Sol Rees.—Dull Knife Raid, 1878.—His Night Ride from Kirwin to
the Prairie Dog.—Elected Captain of the Settlers.—Single-handed
Combat with a Warrior on the Sappa.—Meeting Major Mock and U. S.
Soldiers.—Sworn in as Guide and Scout.—On a Hot Trail.—The Four
Butchered Settlers on the Beaver.—Finds Lacerated, Nude Girl.—On
the Trail.—Finds Annie Pangle's Wedding Dress.—Overtook Played-out
Warrior.—Hurry to Ogalalla.—Lost the Trail.—Goes to New Mexico.—Meets
Kit Carson's Widow.—Down with Mountain Fever.—Living at Home in Quiet.
A PEN SKETCH OF SOL. REES,
AS TAKEN FROM THE MAN'S LIPS BY THE AUTHOR, WHO FIRST MET HIM IN THE
PANHANDLE OF TEXAS, IN 1876.
[Illustration: WAYNE SOLOMON REES.]
"I was born in Delaware county, Indiana, on the 21st day of October,
1847. I enlisted in Co. E., 147th Indiana Regiment, March 5th, 1865.
But as that greatest of modern wars was near its close, I did not even
see the big end of the last of it. I came to Kansas in 1866, stopping
for a time in the old Delaware Indian Reserve, southwest of Fort
Leavenworth. From among the Delawares I went out to northwest Kansas,
in 1872, and took up a claim on the Prairie Dog, in Decatur county. I
trapped, and hunted buffalo, until the Indians stole my stock, when
I had to quit hunting long enough to get even, and a little ahead,
of the red-skins. In summer-time I would put in my time improving my
homestead; in winter, hunting and trapping. But when Kansas passed her
drastic "hunting law," concerning the buffalo-hide hunters, I drifted
to the Panhandle of Texas, in 1876 (after taking in the Philadelphia
Centennial); for the next three and one-half years you have had a
pretty good trail of me."
[Illustration: SOL REES.]
To digress for the moment. This Sol. Rees was one of the Government
scouts and guides in what is known as the "Dull Knife War" of 1878.
Dull Knife was chief of a large band of northern Cheyenne warlike
Indians.
Congress had passed an act moving all of the troublesome Indians from
the so-called Cheyenne country north to the Indian Territory. Dull
Knife and his band were taken to the Indian Territory, to near Fort
Reno, on the North Fork of the Canadian river. Totally dissatisfied
with the conditions as had been represented to him by the United States
commissioners, he asked for, and was granted, a council. Robert Bent, a
son of old Col. Bent, was a half-breed southern Cheyenne, and was the
interpreter.
After the council was in sitting, Dull Knife arose and cited his
wrongs. It has been said no more eloquence has ever come from the lips
of an Indian orator. He said in brief: "I am going back to where my
children were born; where my father and mother are buried according
to Indian rites; where my forefathers followed the chase; where the
snow-waters from the mountains run clear toward the white man's sea;
yes, where the speckled trout leaps the swift-running waters. You
people have _lied_ to us. Here your streams run slow and sluggish; the
water is not good; our children sicken and die. My young warriors have
been out for nearly two moons, and find no buffalo; you said there were
plenty; they find only the skeletons; the white hunters have killed
them for their hides. Take us back to the land of our fathers. I am
done."
At this, Little Robe, head chief of the southern Cheyennes, knocked him
down with a loaded quirt-handle. After regaining his feet, he shook the
dust from his blanket, then, folding it around himself, walked out of
the council lodge and said: "_I am going_;" and go he did.
Robert Bent said: "Little Robe, you have made a mistake." That same
night his band was surrounded at their camp, by what effective troops
there were at the fort; but, regardless of that, the band slipped past
the cordon, Dull Knife at their lead, and for 800 miles, he whipped,
eluded, and out-strategied the U. S. Army, and left a bloody trail of
murder and rapine equal in atrocity to any in the annals of Indian
warfare.
