WHITE MEN AT BAY AGAIN (1874)
THE "FIGHT OF THE PRIVATES"
When the news of the attack upon Adobe Walls had gone forth, and
reports of other raids followed thick and fast, the army in Texas,
Kansas and Indian Territory were ordered out. Plainly enough, there
was a great Indian uprising. The reservation peace had been broken.
Colonel Nelson A. Miles of the Fifth United States Infantry was
directed to march from Fort Dodge on the Arkansas River just below
Dodge City in south-western Kansas, and strike the Indians in Texas.
He took eight troops of the Sixth Cavalry, four companies of the Fifth
Infantry, a section of artillery, twenty-five white scouts and a party
of Delaware Indian scouts who were led by their gray-haired old chief,
Fall Leaf.
Three other army columns, one from Texas in the south, one from New
Mexico in the southwest, one from Indian Territory in the northeast,
also were starting from the same place: the Staked Plain region of
western and northwestern Texas.
Colonel Miles refitted at Camp Supply, one hundred miles south of Fort
Dodge, and pushed on toward Adobe Walls.
His advance of scouts and one troop of cavalry were just in time to
help save Adobe Walls from yet another attack by Comanches and Kiowas.
But the little garrison of buffalo-hunters were still full of fight,
and the heads of the twelve Indians still grinned down from the pickets
of the corral.
The Indians fled southwest, for the Staked Plain. Colonel Miles
pursued and had a brush or two. The marches were long and hard,
through a very hot, dry country where the only water was bad. Soldiers
suffered so from thirst that some of them opened veins in their own
arms and sucked the blood.
The Staked Plain country is a desert except after the rains or where
irrigated by ditches. It forms a high flat table-land whose edges drop
sharply off in curiously pillared cliffs. Therefore the early Spanish
called it El Llano Estacado--the Palisaded Plain; but the Americans
believed that the name was given because the only trails across it were
marked by stakes.
In later days it proved to be a vast range for cattle and horses; in
the older days it was the stronghold of the Comanches, who knew every
water-hole and every cave.
Drawing near to the Staked Plain, southwest of Adobe Walls, Colonel
Miles decided that he must have more supplies. The trains were far in
the rear, and may have been cut off. On the afternoon of September 10
he directed that dispatches be sent back, for the trains or else for
Camp Supply on the North Canadian River in northwestern Oklahoma which
at that time was Indian Territory.
The men selected were Sergeant Z. T. Woodall of I troop, Sixth Cavalry;
Private John Harrington of H troop, Private Peter Roth of A troop,
Private George W. Smith of M troop; and Citizen Scouts Amos Chapman and
Billy Dixon--the same Billy Dixon of Adobe Walls. After the Quana
Parker fight he had joined the army service. Scout Chapman had been
stationed at Fort Sill, on the reservation in Indian Territory.
The four soldiers wore the regulation summer campaign uniform of Plains
days. Their shirts were dark blue flannel. The light blue cavalry
trousers were reinforced at the seats with white canvas. Upon their
heads were high-crowned black felt hats. Upon their feet were the high
cavalry boots. Scouts Chapman and Dixon wore buckskin trousers edged
with long fringes, Indian style. Their blue flannel shirts had rolling
sailor collars. Upon their heads were white wool hats. Upon their
feet were moccasins.
Those were the army and scout uniforms in 1874.
They were armed with the stubby Springfield carbines, caliber
forty-five, and Colt's six-shooter revolvers taking the same cartridge.
In their belts were hunting-knives and two hundred rounds, each, of
ammunition. They rode light--their only extra covering was their coats
tied behind their saddles. They did not take blankets nor
shelter-tents; for they had more than a hundred miles to go, every mile
of it, to the North Canadian, through roving Indians, and might have to
race for their lives.
Of course their horses were the best in the whole column, and they
themselves were accounted as among the bravest of the men. They well
knew, like everybody else, that it would be nip and tuck to get
through; but they felt that they had been honored by the orders.
So they rode out, in the evening of September 10. They trotted for the
northeast, this night made a short camp, set on at daylight, covered
fifty more miles before night, camped again, and at sunrise the next
morning were approaching the Wichita River in what then was northern
Texas but now is southwestern Oklahoma. From a prairie swell Amos
Chapman pointed ahead.
"We're in luck, boys. There's the advance guard of the wagon train."
