mountains which seemed to be incapable of sustaining human life. But
he was pursued by the American troops as if he were a wild animal.
Fortunately, a treaty with Mexico made it possible for United States
forces to venture far beyond the Rio Grande, and thus several
detachments were soon upon the trail of the outlawed Apache. Captain
H. W. Lawton and Assistant Surgeon Leonard Wood did their utmost to
capture him. He was hunted from mountain range to mountain range;
through snowfields, cactus plants, and sun-baked ridges. Every device
known to the red men was practiced to throw the pursuing enemies off
the trail, but the half-breed trailers were good, and it was soon
evident that not a spot could be reached by Geronimo's band which would
offer them security. Twenty-five different commands, or detachments,
representing four regiments, kept up this persistent trailing through
narrow paths, along dangerous divides, down side cuts into the middle
of precipices hundreds of feet high, up precipitous banks and beetling
crags; sometimes leading the jaded horses for hours, at times looking
vertically into cañons whose bottom was a mile below. One of the
scouts, while looking for signs of the fugitives, rode one horse nearly
five hundred miles in less than seven days and nights; while a young
lieutenant once climbed a mountainous ascent for twenty-six hours, with
the heat at 110°, and without water for eighteen hours of this time.
Such perseverance was bound to tell.
At length Lawton's troopers, clinging to the trail like bloodhounds,
and suffering much from heat and thirst, cornered Geronimo's men in
a valley three hundred miles south of the Mexican boundary line, in
the Sonora range of mountains. There had been several skirmishes with
them along the way, and the United States troopers had shown great
gallantry under fire, especially in rescuing their own wounded troops
when under close range of the rifles of Geronimo's Apaches. The food
supply of these fugitives was now exhausted, and, realizing that to
stand out longer would be the height of absurdity, the Indians made
signs of peace. At the risk of his life, a young lieutenant, named
Gatewood, of the Sixth Cavalry, went unattended into Geronimo's camp,
and meeting the Apache chieftain face to face, gave him the terms of
speedy surrender. The old chief was helpless, and he knew it. So he
surrendered and was brought back to New Mexico with the remnants of his
once powerful army of mountain fighters.
Upon his capture and return to the United States, a tremendous call
went up from the settlers of the Southwest to have him removed to
some place from which he could not escape. "We do not know when this
terrible raider will not again break out and renew his plundering and
murder," wrote a committee of the settlers to the Department of the
Interior. And thus, in deference to the wishes of the white pioneers,
Geronimo and the few people of his tribe, who had survived the war,
were sent to Florida, and then to Alabama, to be confined upon a
reservation. Geronimo, the famous fighter, died in 1909, treasuring
no doubt to the last, happy memories of the time when, as a mountain
outlaw, he was the scourge and terror of the Southwestern frontier.
RED CLOUD:
THE SIOUX VON SEYDLITZ
A stalwart warrior of the Sioux nation was lying before his tepee,
busily sharpening his hatchet upon a stone, when a cloud of dust
upon the horizon warned him of the approach of a rider. He looked up
languidly, as a calico pony approached at breakneck speed, and, when a
half-naked warrior threw himself upon the ground and advanced to speak
with him, he scarcely deigned to notice the visitor.
"Mahapiya-luta," said the dismounted warrior, "I have news for you.
Great news."
"Ugh," said he with the hatchet. "Let us have it, Soboya."
"The palefaces are upon the waters which sound with the music of bells.
There are many of them with horses with long ears, and boxes which run
on wheels. They are cutting down the pine trees and are building a
big house. The squaws of the paleface warriors are with them, and the
pappooses. They have iron pieces on wheels which speak with the voice
of thunder, and instruments which, when placed to their mouths, sound
forth in tones of sweetness. Yea, they are many and they are in the
heart of our best hunting grounds."
[Illustration:
Courtesy of the Bureau of American Ethnology, Smithsonian Institute.
RED CLOUD.]
Mahapiya-luta had leaped from the turf, as the other was speaking,
and in his eyes shone a fierce and sinister lustre.
"How many are there?" he asked.
The courier looked puzzled for an instant, and then held up both hands
with a sweeping motion.
"There are as many as ponies in yonder herd," said he. "The palefaces
are as thick as trees along the side of the mountain behind our camp.