The author was on Gageby creek, in the Panhandle of Texas, twelve
miles from Fort Elliott, sleeping soundly at midnight, when a runner
came from Major Bankhead, in command, requesting me to report to him
at once. And for two months I was in the saddle, but never north of
the Arkansas river. I had lost track of Rees, early in the spring
before the outbreak. Nor did I see or hear from him until the spring
of 1907, only to find that he too had served as scout and guide on the
Dull Knife raid. I here copy two official documents, now in Rees's
possession, given him at that time.
OFFICE ACTING ASST. QUARTERMASTER, U. S. A.,
FORT WALLACE, KANSAS, NOV. 4, 1878.
Sol. Rees, Citizen Scout, has this day presented to me a
certificate, given him by Major Mock, Fourth U. S. Cavalry,
for thirty-nine days' service as scout and guide, at $5 per
day, amounting to one hundred and ninety-five dollars. This
certificate I have forwarded to Department Headquarters, asking
authority and funds to pay Rees's claim. On a favorable reply and
funds being furnished, I will pay the claim.
GEORGE M. LOVE,
_1st Lieut. 16th Inf., Acting Asst. Q. M._
OFFICE ACTING ASST. Q. M., U. S. A.,
FORT WALLACE, KANSAS, NOV. 26, 1878.
_Mr. Sol. Rees, Slab City, Kan._—SIR: Enclosed please find my
check, No. 59, on First National Bank of Leavenworth, Kansas,
for $195, in payment for your services as scout and guide, in
October and November, 1878, and for which you signed Receipt
Rolls, on your being discharged. On this coming to hand, please
acknowledge receipt.
I am, sir, very respectfully,
Your obedient servant,
GEORGE M. LOVE,
_1st Lieut. 16th Inf., Acting A. Q. M._
* * * * *
The author now gives Rees's experiences and his observations as to the
part he took in it. This is as he dictated it to the author:
I was in Kirwin, Kansas, when I heard of the runaways. It was on the
29th day of September, and anticipating the route they would follow to
the Platte river, on account of water, I made a night ride, and got
home just at daylight. I met settlers the next morning, and they told
me the Indians had camped that night on the Prairie Dog, nine miles
above my home. I saddled up and struck that way. When I got about five
miles, I met a party of homeseekers, who were bringing in a wounded
man toward my place. I went on, and after a while I found the Indians
had gone to the Sappa. I then went to Oberlin, found the people badly
excited, and there I organized a party.
Poorly armed as they were, I started on the trail. We went from there
to Jake Kieffer's ranch. There the wounded began to come in, and the
people that got away from the Indians. Here we reorganized and I was
elected captain. Then we took the trail of the Indians, and just as we
got up the divide, we saw three Indians rise up out of a draw,—man,
woman, and boy about sixteen years old. We headed them off to keep
them from joining the main band, and drove them to the timber on the
Sappa. Here we separated into three parties, one to go above, another
below, and the other to scare them out of the brush. The party I was
with, when we came to the brush, did not want to go in close. So I saw
it was up to me alone. I saw a squaw going up a little divide. I shot
twice at her. Then I saw the buck slide down off of a bank and run into
the brush, a patch of willows. I got on my horse and rode toward the
willows. He rose up and shot at me. I was not more than twenty steps
from him. I had been leaning over on the right side of my horse, at
the time he shot. I wished to expose as little of my body as possible.
I rose up and shot at him. We took shot about for five shots, when in
trying to work the cylinder of my revolver, the last cartridge had
slipped back, and the cylinder would not work. The warrior had fired
his last shot, but I did not know it at the time.
I then went back to a man named Ingalls, and got a Colt's repeating
rifle. When I came back to where I had left the Indian, he was gone. He
had crossed the Sappa on a drift; and I can't, for the life of me, see
how he could have done it. I dismounted and followed over, and found
he was soon to be a good Injun. Taking out my knife, he signed to me,
"not to scalp him until he was dead," but I had no time to spare; for
there was much to do—it seemed to be a busy time of the year. So I took
his scalp. I opened his shirt and found four bullet-holes in his chest,
that you could cover with the palm of your hand.
[Illustration: SOL. REES'S FIGHT WITH INDIAN.]