That was cheering news. They had done famously. The supplies were
coming and possibly their dangerous trip had ended. They rode on, to
meet the cavalry guard of the train. Scout Dixon suddenly spoke:
"Those aren't white soldiers! They're Injuns! They've seen us, too.
We've got to run or fight."
"Yep; Injuns and heap Injuns," rapped Scout Chapman. "But we can't
run. They'd catch us in a hurry and there's no timber to stand 'em off
from. We'll have to face 'em and do the best we can."
When first sighted, the horsemen had been a mile distant, slowly riding
among the grassy billows, and appearing and disappearing. They had
dipped into a draw, had come out less than a half a mile away; a
second, much larger party had galloped into view; all were spreading
into a broad front and were tearing forward. The sun shone on their
red blankets, their painted feathers and their tufted lances.
"Look to your guns and cinches, boys," ordered Sergeant Woodall, his
weathered face grimly set. "We're good for 'em. We've seen their kind
before. Shall we make a running fight, Chapman?"
"No. There's too much cover for 'em. They'd lie in this grass like
snakes and cut us off. Head into that first ravine, yonder. Maybe we
can stand 'em off from there till help comes."
They six had only a moment for tightening their girths and unbuttoning
their holster flaps.
"For'd! Gallop!" barked the sergeant. They galloped. They and the
foremost Indians reached the ravine, on opposite sides, at the same
time. They plunged in, could go no farther. It was the work of only
an instant to vault from the saddles, leave the six horses to be held
by Private Smith, and level their carbines from the brush of the rim.
The Indians volleyed from the ravine edge.
"They've got me," Private Smith called. He came running and dodging,
his right arm dangling and bloody. "I had to leave the
horses--couldn't hold 'em."
A moment more, and twenty-five of the Indians charged straight through
the ravine, below, and up again; they were waving their blankets and
yelling, and took five of the horses with them. It was done in a
jiffy. Lead rained in, searching the ravine slope where the six white
men were lying.
"This is no place," panted Scout Chapman. "We'll all be dead, without
a chance. The open is better, where we can see around. Come on,
everybody."
"As skirmishers, men. Keep together and keep low," Sergeant Woodall
ordered.
Out they lunged, into the very face of the enemy. The Indians gave way
before but closed in behind.
"Fall back, fall back! Steady, now. Hold your intervals," Sergeant
Woodall warned. "We'll try for shelter beyond. Mebbe we can make
Gageby Creek. Don't waste a shot, but shoot to kill."
The sixth horse had followed them. Good old Baldy! An Indian dashed
for him--Sergeant Woodall took quick aim and the pony scoured off, its
saddle-pad empty. But Baldy whirled and was lost.
The short, thin line--four soldiers, two scouts--knelt, fired, ducked
and ran a few steps, knelt and fired again. The Indians (there were
one hundred and fifty) formed their circle; skimming around and around,
shooting and whooping. Wherever the squad looked, they saw Indians.
And they saw never a token of shelter: all the vast prairie was a sea
of grass, unbroken by a tree. In spots the grass grew saddle high, but
that was covert for the enemy too. When the squad halted, to rest, the
Indians dismounted and commenced to crawl closer, through the grass.
Then the six men had to jump up, and run on, shouting and firing. The
Indians before leaped upon their horses again, and opened out; the
Indians behind were afraid to shoot, for fear of killing their comrades
opposite; but the Indians on either side pelted with bullets and arrows.
"None of us ever expected to get out alive," says Private Harrington.
"We all determined to die hard and make the best fight possible."
The circling Indians charged to within twenty-five yards. Hanging
almost under their ponies' bellies they shot from there, while those
farther out daringly stood erect upon their saddles like circus riders
and also fired at full speed; then racing in closer they swung low and
fired again. Wherever the six men faced, before, behind, right, left,
there the scurrying riders were.
They were Comanches and Kiowas. The Comanches were noted as the most
skillful horsemen of the plains. They all were having fun. A
medicine-man appeared to be their leader. He wore a head-dress of
buffalo-horns and an eagle-feather trail streaming to his pony's tail.
Time after time he charged to within twenty-five yards, at the head of
his warriors, firing with a pistol and urging the braves to ride over
the white men.
"Never mind him," Scout Chapman said. "He's harmless; he can't hit
anything. Tend to the others."