But we are greater by ten times. Yes, we can sweep them off the face of
our land."
"And we will," shouted Mahapiya-luta, who was known to the whites as
Red Cloud. "Did I not tell the Great White Eagle (General Carrington)
so, in the council at the house, called Laramie by the palefaces? Did I
not say that if he and his Long Swords stole the country of our fathers
without asking my permission that we would take their scalps? Did I not
tell him that the fireboat which walks on mountains (locomotive) could
not come into our hunting grounds and scare off all the game? Show me
the place where the palefaces have camped, O Soboya, and we will drive
them from the soil."
"Come with me," answered Soboya, "and you can see for yourself that
what I say to you is the truth."
* * * * *
On a plateau between two branches of the Piney Creek--a branch of the
Powder River in Wyoming--a camp and stockade had been established,
on the thirteenth of July, 1866. Four miles away was the magnificent
Big Horn Range of Mountains, with a towering snow peak, called
Cloud Peak, jutting nine thousand feet into the azure sky. It was
a lonely place--the farthest post of United States regulars in the
wilderness--but as General Carrington, its commander, looked about
him upon the wide plateau decked with beautiful flowers, and green
with waving grass, he smiled grimly at the scene of natural beauty.
The mountains and hills were covered with pines of restful green, the
waters of the creek and its tributary rivulets were as pure as crystal.
Trout leaped in the tiny pools and cataracts. Antelope grazed upon
the wide sweep of the plains, while deep-rutted trails showed where
the bison had recently passed by. "It is a glorious situation," said
Carrington to himself, "but the Indians will not let us enjoy it as we
should. Well, they will find us ready and prepared. I, for one, am glad
to be here."
As the soldiers fell to work to erect the stockade and buildings of
this new fortification, called Fort Phil Kearney, they were not long in
realizing that the redskins did not intend to leave them alone. Picket
posts were established upon the surrounding hills, which overlooked the
Bozeman trail and approaches from both the East and the West. Three
times they were attacked by the hostiles. Upon the third of these,
a warrior in warpaint and feathers rode far out beyond his yelping
followers, and, shaking his clenched fist at the soldiers who were
bringing up a howitzer, called out:
"Red Cloud has told you to leave the hunting grounds of the Sioux. If
you remain here, you will all be killed. Red Cloud has spoken."
A jeer of derision greeted this insult, and a case-shot was immediately
exploded among the clusters of red men. They scattered like chaff
before the wind. The soldiers cheered their departure, and, turning
towards the fort, withdrew in close order, with their faces towards the
evil-looking adherents of the Sioux chieftain.
This was not the last attack upon General Carrington's frontiersmen,
by any means, for many who ventured from the fort were ambuscaded. The
wood trains which went out to fetch logs from a saw mill, some miles
away, were constantly attacked. There was fighting all the time. Many
stragglers who had ventured out alone were cut off and killed. A few
were scalped, and crawling back to the stockade, were rescued by their
now terrified companions, who were constantly warned not to leave
the protection of the log fortress. From the first of August, until
the close of the year, the Indians killed one hundred and fifty-four
persons, wounded twenty more, and captured nearly seven hundred horses,
mules, and cattle. Every train which passed over the Bozeman trail was
attacked, and there were fifty-one demonstrations against the fort by
Red Cloud and his followers. Men grew used to war and the sound of
spitting bullets and flying arrows.
Among the officers of the fort was a Captain Fetterman, who had had
less experience in the country than the other officers, and who was
always anxious for a fight. On the twenty-first of December a wood
train was sent out to gather a supply of timber for the fort, and, at
eleven o'clock in the morning, the lookout on a hill near-by signalled
that it had been attacked by the Indians in force, about a mile and a
half from the fort. A relief party of eighty-one men was immediately
sent out to the aid of the beleagured whites, and the command was
entrusted to Fetterman. He boasted that with this troop he could ride
through the entire Sioux nation.
As the soldiers left the post, General Carrington gave specific orders
that they were not to pursue the Indians across a trail which was
visible from the fort. "You shall relieve the wood train, drive back
the Indians, but on no account pursue them beyond the Lodge Trail
Ridge," said the careful commander at the moment of departure, and in
a loud voice. "All right," called Fetterman, "I shall be sure to obey
your orders." With a smile on his face, he rode out into the open,
taking a direction which would lead him to the rear of the Indians who
were menacing the wood train.