After this we started back down the creek, and had gone only a short
distance when we met Major Mock, with five companies of the Fourth U.
S. Cavalry and two companies of the Nineteenth Infantry. The troops
were all angry. Col. Lewis had been killed the day before. Here is
where I met our old friend Hi. Bickerdyke. As soon as I met him, he
said: "Major, here is my old friend Sol. Rees, one of the hottest
Indian trailers I ever met. I have been with him in Texas in tight
places."
The major said, "Glad to see you, Rees. Will you go with us as scout
and guide at $5 per day and rations, until this thing is ended? I
understand you are an old northern Kansas buffalo hunter, and know
the country well." I said: "Yes, Major, I'll go; but not so much for
the five dollars as to have this thing settled, once for all, so that
we settlers can develop our homes in peace." We struck the trail on a
divide. "Take the lead, Rees, everyone will follow you," he said. We
followed the trail down on the Beaver; and there we got into a mess. We
found where the Indians had butchered four men. They had been digging
potatoes and had been literally hacked to pieces by the hoes they were
using in their work. They were the old-fashioned, heavy "nigger" hoes,
as they had been called in slavery days. Evidently, this had been done
by squaws and small boys, for all of the moccasin-tracks indicated it.
The hogpen had been opened, so that the hogs could eat the bodies. We
did not have time to give the unfortunates decent burial, so the major
ordered the soldiers to build a strong rail pen around the mutilated
bodies, and we passed on rapidly, fearing the devils would do even
worse; and the idea now was to crowd them.
From here the trail went up a divide. I said to Hi. Bickerdyke, "You
take the left, I'll take the right, and Amos will lead the command up
the divide." I had gone about a mile when I saw something moving toward
a jut in the draw. I rode fast, and when I got up close instead of
going around, as is usual in such cases, I rode straight to the object.
It proved to be a white girl about sixteen years old. She was nude, her
neck and shoulders were lacerated with quirt (whip) marks. She was
badly frightened and threw up her hands in an appealing way. I said:
"Poor girl! Have they shot you?"
She answered: "No; but I suffer so with pain and fright."
She was of foreign origin. It was hard for me to understand her, she
talked so brokenly. All the humane characteristics I ever possessed
came to the front, and I guess I shed tears. The sight of that poor
helpless girl so angered me that I then promised myself that as long as
there was a war-path Indian, I would camp on his trail. When she saw me
approaching her she sat down in the grass.
I said: "Poor child; what can I do for you? Where are your people?"
She understood me, and said she wanted something to cover her body. I
dismounted, unsaddled my horse, and tossed her my top saddle-blanket. I
turned my back, and she arose, wrapped the blanket around her body, and
walked toward me and said: "A string." Turning toward her, I cut about
four feet from the end of my lariat. Unwinding the strands, I tied one
around her waist; then, folding the top of the blanket over her head
and shoulders, I cut holes in under where it should fit around her
neck. I ran one of the strands through and tied it so as to keep the
blanket from falling down over her shoulders. I then got her on behind
me and started for the troops. When I got up on the divide I was nearly
two miles behind the command. It had halted upon noticing my approach
from the rear. I rode up, and turned the girl over to Major Mock. The
major got George Shoemaker to take her back, in hopes of finding her
people, or some women to care for her.
That night we went on to the Republican river, about six miles below
the forks. The Indians camped about three miles above, on a little
stream sometimes called Deer creek. That night Major Mock wanted to
know of me if I could find a cowboy who would carry a dispatch to
Ogalalla, Nebraska. I told him I would try. I started at once to hunt
one, and had gone but a little way until I met Bill Street. I asked him
if he could get through to Ogalalla?
He said, "Yes."
"Well, come on to camp." I introduced him to Major Mock, and said:
"Here is your man."
The major handed him the dispatch, saying, "Hurry to Ogalalla."
The next morning we went up the river and struck their last night's
camp. And for a natural, fortified camp, they surely had it. I believe
they expected to be attacked here. They had not been gone long, for
there were live coals from the willow-brush fires, which was evidence
that we were not far behind them. They struck for the breaks of the
North Fork of the Republican. Across the divide, and coming up on the
breaks to the north, we could see the Indians, and they us, at the same
time. The Indians started to run. Mock started to a creek straight
ahead, on the Frenchman's Fork of the Republican, to camp for noon.
