, made two raids upon the settlements in the Saline,
Solomon, and Republican valleys, and, after murdering many of the
men and children, burning houses, and destroying or capturing a vast
amount of stock, carried off into captivity two young women or girls,
both belonging to highly respected families residing on the exposed
border of the State. Although one of the captives was married, her
marriage to a farmer having been celebrated less than one month prior
to the day of her unfortunate capture by the Indians, yet neither of
them could scarcely be said to have passed the line which separates
girlhood from womanhood. Mrs. Morgan, the bride, was but nineteen,
while her companion in misfortune, Miss White, was still her junior
by a year or more. As they played no unimportant part in subsequent
operations against the Indians, the principal events attending their
capture may not be out of place. Neither knew the other, nor had they
ever seen each other until they met as captives in an Indian village
hundreds of miles from their frontier homes. One can readily imagine
with what deep interest and mutual sympathy the acquaintance of these
two helpless girls began. Miss White had been captured and carried to
the Indian village about one month before the capture of Mrs. Morgan
occurred. The brief story of the capture of the former is soon told.
One day, her father being at work in the field, she and a younger
sister were engaged in the garden, when she saw four Indians entering
the house where her mother and the younger children of the family were.
Her first impulse was to fly, but seeing an Indian on the opposite
side of the garden she turned and entered the house. One or two of
the Indians could speak broken English; all of them assumed a most
friendly demeanor and requested something to eat. This request was met
by a most prompt and willing response upon the part of Mrs. White and
her children. With true Western hospitality they prepared for their
unbidden guests as bountifully as the condition of the larder would
permit. No depredations had been committed in that vicinity for some
time, and as it was not an unusual occurrence for small parties of
Indians when engaged on hunting excursions to visit the settlements,
where they invariably met with kind treatment at the hands of the
settlers, it was hoped that after obtaining the desired meal the party
would quietly withdraw without committing any depredations. Such,
however, was not the intention of the savages. Already on that day
their hands had been dipped in the white man’s blood, and the peaceful
procurement of something to appease their hunger was merely the
dropping of the curtain between two acts of a terrible drama. Having
satisfied the demands of their appetites, it was then time for them
to throw aside the guise of friendship, under which they had entered
the house and been treated as favored guests, and to reveal the true
object of their visit. Two stalwart warriors grasped Miss White in
their arms and rushed toward the door. Neither her shrieks nor the
feeble resistance she was able to offer retarded their movements. As
she found herself being rapidly carried from the house the last glimpse
she obtained of those within revealed her mother engaged in an unequal
struggle with a powerful warrior, while another of the savages had
felled a younger sister to the floor and was then engaged in destroying
such articles of furniture or table ware as he could lay hands upon.
Her two captors hurried her from the house, hastened to the spot where
they had left their ponies, and after binding their captive upon the
back of one of their ponies, and being joined by the others of the
party, began their flight from the settlements, well knowing that the
alarm would soon be given, and pursuit by the enraged settlers would
be the result. Amid the terrible surroundings of her own situation,
the anxieties of the fair captive to know the fate of the dear ones
left behind must have been unspeakable. I can scarcely imagine a more
deplorable fate than that to which this defenceless girl had become
the victim. Torn from her home amid scenes of heartrending atrocities,
distracted with anxious thoughts as to the fate which had befallen her
mother and sisters, she now found herself a helpless prisoner in the
hands of the most cruel, heartless, and barbarous of human enemies.
Unable to utter or comprehend a word of the Indian language, and her
captors only being able to express the most ordinary words in broken
English, her condition was rendered the more forlorn, if possible,
by her inability to communicate with those in whose power she found
herself.
With war parties returning from a foray upon the settlements, the first
object is to place as long a distance as possible between themselves
and any party which may be in pursuit. To accomplish this, as soon as
they have completed the destruction and havoc of which the settlers
are the victims, the entire party, usually numbering from fifty to one
hundred warriors, collect at a point near the settlements previously
agreed upon, and at once begin their flight toward their village,
probably located at least two hundred miles from the scene of their
attack. Being mounted, as all war parties are, upon the fleetest of
Indian ponies with extra animals driven along, little or no rest for
either pony or rider is taken during the first twenty-four hours, by
which time it is no unusual feat for a war party to traverse a distance
of one hundred miles.