Red Cloud was in command of the savage horde upon the plains, and, when
he heard that Fetterman's command was approaching, he directed his
braves to retreat down the valley. The wood train immediately broke
corral, and, as the redskins went away, made for the fort. Fetterman
and his men rode after the red men, and, entirely disregarding the
orders from General Carrington, followed the fleeing braves down a
ravine. This was exactly what Red Cloud had wished, and, taunting the
oncoming soldiers with jeers and insults, he had soon drawn them into
an ambuscade. Suddenly the bluecoats found themselves surrounded.
Too late they turned about to retreat to the protection of Fort Phil
Kearney. In their rear a vast and overwhelming mass of Indians
galloped upon them, driving them into a circle for defense, and
shooting them down by scores. The whites fought gamely and well, but it
was of little avail. They were soon overwhelmed by the great numbers of
the Sioux, as well armed as they were themselves, and led by Red Cloud
in person. Soon not a single soldier was alive, and the air resounded
with the wild warwhoops of the victorious savages.
At the fort the heavy firing of the battle was heard about twelve
o'clock. Carrington instantly dispatched fifty-four men to the relief
of Fetterman and his doomed command, who had disappeared from view
behind the sloping hills. The men went forward on the run. Carrington,
himself, mounted the observatory tower, fieldglasses in hand, and
anxiously scanned the distant hills. He was fearful of the result of
the expedition, but dared say nothing to his officers and men, or to
the women and children who had husbands and fathers in Fetterman's
detachment. Late in the afternoon the relief party returned with
terrible tidings of an awful disaster.
When they had reached the end of the ridge nearest the fort, they saw
evidences of a great battle. Forty-nine men were lying behind a pile of
rocks, in a space only about six feet square. They had been killed by
arrows and spears, and not by bullets. Fetterman was found prostrate
behind a hillock with another officer by his side. As their heads were
burned and filled with powder around the wounds, it was evident that
they had committed suicide when they found that it was all up with
them. On every side were signs of the fiercest kind of hand-to-hand
fighting. Behind a pile of stones were two civilians who had been armed
with modern six-shot rifles, and as many Indian ponies lay near by, it
was evident that they had put up a stout defense. Ghastly and mutilated
remains, shot full of arrows and stripped naked, were on every side.
Red Cloud and his braves had had a terrible victory.
By this defeat and slaughter of Fetterman's command, Red Cloud gained
so much fame that he was chosen to be the leading war chief of the
Sioux. Thousands of painted warriors enrolled themselves with his band,
and he soon found himself in control of numbers of daring spirits who
were constantly on the lookout for another battle with the Government
troops. Travel on the Bozeman trail was given up entirely. Letters from
the soldiers which got through the prowling Indians to the East often
had in them the words: "We are in constant fear of our lives. This may
be my last letter. The Indians fairly swarm about the fort." Men of the
garrison who had moved West for adventure's sake had found all that
could satisfy the most delicate palate. Danger was always present.
As winter passed and the warm breath of summer blew across the prairie,
Red Cloud was persuaded by his warlike followers to make another
attack upon the whites. The painted braves were weary of cutting off
stragglers and attacking stagecoaches; they wanted another stand-up
fight. Half of the Sioux were armed with rifles which they had obtained
from white traders, and some had repeaters. There were about three
thousand of these red warriors, and they were not cowards, although
they had a healthy respect for the white troops. Under cover of
frequent skirmishes, Red Cloud collected his adherents within striking
distance of the fort, and by the first of August he was prepared to
have a desperate encounter with those who had dared to trespass upon
the land of his fathers.
Woodcutting was still going on in the vicinity of this stockade in
the far wilderness, and, under the leadership of Major James Powell,
numerous soldiers protected those engaged in this task. The wagons used
by the woodcutters were furnished by the quartermaster's department.
In order to afford as much protection as possible to their occupants
in case of an onslaught by the Sioux, loopholes were cut in the sides.
Major Powell had fourteen of such vehicles, and he drew them up in
the form of an oval, as the men busied themselves in cutting down
the neighboring forest trees. The wheels were removed from all but
two, which were placed at either end of the barricade. It was thus a
formidable obstacle to an Indian attack.
