SIOUX WAR OF 1863.
In 1863, the Indians of the valley under the leadership of the
celebrated Sioux war-chief, Spotted Tail, broke out, and the
government determined to chastise them. An expedition was organized,
which was to rendezvous at North Platte, consisting of the First
Nebraska Cavalry, Twelfth Missouri Cavalry, a detachment of the Second
United States and Seventh Iowa Cavalry, Colonel Brown, the senior
officer, commanding the whole.
Some of the operations of this expedition and personal adventures have
been told by George P. Belden, then belonging to the First Nebraska
Cavalry.[60] He was a famous trapper, scout, and guide, and was known
as “The White Chief.” He afterward became an officer in the regular
army. His account runs as follows:—
The snow was quite deep on the plains, and knowing that the
hostile Indians, who were then encamped on the Republican
River, were encumbered by their villages, women, and children,
it was thought to be a favourable time to strike them a severe
blow. There were many Indians in our command, among others a
large body of Pawnee scouts. Early in January the expedition
left the Platte River, and marched southward toward the
Republican. When we reached the river a depot of supplies was
established and named Camp Wheaton, after the general then
commanding the Department of the Platte. This done, the
scouting began, and we were ready for war. Nor were we long
kept waiting, for Lieutenant James Murie, who marched out to
Short Nose Creek with a party of scouts, was suddenly attacked
by a large body of Sioux, and six of his men wounded. Colonel
Brown considered this an unfortunate affair, inasmuch as the
Indians, having learned by it the presence of troops in their
country, would be on the alert, and, in all probability,
at once clear out with their villages. He determined, if it
were possible, still to surprise them, and ordered the command
immediately into the saddle. We pushed hard for Solomon's
Fork, a great resort for the savages, but arrived only in time
to find their camps deserted and the Indians all gone.
One evening, as we were encamped on the banks of the Solomon,
a huge buffalo bull suddenly appeared on the bluff overlooking
the camp, and gazed in wonder at a sight so unusual to his
eyes. In a moment a dozen guns were ready to fire, but as the
beast came down the narrow ravine washed by the rains in the
bluff, all waited until he should emerge on the open plain
near the river. Then a lively skirmish was opened on him, and
he turned and quickly disappeared again in the brush. Several
of the soldiers ran up one of the narrow water-courses, hoping
to get a shot at him as he emerged on the open prairie. What
was their surprise to meet him coming down. He ran up one
ravine, and being half crazed by his wounds, had, on reaching
the prairie, turned into the one in which the soldiers were.
As soon as he saw him, the soldier in front called out to
those behind him to run, but they, not understanding the
nature of the danger, continued to block up the passage.
The bull could barely force his great body between the high
and narrow banks; but before all the soldiers could get out of
the ravine he was upon them, and trampled two of them under
his feet, not hurting them much, but frightening them terribly.
As the beast came out again on the open bank of the river a
score of soldiers, who had run over from their camp with their
guns, gave him a dozen balls. Still he did not fall, but,
dashing through the brush, entered the cavalry camp, and
running up to a large gray horse that was tied to a tree,
lifted the poor brute on his horns and threw him into the air.
The horse was completely disembowelled, and dropped down dead.
The buffalo next plunged his horns into a fine bay horse,
the property of an officer in the Seventh Iowa Cavalry, and
the poor fellow groaned with pain until the hills resounded.
Exhausted by his exertions and wounds, the bull laid down
carefully by the side of the horse, as if afraid of hurting
himself, and in a moment rolled over dead. We skinned and
dressed him, and carried the meat into camp for our suppers;
but it was dearly bought beef, at the expense of the lives of
two noble horses; and Colonel Brown notified us he wished no
further contracts closed on such expensive terms.
While we lay encamped at the depot of supplies, on the
Republican, Colonel Brown called for volunteer scouts, stating
that he would give a purse of five hundred dollars to any one
who would discover a village of Indians and lead the command
to the spot. This glittering prize dazzled the eyes of many
a soldier, but few had the courage to undertake so hazardous
an enterprise. Sergeant Hiles, of the First Nebraska, and
Sergeant Rolla, of the Seventh Iowa, came forward and said
they would go upon the expedition provided they could go alone.