During the early part of the flight every precaution is adopted to
prevent leaving a heavy trail, or one easily to be followed; to this
end, instead of moving, as is customary, in single file, thereby
leaving a clearly defined path, each warrior moves independently of
his fellows, until all danger from pursuit is safely passed, when the
party falls into single file, and, with the chief at the head, moves
along in almost unbroken silence. If during an attack upon the frontier
settlements the Indians should encounter unexpected and successful
resistance, necessitating a premature withdrawal and flight on their
part, they still resort to stratagem in order to secure their safety.
In accordance with a plan previously formed and understood by each
member of the party, and specially provided for an emergency, the war
party finding themselves about to encounter successful resistance on
the part of the frontiersmen beat a hasty retreat; but instead of
hiking their flight in a single direction and in one party, thereby
leaving an unmistakable clue for their pursuers, the entire party
breaks up into numerous smaller bands, each apparently fleeing in an
independent direction, a few of the best mounted usually falling behind
to attract the attention of the pursuers and give time to those of
the party who are burdened with prisoners and captured stock to make
good their escape. In such an emergency as this, a rendezvous for the
entire party has been previously fixed upon. Its location is usually
upon or near some water-course or prominent landmark, distant perhaps
thirty or forty miles; thither all smaller parties direct their course,
each by a separate and usually a circuitous course. Should either
of these smaller parties find themselves closely pursued, or their
trail being followed and all efforts to throw the pursuers off prove
unavailing, they relinquish the plan of uniting with the others at
the established rendezvous, as that would imperil the safety of their
comrades, and select a new route leading neither in the direction of
the rendezvous nor of the village, in order not only to elude but
mislead their pursuers. Then ensues a long and tiresome flight, until,
having worn out or outwitted their pursuers, of whose movements they
keep themselves thoroughly informed, they make their way in safety
to the village. At the latter, lookouts are constantly kept on some
prominent hill to watch the coming of the absent warriors, and give
notice of their approach. A war party returning from a successful raid
into the settlements, and bringing with them prisoners and captured
stock, is an event of the greatest importance to every occupant of the
village. Having arrived within a few miles of the village, and feeling
safe from all danger from pursuit, the chief in command of the war
party causes a signal smoke to be sent up from some high point along
the line of march, well knowing that watchful eyes near the village are
on the alert and will not fail to observe the signal and understand its
meaning.
It is wonderful to what a state of perfection the Indian has carried
this simple mode of telegraphing. Scattered over a great portion of
the plains, from British America in the north almost to the Mexican
border on the south, are to be found isolated hills, or, as they are
usually termed, “buttes,” which can be seen a distance of from twenty
to more than fifty miles. These peaks are selected as the telegraphic
stations. By varying the number of the columns of smoke different
meanings are conveyed by the messages. The most simple as well as most
easily varied mode, and resembling somewhat the ordinary alphabet
employed in the magnetic telegraph, is arranged by building a small
fire which is not allowed to blaze; then, by placing an armful of
partially green grass or weeds over the fire, as if to smother it,
a dense white smoke is created, which ordinarily will ascend in a
continuous vertical column for hundreds of feet. This column of smoke
is to the Indian mode of telegraphing what the current of electricity
is to the system employed by the white man; the alphabet so far as it
goes is almost identical, consisting as it does of long lines and short
lines or dots. But how formed? is perhaps the query of the reader.
By the simplest of methods. Having his current of smoke established,
the Indian operator simply takes his blanket and by spreading it over
the small pile of weeds or grass from which the column of smoke takes
its source, and properly controlling the edges and corners of the
blanket, he confines the smoke, and is in this way able to retain it
for several moments. By rapidly displacing the blanket, the operator
is enabled to cause a dense volume of smoke to rise, the length or
shortness of which, as well as the number and frequency of the columns,
he can regulate perfectly, simply by the proper use of the blanket.