On August the second Indians were seen approaching the fort in great
numbers. Red Cloud had made his plan of attack, and had decided to
annihilate the little detachment under Major Powell (twenty-eight in
all) before he set upon Fort Phil Kearney. Although his warriors dashed
forward with extreme speed, they were seen long before they reached
the wagon-box corral. On they galloped--three thousand of them--and,
as they appeared above the rolling hills, the sun glistened upon their
shining rifle barrels and painted faces. Chanting a wild war song, and
brandishing spears and rifles aloft, they came down upon Powell's
little force like an overwhelming wave of the sea. Yelping with savage
delight at the thought of an easy victory, they sent forward a party
of two hundred red men to stampede the mules which were used in the
wagons. The herders stood them off for some time, but, seeing that it
was useless to fight against such odds, retreated towards Powell's
corral. Immediately a large force of painted braves hastened to cut
them off.
But Powell dashed out from the wagon boxes to their rescue. With him
were only fifteen men, but they shot so accurately into the mass of
Indians that the redskins turned to drive them away. The herders,
meanwhile, made their escape towards the fort, and, after a stiff brush
with another detachment of Red Cloud's army, managed to reach the
safety of the log stockade. Powell retreated to his wagon boxes, and
there, with his paltry twenty-eight, prepared for the onslaught of Red
Cloud's three thousand. There were greater odds here than when Roman
Nose charged upon the defenders of Beecher's Island, and the whites
were to distinguish themselves as splendidly as did the Rough Riders of
"Sandy" Forsyth.
"Lie down!" shouted Powell to his men. "Throw blankets over the tops
of the wagons to screen yourselves! Bore loopholes through the sides
of the wagons with the augurs, if you need more room to fight. And,
for your lives, don't fire until the savages are close upon us!" So
saying, he stationed himself at the end of the corral, rifle in hand,
and awaited the onslaught of the painted followers of Red Cloud. As
he ceased speaking, three civilians and one old frontiersman, a dead
shot, succeeded in joining his party. Thus the numbers were increased
to thirty-two.
Powell was seven miles from the fort, and the chances were that he
would be relieved. This gave him some satisfaction, as he saw Red
Cloud busily giving directions to his warriors, and massing them for
a charge upon the corral. The redskins were determined to ride clean
over the soldiers and end the battle with one, swift blow. Remembering
their success with Fetterman, they doubtless felt that the fate of the
thirty-two would be the same. Their women and children were with them,
and, massed upon a number of hills, eagerly watched their relatives
as they formed in line of battle. Five hundred Sioux warriors,
magnificently mounted, suddenly detached themselves from the three
thousand, and, urging on their multi-colored steeds with blows and wild
cheers, started head-on for the corral.
On, on, they charged. Slowly went the ponies at first, but gradually
their speed was increased, until they were galloping with great
swiftness upon the silent wagon boxes. A cloud of alkali dust
surrounded the yelling band, while, in their rear, Red Cloud gathered
together his main force to rush into any opening which the five hundred
might make. They went on, on, on, until it seemed as if they would be
right among the wagons, when, with a deafening roar, a frightful and
overwhelming fire was poured into their very faces. A rain of bullets
ploughed into the mass of redskins. Ponies rolled over each other in
great confusion. Painted warriors fell headlong upon the turf. All were
mixed together in a wild and tangled mass of maddened bronchos and
screaming Sioux.
As each of Powell's men had several rifles, the fire from the wagon
boxes was steady, persistent, and continuous. Checked, but not halted,
the redskins rode up to the very edge of the corral and shot over
the tops of the wagons at the garrison. But not one leaped into the
enclosure. Dividing like a great billow of the sea, what was left of
the five hundred swept around the hollow oval in a vain endeavor to
find an opening. But, as they rushed onward in a mad and desperate
gallop, a withering fire was directed into their very backs, so that
many fell helpless to the ground within striking distance of the sides
of the wagon boxes. So close were the Sioux that often one bullet from
a frontiersman would kill two redskins. The rifles of Powell's men were
hot from rapid use, and revolvers finished the defense of the gallant
thirty-two, as the Indians rode back to their disgruntled companions.