I asked, "Major, are you not going to chase those Indians now, and stop
these horrible murders of the helpless settlers?"
He said: "No, Rees, the men and horses are worn out, and must have a
little rest and food."
We went to the creek, camped, but did not unsaddle. Ate a cold lunch,
mounted, and took the trail, which was now easily followed. Packs were
dropped; worn-out ponies left on the trail; and many garments carried
from settlers' homes. Among others was a wedding dress that had been
worn by Annie Pangle, who had been married in my house to a man named
Bayliss. I passed on at the head of the command, and saw that Dull
Knife and his band were running for their lives.
The famous Amos Chapman and I were now riding together, when we saw a
pack ahead of us that looked peculiar. I dismounted to look at it. _It
was a live Indian._ Pulling out my six-shooter I would have killed him,
but Amos said: "Don't, Sol; here comes the major on a run; let's wait
until he comes up." Amos was a good sign-talker, and tried to talk to
him; but he was stoical and silent.
I put my 45 to his ear and said: "Ame, it's signs or death." He seemed
to realize what would come, and sign-talk he did, a-plenty. He said
he was tired out, and could not keep up, and his people had left him,
not having time to stop and make a travois to take him along. Having
lost so much time here, the Indians got out of sight. When the wagons
came up this played-out warrior was loaded onto one, and hauled for two
days, when some of the soldiers, who loved their dead Colonel Lewis,
sent him to the "happy hunting-grounds" by the bullet route; and Major
Mock never did find out who did it.
From where we loaded this warrior the trail was still easily followed.
About dusk the Major rode ahead again, and asked me, "How far is it to
Ogalalla?"
I told him, "Six or seven miles northwest."
"Pull for there; for I have just got to have supplies."
We headed that way, and traveled to the South Platte, arriving there in
the fore part of the night.
Here we remained until about 2 P. M. next day, waiting for supplies
to come from Sidney. Mock thought that the Indians would pass near
Ogalalla. But a telegram reached him from Fort Leavenworth, stating
that Major Thornburg would soon be on the ground, with fresh troops and
horses, and for him to follow Thornburg's trail. Information having
been received by Thornburg that the Indians had crossed the Union
Pacific Railroad, six miles east of Ogalalla, instead of west of there,
as Mock had supposed they would, having killed a cowboy near where
they crossed. We then followed the military road to the crossing of
the North Platte. Here we found Thornburg's supply train quicksanded.
Here our quartermaster, Lieutenant Wood [whom the author well knew],
broke "red tape." Taking all the supplies we needed and the best of
Thornburg's mules, we moved on north, and never did see him or his
command of fresh troops.
In moving north we came to a small creek and found Thornburg's trail;
also Dull Knife's trail. We followed them to the head of the creek.
From there Thornburg turned west.
But we scouts were satisfied that an Indian ruse had been played.
Riding on ahead, north, I struck a trail where some were afoot. This
was evidently the squaw and pappoose trail. About twenty miles farther
the trail gave out. By twos and fours they scattered like quails,
having agreed on some meeting-place farther on toward their northern
home; the warriors doing the same with Thornburg, when he, too, found
himself without a trail. He started a dispatch across to Mock; the
bearer was wounded and lost his horse. But we got the dispatch. The
Indians got his horse, leaving his saddle. The dispatch was lying
about twenty feet from the saddle. It seemed to me the soldier thought
the dispatch might be found by some of Mock's scouts. The message
called upon Mock to send him some practical scouts, as he had lost the
warrior trail.
Mock could not get one of us to go. We all three thought we were pretty
fair trailers and knew what Dull Knife was up to. He wanted to make us
lose all the time possible, so that he and his band could concentrate
many miles away toward the North Star, while we were picking up the
broken threads of his trail. And he did it. Amos and Hi. reasoned
the case with Mock, and I assented to all the two scouts said. So no
trailers went to Thornburg.