For the transmission of brief messages, previously determined upon,
no more simple method could easily be adopted. As soon as the lookout
near the village discerns the approach in the distance of the expected
war party, the intelligence is at once published to the occupants of
the village through the stentorian tones of the village crier, the
duties of which office are usually performed by some superannuated or
deposed chief. Runners mounted upon fleet ponies are at once despatched
to meet the returning warriors and gather the particulars of the
expedition--whether successful or otherwise; whether they are returning
laden with scalps and plunder or come empty-handed. Have they brought
prisoners and captured horses? and are their own numbers unbroken,
or do their losses exceed their gains? These and similar questions
are speedily solved, when the runners hasten back to the village and
announce the result, whereupon the occupants of the entire village,
old and young, sally forth to meet the returning warriors. If the
latter have been successful and have suffered no loss, they become the
recipients of all the triumph which a barbarous and excited people are
capable of heaping upon them. They advance toward the village painted
and dressed in full war costume, singing their war songs, discharging
their firearms, and uttering ever and anon the war-whoop peculiar
to their tribe. Added to this, every soul in the village capable of
uttering a sound joins in the general rejoicing, and for a time the
entire population is wild with excitement. If, however, instead of
returning in triumph, the war party has met with disaster and suffered
the loss of one or more warriors, the scene witnessed upon their
arrival at the village is as boisterous as the other, but even more
horrible. The party is met as before by all the inhabitants of
the village, but in a widely different manner; instead of the shouts and
songs of victory which greet the successful warriors, only the screams
and wails of an afflicted people are to be heard; the war paint and
bright colors give way to a deep black with which all the mourners and
friends of the fallen warriors besmear their faces, while the members
of the immediate family begin hacking and scarifying their faces, arms,
and bodies with knives, and give way to lamentations the most piercing
and horrible in sound. A not infrequent mode of disfiguring themselves,
and one which I have often seen, is for the mourner, particularly if
the one mourned is a wife or husband, to cut off the first joint of
the little finger. This of course is done without the slightest regard
for the rules of surgery, of which the Indians generally are wofully
ignorant. The operation is simply performed by taking a knife, often of
questionable sharpness, and cutting through the flesh and first joint
of the little finger, leaving no “flap” of flesh to cover the exposed
bone. As a result, in healing the flesh withdraws from the mutilated
portion of the finger, and usually leaves nearly an inch of bone
exposed, presenting of course a most revolting appearance.
The village to which Miss White’s captors belonged was located at
that time south of the Arkansas river, and distant from her home at
least three hundred miles. How many girls of eighteen years of age
possess the physical ability to survive a journey such as lay before
this lonely captive? Unprovided with a saddle of any description, she
was mounted upon an Indian pony, and probably required to accomplish
nearly, if not quite, one hundred miles within the first twenty-four
hours, and thus to continue the tiresome journey with but little rest
or nourishment. Added to the discomforts and great fatigue of the
journey was something more terrible and exhausting than either. The
young captive, although a mere girl, was yet sufficiently versed in
the perils attending frontier life to fully comprehend that upon her
arrival at the village a fate awaited her more dreadful than death
itself. She realized that if her life had been spared by her savage
captors it was due to no sentiment of mercy or kindness on their part,
but simply that she might be reserved for a doom far more fearful and
more to be dreaded than death.
The capture of Mrs. Morgan occurred about one month later, and in
the same section of country, and the story of her capture is in its
incidents almost a repetition of that of Miss White. Her young husband
was engaged at work in a field, not far from the house, when the crack
of a rifle from the woods near by summoned her to the door. She barely
had time to see her husband fall to the ground when she discovered
several Indians rushing toward the house. Her first impulse was to seek
safety in flight, but already the Indians had surrounded the house,
and upon her attempting to escape one of the savages felled her to the
ground by a blow from his war club, and she lost all consciousness.
When she recovered her senses it was only to find herself bound upon
the back of a pony which was being led by a mounted warrior, while
another warrior rode behind and urged the pony she was mounted upon to
keep up the trot. There were about fifty warriors in the party, nearly
all belonging to the Cheyenne tribe, the others belonging to the Sioux
and Arrapahoes. As in the case of the capture of Miss White, a rapid
flight immediately followed the capture.