The fight had begun at six in the morning. The long, long day slipped
slowly by; the sun had changed from east to west, and the hour was four
o'clock. By this time the six men were pretty well worn out. Private
Smith's right arm was useless, but he shot left-handed with his
revolver. Of the two hundred cartridges apiece, only a few were left.
The Indians knew; they were growing even bolder. They all had
dismounted, except the medicine-man, and were skulking through the
grass. They had no fear that the white men could get away.
The medicine-man rode up once more, this time to within twenty yards.
As he passed he taunted and fired his pistol. That was his last
challenge, for Scout Dixon answered with a sudden bullet. Reeling, the
medicine-man galloped away and they never saw him again.
But the end seemed near. No help had signaled. The Colonel Miles
column was thirty-six hours' distant. Something had to be done before
dark.
"You see that little knoll yonder?" gasped Amos Chapman. "We've got to
make it. If we're caught here in this grass we're dead before morning.
Now, all together, and don't stop. There we'll stay."
They advanced by steady rushes. The Indians knew. One by one they
vaulted upon their ponies and dashed across the route. The six shot
briskly and carefully, to clear the way. Fully twenty of the
saddle-pads were emptied by the time the riders had reached a patch of
tall grass which commanded the trail to the knoll. The ponies raced on
and were rounded up by the squaws who followed the fight.
That was good shooting, and seemed to discourage the other Indians from
trying for the grass, but they pressed hard behind, driving the white
men on. Rear as well as front had to be protected, and an hour was
consumed in approaching the knoll.
Then, with the knoll almost within grasp, up from the tall grass leaped
the twenty or more Indians supposed to be dead. From fifty yards they
poured in a smashing volley. Down crumpled Private Smith, in a heap.
Sergeant Woodall was shot through the side, John Harrington through the
hip, Peter Roth through the shoulder. It had been an Indian trick.
The warriors had purposely tumbled from their ponies, here; the
warriors behind had purposely driven the white men within short range.
But the five gained the knoll; they had to leave Private Smith for dead.
On the top of the knoll there was an old buffalo wallow--a shallow cup
like a small circus ring. The cup was only a foot or two deep, but the
grassy rim helped. The Indians veered from the black muzzles resting
upon the ring, and drew off, to wait and jeer, and form another circle.
"We mustn't show we're wounded, boys," Sergeant Woodall ordered, sick
with his own pain. "Move about, act lively; we'll lick 'em yet. And
save your lead for close quarters."
"Smith's not dead! I see him stirring!" cried somebody. "There he is!
But he can't make in."
"They'll get him after dark, then," groaned Private Roth. "That's
tough, fellows. I'd rather he was dead."
Amos Chapman laid down his carbine.
"They sha'n't get him. You boys keep those infernal redskins off me
and I'll run down and pick him up and fetch him back before they can
stop me."
Without waiting for answer, he dashed out, and down the little slope.
He and Scout Dixon were the only two not disabled.
George Smith was lying seventy or seventy-five yards out. It was a
long way to go, and a longer way back under a load. But Amos reached
him, before the Indians knew what was up. Then--
"He wasn't a large man, one hundred and sixty or seventy pounds," said
Scout Amos, afterward, "but I declare he seemed to weigh a ton.
Finally I lay down and got his chest across my back, and his arms
around my neck, and then got up with him. It was as much as I could do
to stagger under him, for he couldn't help himself a bit. By the time
I'd made twenty or thirty yards, about fifteen Indians came for me at
full speed on their ponies. They all knew me [he had been on their
reservation], and yelled, 'Amos! Amos! We got you now, Amos!' I
pulled my pistol, but I couldn't hold Smith on my back with one hand,
so I let him drop. The boys in the buffalo wallow opened up just at
the right time, and I opened too, with my pistol. There was a tumbling
of ponies and a scattering of Indians, and in a minute they were gone.
I got Smith again and made my best time in, but before I could reach
the wallow another gang came for me. I had only one or two ca'tridges
left in my pistol, so I didn't stop to fight, but ran for it. When I
was in about twenty yards of the wallow a little old scoundrel that I'd
fed fifty times rode almost on to me and fired. I fell, with Smith on
top of me; thought I'd stepped into a hole. The Indians didn't stay
around there a minute; the boys kept it red-hot; so I jumped up, picked
up Smith, and got safe into the wallow."
There--
"You're hurt, Amos! You're hurt bad, man!"
That was Billy Dixon.