Dull Knife and his band were finally surrounded near Fort Robinson,
Nebraska; cut their way out; escaped to near Fort Keogh, Montana, where
they were recaptured, and finally settled down to farming. Dull Knife
died in 1885, at the age of 78 years.
While Mock, Hi., Amos and I were talking about the ruse Dull Knife had
played Thornburg, a courier arrived from Fort Sidney, with a dispatch,
ordering Mock's command to Sidney on the U. P. R. R. near South Platte.
We lay over there a few days, and started back to the Indian Territory,
with another band of disarmed northern Cheyennes, whose chief's name I
do not now recall. But Dull Knife will forever ring in my ears.
There were about 300 of these Indians, men, women and children. We
took a course for Wallace, Kansas. We crossed a trackless, unsettled
region at the time; no roads or trails, except, at times, the evidences
of the old buffalo trails, until we struck the head of Chief creek, a
branch of the Republican. During the night's camp there came a heavy
snow-storm; no timber, no brush or wind-breaks, and nothing but
buffalo-chips to cook with. The next morning the major asked me if I
could take him to timber by noon. I told him I could, but doubted if
his command and wards could make it.
He asked me about the route. "For three miles to the Republican, it
was good; but from there to Dead Willow over the sand-hills it was the
devil's own route."
Arriving at Dead Willow we stayed three or four days, I forget which.
During this time Lieutenant Wood had a bridge built, and a route laid
out for crossing the Arickaree. Then we went a southeast course to the
South Republican, one day's march.
Next morning Major Mock asked me if I could get a dispatch to Fort
Wallace that day? I told him I could if I had a good mount. He said,
"Take your pick from the command." I took Harry Coon's mule. The
reason for that was I had noticed him on the entire trip. He was a
careful stepper; never stumbled. Harry never used spurs or quirt on
him. So I started with the message, leading my own saddle-horse. This
message was urgent, and was addressed to the commanding officer at Fort
Leavenworth. I got to Wallace just at sundown, and handed the message
to the commanding officer at the fort.
He asked, "Where did you leave the command?"
I said, "On the Republican."
He seemed amazed. "Orderly, take this man's stock to the corral, and
see they are well cared for." He invited me to his quarters. The next
morning, the poor faithful mule could not walk out of the corral. I
pitied him; but I had to deliver that message.
I stayed at Wallace during the four days it took the command to arrive.
Here I was discharged, at my own request, as I wanted to go home. The
officers all said, "Why not go on to the Indian Territory, as it
amounts to $5 a day going and coming."
I said: "No; I told you before, it was not the five dollars a day I was
after. It was the protection of settlers, and the love of adventure.
This thing of herding Indians with no guns in their hands makes me feel
cheap. But Amos and Hi. live down there, and that is all right."
After returning to my home on the Prairie Dog, I remained there,
putting on improvements, until the fall of 1880. Now here on this
creek, where you just had your swim, is forty-five miles to the Smoky,
south, where our old friend Smoky Hill Thompson used to live; and
ninety miles north is the Platte, where our leader in the Casa Amarilla
battle, Hank Campbell, lived.
I liked this location and decided to keep it as my future home. But,
like yourself, I am of a restless disposition. So I rented out my farm
and went to New Mexico, and was gone three years. I was in business in
Raton.
One day Jim Carson, a son of Kit, came into my place and said: "Mr.
Rees, my mother is coming down from Taos to visit some of her Mexican
friends. She has heard of you, and would be glad to see you."
You know Raton is the old Willow Springs you used to know before the
Santa Fe was built down through Dick Hooten's pass, in the Raton
Mountains. Well, just across the arroyo is a little Mexican hamlet,
say 300 yards from Raton proper. At the time I speak of, I met the
Spanish widow of the famous Kit Carson, the grand old scout, guide,
and interpreter. [He was the man who piloted John C. Frémont to the
Pacific Coast.] She was one of the best-preserved old ladies I ever
saw, sixty-three years of age; she could talk both English and Spanish
fluently, and was a perfect sign-talker. After nearly an hour's talk,
she said she would like to stay there if she only had money enough to
buy her a washtub, board, and some soap. (Poor soul! profligate Jim had
squandered her last dollar!) I looked at her, and in silence I asked
myself, "What has Kit Carson done for humanity?" I went across the
arroyo and bought two washtubs, and boards, a box of soap, and several
other articles. I think the bill amounted to twenty-odd dollars. I
hired some Mexicans to take them to her. I had a log house with two
rooms built for her. When told it was hers, she said: "Oh, I can never
earn money enough to pay for this." I said: "Mrs. Carson, Kit has paid
for this, through me, for what he has done to open up the West to
settlers."