It was the story oft repeated of outrages like these, but particularly
of these two, that finally forced the people of Kansas to take up
arms in their own defence. Authority was obtained from the General
Government to raise a regiment of cavalry, whose services were to be
accepted for a period of six months. So earnest and enthusiastic had
the people of the frontier become in their determination to reclaim
the two captives, as well as administer justly-merited punishment,
that people of all classes and callings were eager to abandon their
professions and take up arms against the traditional enemy of the
frontier. The Governor of the State, Hon. S. J. Crawford, resigned
the duties of the Executive of the State into the hands of the
Lieutenant-Governor, and placed himself at the head of the regiment,
which was then being organized and equipped for service during the
winter campaign. After the return of the Seventh Cavalry from the
Washita campaign, we were simply waiting the arrival at Camp Supply
of the Kansas volunteers before again setting out to continue the
campaign, whose opening had begun so auspiciously. Severe storms
delayed the arrival of the Kansas troops beyond the expected time. They
reached Camp Supply, however, in time for the 7th of December to be
fixed upon as the date of our departure. My command, as thus increased,
consisted of eleven companies of the Seventh United States Cavalry; ten
companies of the Nineteenth Kansas volunteer Cavalry, Colonel S. J.
Crawford commanding; a detachment of scouts under Lieutenant Silas
Pepoon, Tenth Cavalry; and between twenty and thirty whites, Osage and
Kaw Indians, as guides and trailers. As our ultimate destination was
Fort Cobb, Indian Territory, where we would obtain a renewal of our
supplies after the termination of our proposed march, and as General
Sheridan desired to transfer his headquarters “in the field” to that
point, he decided to accompany my command, but generously declined
to exercise any command of the expedition, merely desiring to avail
himself of this opportunity of an escort without rendering a detachment
for that purpose necessary; and, as he remarked when announcing his
intention to accompany us, he simply wished to be regarded as a
“passenger.”
The day prior to our departure I was standing in front of my tent,
when a young man, probably twenty-one or two years of age, accosted me
and began a conversation by inquiring when I expected the expedition
would move. Any person who has had much to do with expeditions in the
Indian country knows how many and how frequent are the applications
made to the commanding officer to obtain employment as scouts or
guides. Probably one in fifty of the applicants is deserving of
attention, and if employed would prove “worthy of his hire.” Taking but
a glance at the young man who addressed me, and believing him to be
one of the numerous applicants for employment, my attention being at
the time absorbed with other matters, I was in no mood to carry on a
conversation which I believed would terminate in an offer of services
not desired. I was disposed to be somewhat abrupt in my answers, but
there was something in the young man’s earnest manner, the eagerness
with which he seemed to await my answers, that attracted and interested
me. After a few questions on his part as to what portion of the country
I expected to march through, what tribes I might encounter, and others
of a similar nature, he suddenly said, “General, I want to go along
with you.” This only confirmed my first impression, although from his
conversation I soon discovered that he was not one of the professional
applicants for employment as a scout or guide, but more likely had been
seized with a spirit of wild romance, and imagined the proper field for
its display would be discovered by accompanying an expedition against
the Indians. Many instances of this kind had previously fallen under my
observation, and I classed this as one of them; so I simply informed
him that I had already employed as many scouts and guides as were
required, and that no position of that character, or any other in fact,
was open to him. Not in the least discouraged by this decided refusal,
he replied: “But you do not understand me; I do not desire employment
in your command, nor any position requiring pay. I only ask permission
to accompany your expedition. I have neither arms nor horse; if you
will furnish me these, and permit me to go with you, I will serve you
in any capacity I can, and will expect no pay.”
My curiosity was now excited; I therefore pressed him to explain his
motive in desiring to accompany the expedition.