"No, I'm not. Why?" panted Amos.
"You aren't? Why, look at your leg!"
Sure enough! One leg was shot in two at the ankle joint, and Scout
Chapman had run twenty yards, with Private Smith pick-a-back--dragging
his loosened foot and stepping at every stride on the end of the
leg-bone!
"I never knew it," he said. And strange to add, from that day onward
he never felt any pain.
The six were together again. Private Smith was conscious, but couldn't
handle himself. He was fatally wounded. That didn't daunt his courage.
"Prop me sitting, boys," he begged. "Put me up where I'll do some
good. You can shoot from behind me and I'll stop a few bullets,
anyway."
"We'll not use you like a dead horse."
But he insisted on sitting with a pistol in his lap. He would have sat
on top of the wallow, if they had let him. Amos Chapman tried to
conceal his broken ankle; not a man there gave out a sign of wounds, to
the enemy. While Billy Dixon dug with his knife and tin cup, the four
others hastened hither-thither, serving the carbines. The Indians
circled closer, swerving in and out, firing. It looked like a combat
to the death. But the earth had been dug out and piled up, and just
before sunset the Indians suddenly wheeled and raced away.
Pretty soon distant shooting was heard. Troops were coming? Rescue
was due! No; for the darkness gathered, and although the Indians did
not appear, no soldiers appeared, either.
This night a cold rain drenched the wallow and all the country around.
The six had no food; their rations had been in the saddle-pockets of
the horses. They would have had no water, except for the rain. They
drank and washed in the puddles that collected; but they all, save
Billy Dixon, were wounded, and the puddles colored red.
They did their best for George, who lay dying. For the rest there was
nothing but watching and waiting, and wondering what would happen in
the morning. They had scarcely two dozen cartridges.
At last the day dawned, lowering and dark and wet. No Indians were in
sight; nothing was in sight but the sodden grass and the equally
cheerless sky. George was dead; four out of their remaining five were
so sore and stiffened that they could barely move.
"I'm going to leave you, boys," spoke Billy Dixon. "I'm not hurt yet,
and it's up to me to take the back trail and find Miles. If I get
through I'll find him within thirty-six hours. If you don't hear from
him with relief soon after that, you'll know I didn't get through. But
there's a chance."
They agreed. Scout Dixon refused to take more than four cartridges.
That gave them five or six apiece, for the defence of the wallow. As
he explained, if once he was surrounded fifty cartridges would be the
same as four. He could shoot only one at a time, and the Indians would
kill him.
So he strode bravely away, in a drizzle, and presently vanished.
Sergeant Woodall, shot in the side; Private Harrington, shot in the
hip; Private Roth, shot in the shoulder; and Scout Chapman, his ankle
shot off, peered and listened and waited.
They had waited about an hour when through the mist they saw an Indian
cautiously riding in. He was reconnoitering the wallow. Their hearts
sank. They kept quiet until he was within point-blank range--they
could see his red blanket, rolled beneath his saddle.
"I'll get him," Sergeant Woodall uttered; took good, long aim, and
fired. But he was shaky, the light was poor, and he killed only the
horse.
"No matter. An Injun afoot is an Injun out of business and needs
another Injun to give him a lift," Scout Chapman consoled.
Listen! Scarcely had the crashing report of the carbine rolled across
the prairie and the horse fallen kicking, when from the spot where the
rider had been pitched there welled the clear notes of a cavalry
trumpet: "Officers' Call!"
What? Private Roth scrambled to his feet.
"That man was no Indian, sergeant! He's a trumpeter--he's a cavalry
trumpeter--he's signaling us! Thank God you didn't hit him."
"I see others," Amos cried, craning and squinting. "Yonder; out
beyond. Coming at a trot--one man ahead--another man holding his
stirrups. It's Billy Dixon! Billy's back, with a troop of cavalry,
and they sent that trumpeter on before to find us."
"Give 'em a round in the air, boys, and a cheer, to let 'em know we're
all right," ordered Sergeant Woodall. "I can hear the bridles jingle.
All together, make ready, fire!"
"Bang-g-g-g! Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!"
The trumpet gaily pealed. Answering the cheer, three troops of the
Eighth Cavalry led by Major W. H. Price and the puffing Billy Dixon
surged in.
The "Fight of the Privates," or "Twenty-five to One," as it is known in
army annals, had gloriously ended.