She moved in. In less than two months she had twelve washtubs busy;
elderly Mexican women at work; all quiet and orderly; twenty-five cents
apiece for washing a common woolen shirt; and every day all were as
busy as could be. In three months she sent for me, and insisted that
I should tell her how much money I had paid out for her. "I want to
pay it and then tell you how grateful I feel toward you." I saw her
meaning, for she _was a lady_. I put the price at a sum far under what
I knew it had cost me. She opened a chest and handed me the money,
saying: "Mr. Rees, only for you, I do not know what I should have done.
I shall always feel so grateful."
Did she? Was she?
I was taken down with mountain fever. The second day I became
delirious, and finally unconscious.
What did Mother Carson do? She sent four strong Mexicans to my room;
came herself with them. A soft mattress was placed on a door for a
litter, and I was carried to her house, placed on her own bed, and for
five days and nights that angel of mercy, this simple, dignified widow
of Kit's, nursed me back to life. And when consciousness was restored,
she was lying across the foot of the bed, not having taken off her
moccasins during that long vigil.
There is a beauty-spot picked out in the "Kingdom Come" for such noble,
high-minded women.
And now, John, I guess I have told you about all there is to say. You
see me now far different from what you knew me in the old days. Three
years ago I had a stroke of paralysis. That accounts for my indistinct
articulation, and you are one of the very few that I would talk to
about the past. For, you know, you and I have gone through places that
it seems incredible to this day and generation.
Yet _you_ know the Story of the Plains, especially the old Southwest as
we knew it for years.
* * * * *
Reader, there is something more to be said. I found this man Rees at
the town of Jennings, five miles down the Prairie Dog from his ranch.
He is now a broken-down man in body, but has ample means. He is to-day
less than sixty years of age; but he has been a man of iron. He has
dared and done what the average man of to-day would shrink from. But
here in the quiet of his home, where he is surrounded with the luxuries
of life, he pines for buffalo-meat. He may not have a tablet of fame;
yet he has a lovable wife, two interesting daughters, and three boys:
John Rees, twenty-one years old, a manly man; his son Ray, a polite
little fellow of twelve; and his prattling baby-boy, Wayne Solomon
Rees, three years, who will some day emulate his father, and he is
to-day the youngest child of an ex-soldier of the grand old Union army.
His honest, open countenance, as shown in his picture in this chapter,
could not help but excite the admiration of mankind.
The author congratulates himself that he has lived to see the day that
he could trot this little tot on his knees, in the quiet of the Rees
home, and while dancing him would think of the days that his father did
deeds that were noble and courageous.
Reader, go into the quiet of this home, as I have done. Hear the girls
play up-to-date music on a fine piano, that an indulgent father has
purchased them. Look into John Rees's room and see the trophy of a
Comanche warrior's beaded buckskin jacket that his father brought home
from Texas ten years before John was born. Look at the painting on the
wall of that ever-to-be-mysterious massacre.
The first night that I slept with John Rees and awoke in the morning at
chicken-crow, I lay there thinking, while John was peacefully sleeping.
My memory carried me back to days when his father, with a fortitude and
courage born of heroes, saved the lives of eighteen men from a horrible
death. Yet Mr. Seton says we were the dregs of the border towns.
I wish to speak of Georgia Rees: Her father loves the jingle of
"Marching Through Georgia," the old war-song from "Atlanta to the Sea;"
and as Georgia plays this inspiring song at her father's request, Sol.
keeps time to the music, by thumping his cane on the floor. And that is
why the author thinks he named the baby-girl Georgia.