“Well, I’ll tell you; it’s a sad story. About four months ago the
Indians attacked my home, and carried off my only sister, a girl
nineteen years of age. Since that day I have heard not a word as to
what has become of her. I know not whether she is among the living or
dead; but when I think of what must be her fate if among the living,
I am almost tempted to wish she was quietly resting among the dead. I
do not even know what tribe was engaged in her capture, but hearing
of your expedition I thought it might afford me the means of getting
some clue to my sister’s fate. You may have a council with some of the
chiefs, or some of the prisoners you captured at the battle of the
Washita may tell me something of her; or if I can only learn where she
is, perhaps you can exchange some of your prisoners for her; at any
rate, the only chance I have to learn anything concerning her is by
being permitted to accompany your expedition.”
Of course he was permitted to accompany the expedition; not only
that, but he was provided with a horse and arms, and appointed to a
remunerative position. I asked him why he had not informed me at first
as to his object in desiring to go with us. He replied that he feared
that if it was known that he was in search of a lost sister, and we
should afterward have interviews with the Indians, as we certainly
would at Fort Cobb, he might not be as successful in obtaining
information as if the object of his mission was unknown.
The name of this young man was Brewster, and the lost sister in whose
search he was so earnestly engaged was Mrs. Morgan, whose capture has
already been described. From him I learned that Mrs. Morgan’s husband,
although shot down at the first fire of the Indians, was in a fair way
to recover, although crippled probably for life. But for his wounds, he
too would have joined the brother in a search for the sister and for
his bride, whose honeymoon had met with such a tragic interruption.
Young Brewster remained with my command during the entire winter,
accompanying it, and every detachment made from it, in the eager hope
to learn something of the fate of his sister. In his continued efforts
to discover some clue leading to her he displayed more genuine courage,
perseverance, and physical endurance, and a greater degree of true
brotherly love and devotion, than I have ever seen combined in one
person. We will hear from him as the story progresses.
It was decided to send the captives taken at the Washita to Fort Hays,
Kansas, where they could not only be safely guarded, but be made far
more comfortable than at Camp Supply. Before the expedition moved I
suggested to General Sheridan that I should take with the expedition
three of the squaws who were prisoners in our hands, with a view to
rendering their services available in establishing communication with
the hostile villages, if at any time this should become a desirable
object. General Sheridan approved of the suggestion, and I selected
three of the captives who were to accompany us. The first was
Mah-wis-sa, the sister of Black Kettle, whose acquaintance the reader
may have formed in the preceding chapter; the second was a Sioux squaw,
probably fifty years of age, whom Mah-wis-sa expressed a desire to
have accompany her, and who at times was disposed to be extremely
communicative in regard to the winter resorts of the various tribes,
and other matters connected with the purposes of the expedition.
The third was the daughter of Little Rock, the chief second in rank
to Black Kettle, who had been killed at the battle of the Washita.
Little Rock’s daughter was an exceedingly comely squaw, possessing a
bright, cheery face, a countenance beaming with intelligence, and a
disposition more inclined to be merry than one usually finds among
the Indians. She was probably rather under than over twenty years of
age. Added to bright, laughing eyes, a set of pearly teeth, and a
rich complexion, her well-shaped head was crowned with a luxuriant
growth of the most beautiful silken tresses, rivalling in color the
blackness of the raven, and extending, when allowed to fall loosely
over her shoulders, to below her waist. Her name was Mo-nah-se-tah,
which, anglicized, means “The young grass that shoots in the spring.”
Mo-nah-se-tah, although yet a maiden in years and appearance, had been
given in marriage, or, more properly speaking, she had been traded in
marriage, as an Indian maiden who should be so unfortunate as to be
“given” away would not be looked upon as a very desirable match. In
addition to her handsome appearance, both in form and feature, and to
any other personal attraction which might be considered peculiarly her
own, Mo-nah-se-tah, being the daughter of a chief high in rank, was
justly considered as belonging to the cream of the aristocracy, if not
to royalty itself; consequently the suitors who hoped to gain her hand
must be prepared, according to the Indian custom, to pay handsomely for
an alliance so noble. Little Rock, while represented as having been a
kind and affectionate father, yet did not propose that the hand of his
favorite daughter should be disposed of without the return of a due
equivalent.