Disgusted with the failure of this attack, Red Cloud consulted with
his chieftains, and determined upon another method of procedure. Seven
hundred Indians were formed into a skirmish party, and were told to
creep as near the corral as they could and to pour a heavy fire into
the wagons. The rest--about two thousand warriors--were gathered upon a
hill and placed in several long lines. They were to overwhelm the men
under Powell, and to deal with them as they had with Fetterman,--the
disobedient. Let us see how they fared.
After the skirmishers had poured a hot fire into the silent wagon
boxes, which literally tore the tops to pieces, the two thousand began
a mad gallop towards the corral. Again there was an awful silence,
until they reached a distance of ninety yards or so from the defenders
of the wooden oval. The thirty-two had been reduced to twenty-eight,
but their spirits had not suffered. As the stalwart braves came onward
in splendid war bonnets and beaded war shirts, it was a sight which
would have made many a man quail. Several had shields of buffalo hide
upon their left arms, which were brightly painted and decorated with
fantastic designs. Led by the nephew of Red Cloud, they dashed forward
in a wide semicircle, chanting wild war songs, calling upon the Great
Spirit to aid them, and brandishing their weapons aloft. It was a clear
day. The sun shone brightly upon them, and made good targets for the
silent and watchful men from Fort Phil Kearney.
They advanced in a wild, uneven column, when
_Crash!_
A volley poured into their faces, knocking the nephew of the great Red
Cloud to the turf, and sending down full twenty warriors among their
plunging bronchos. Still they came on, and
_Crash! Crash!_
A still more deadly mass of lead ploughed gaps in the line. They did
not falter, but swept forward with fierce cries of anger and disdain.
Ponies screamed in agony and broke from the mass of maddened braves
whenever their riders fell prostrate to the turf. The Sioux were now
within twenty yards. It was a terribly critical situation. Should they
leap over the wooden barrier, it would be all over with Powell's
valiant band. But
_Crash! Crash! Crash!_
The Sioux were so close that the troopers rose to their knees, in their
excitement, and threw their augurs, revolvers, and knives into the
faces of the Indians. It was like the charge of Grover's brigade on
Stonewall Jackson's men behind the railroad cut at Second Bull Run. The
white men did anything to keep off the foe. They were desperate.
_Crash! Crash! Crash!_
Others were keeping up the fire. The Indians wavered. They broke.
They began to ride away. A fierce cheer rent the air from the brave
twenty-eight, and, upon a hillock a half mile away, Red Cloud, like
Napoleon at Waterloo, bitterly bewailed this sudden and appalling
reverse. He thought that he saw the end of his power as head war chief
of the bloodthirsty Sioux.
With desperation the Indians now formed for another attack. The
ground around the corral was literally piled with heaps of the slain.
In spite of this they charged six times upon the defenders of the
wagon-box corral. For three hours there was continuous fighting and
stubborn resistance. Finally, as Red Cloud's warriors apparently
formed for a last, desperate onrush a shell burst in the midst of the
Indian skirmishers, and, through the trees away off to the left, the
gallant defenders of the wooden fortification saw the blue uniforms of
approaching soldiers. They were saved!
Cheer upon cheer rent the air, as, at the head of one hundred men,
Major Smith galloped into view. The herders, woodsmen, and scouts
who had escaped from their camps in the morning had reached the fort
with the news of Powell's danger. Thus, all who could be spared from
the stockade had been sent, with a howitzer, to rescue the brave
defenders of the wagon-box corral. Red Cloud's warriors retreated in
sullen silence, carrying off their dead, as is their custom. Had they
again turned upon the whites, when they were in the open, there is no
doubt that they could have nearly annihilated Smith's little body of
rescuers, because of their overwhelming numbers.
When Powell's rangers reached the protection of Fort Phil Kearney, many
were half crazy with the excitement and nervous strain of the fight.
Several never completely recovered from the terrible experience through
which they had just passed, and Powell, himself, was an invalid for
three years. Never had white men displayed greater hardihood, courage,
and fighting prowess against overwhelming masses of redskins; and the
fact that nearly half of the total Indian force were either killed or
dangerously wounded (as was afterwards learned from Red Cloud himself)
bears full witness to the accurate marksmanship of the whites.
* * * * *