Among the young warriors of the tribe there were many who would have
been proud to call Mo-nah-se-tah to preside over the domestic destinies
of their lodge, but the price to be paid for so distinguished an
alliance was beyond the means of most of them. Among the number of
young braves who aspired to the honor of her hand was one who, so far
as worldly wealth was concerned, was eligible. Unfortunately, however,
he had placed too much reliance upon this fact, and had not thought
that while obtaining the consent of paterfamilias it would be well also
to win the heart of the maiden; or perhaps he had, in seeking her hand,
also attempted to gain her heart, but not meeting with the desired
encouragement from the maiden of his choice, was willing to trust to
time to accomplish the latter, provided only he could secure the first.
According to Indian customs the consent of the bride to a proposed
marriage, while it may be ever so desirable, is not deemed essential.
All that is considered absolutely essential is, that the bridegroom
shall be acceptable to the father of the bride, and shall transfer to
the possession of the latter ponies or other articles of barter, in
sufficient number and value to be considered a fair equivalent for the
hand of the daughter. When it is stated that from two to four ponies
are considered as the price of the average squaw, and that the price
for the hand of Mo-nah-se-tah, as finally arranged, was eleven ponies,
some idea can be formed of the high opinion entertained of her.
It proved, however, so far as the young warrior was concerned, an
unsatisfactory investment. The ponies were transferred to Little Rock,
and all the formalities were duly executed which, by Indian law and
custom, were necessary to constitute Mo-nah-se-tah the wife of the
young brave. She was forced to take up her abode in his lodge, but
refused to acknowledge him as her husband, or to render him that
obedience and menial service which the Indian husband exacts from his
wife. Time failed to soften her heart, or to cause her to look kindly
upon her self-constituted but unrecognized lord and master.
Here was a clear case of “incompatibility of disposition”; and within
the jurisdiction of some of our State laws a divorce would have been
granted almost unquestioned. The patience of the young husband having
become exhausted, and he having unsuccessfully resorted to every
measure of kindness deemed likely to win the love and obedience of his
wife, he determined to have recourse to harsher measures--if necessary,
to employ force. Again he mistook the character of her upon whose
apparently obdurate heart neither threats nor promises had produced the
faintest effect. Mo-nah-se-tah had probably been anticipating such a
decision, and had prepared herself accordingly. Like most Indian women,
she was as skilful in the handling and use of weapons as most warriors
are; and when her husband, or rather the husband who had been assigned
to her, attempted to establish by force an authority which she had
persistently refused to recognize, she reminded him that she was the
daughter of a great chief, and rather than submit to the indignities
which he was thus attempting to heap upon her, she would resist even to
the taking of life; and suiting the action to the word, she levelled a
small pistol which she had carried concealed beneath her blanket and
fired, wounding him in the knee and disabling him for life.
Little Rock, learning of what had occurred, and finding upon
investigation that his daughter had not been to blame, concluded to
cancel the marriage--to grant a divorce--which was accomplished simply
by returning to the unfortunate husband the eleven ponies which had
been paid for the hand of Mo-nah-se-tah. What an improvement upon
the method prescribed in the civilized world! No lawyer’s fees, no
publicity nor scandal; all tedious delays are avoided, and the result
is as nearly satisfactory to all parties as is possible.
Having sent a messenger to ask the three Indian women referred to to
come to my tent, I acquainted them with my intention of taking them
with the expedition when we moved in search of the hostile villages.
To my surprise they evinced great delight at the idea, and explained
it by saying that if they accompanied us they might be able to see or
communicate with some of their people, while by remaining with the
other prisoners, and becoming further separated from their own country
and hunting-grounds, they could entertain little or no hope of learning
anything concerning the fate of other portions of their tribe. They
gladly acceded to the proposition to accompany the troops. I then
inquired of them in which mode they preferred to travel, mounted upon
ponies, as was their custom, or in an ambulance. Much to my surprise,
remembering how loath the Indian is to adopt any contrivance of the
white man, they chose the ambulance, and wisely too, as the season was
that of midwinter, and the interior of a closely covered ambulance was
a much less exposed position than that to be found on the back of a
pony.
[Illustration: LONE WOLF, HEAD CHIEF OF THE KIOWAS.]