Both were shrewd, sharp men, and Colonel Brown readily gave
his consent, well knowing that in scouting, where the object
is not to fight, but to gain information and keep concealed,
the fewer men in the party the better their chances of escape.
On the day after Hiles and Rolla had left camp, Nelson, who
had come down and joined the army as a guide, proposed to me
that we should go out and hunt an adventure. My old love of
Indian life was upon me, and I joyfully accepted his
proposition. I applied to Colonel Brown for permission to set
out at once, but he declined to grant my request, on the
ground that it was not necessary or proper for an officer to
engage in such an enterprise. I, however, coaxed the colonel
a little, and he finally told me I might go.
Packing several days' supplies on a mule, as soon as it was
dark Nelson and I started, he leading the mule, and I driving
him from behind. We travelled over to the Little Beaver, then
up the stream for some distance, when we crossed over and
camped on Little Beaver. Here we expected to find Indian
signs, but were disappointed. We rested for a short time, and
then travelled down the Beaver until opposite Short Nose Creek,
when we crossed the divide and camped on that stream.
Two days later we pushed on to Cedar Creek, and then crossed
over to Prairie Dog Creek. We had travelled only at night,
hiding away all day in the brush that lined the creeks, and
keeping a sharp lookout for Indians. So far, we had seen no
Indian signs, and began to despair of finding any, when one
morning, just as we were preparing for breakfast, I heard
several shots fired, apparently four or five miles up the
creek. Nelson ran out on the bluff, and, applying his ear to
the ground, said he could distinctly hear the reports of many
rifles. We could not imagine what this meant, and withdrew
into the bluffs “to make it out,” as the old trappers say.
Nelson was the first speaker, and he gave it as his opinion
that Colonel Brown, who had told us before leaving camp he
would soon start for the Solomon, had set out earlier than he
expected, and was now crossing above us. I set my compass,
and, finding we were nearly on the line where Brown would
cross, readily fell in with Nelson's reasoning. So sure was I
that the guns we had heard were Colonel Brown's soldiers out
hunting that I proposed we should saddle up and go to them.
This move came near proving fatal to us, as will presently
appear. We rode boldly up the stream, in broad daylight,
some five miles, when, not finding any trail, I began to
express my surprise at the long distance we had heard the
reports of the guns, but Nelson told me it was no uncommon
thing, when snow was on the ground, to hear a rifle-shot ten
to twenty miles along a creek bottom, and, incredible as this
may seem, I found out afterward it was nevertheless true.
We rode on about five miles farther, when suddenly Nelson
halted, and, pointing to an object a long distance ahead, said
he believed it was a horseman. We lost no time in getting
into the bluffs, where we could observe what went on without
being seen, and soon saw an animal coming down the creek
bottom. As it drew near, we discovered it to be a horse,
evidently much frightened, and flying from pursuers.
The horse galloped past, but stopped half a mile below us and
quietly went to grazing, every now and then raising his head
and looking up the creek, as if he expected to see some enemy
following him. We lay for several hours momentarily expecting
to see a body of Indians coming down the creek, but none came,
and at noon Nelson said I should watch, and he would crawl
down the creek and see if he could discover anything from the
horse. I saw Nelson approach quite near the animal, and heard
him calling it, when, to my surprise, it came up to him and
followed him into the bluffs. The horse was the one Sergeant
Hiles had ridden from the camp a few days previous, and was
well known to Nelson and me as a superb animal, named Selim.
It did not take us long to come to the conclusion that Hiles
and Rolla had been attacked, and that the firing we had heard
in the morning was done by the Indians. From the fact that
Hiles' horse had no saddle on when found, we concluded he had
been in the hands of the Indians, and had probably broken away
from them, and we doubted not that at least Hiles was dead.
Fearing the savages would come down upon us next, we lost no
time in getting down the creek. We soon passed where we had
encamped the night before, and, finding the fire still burning,
put it out, and, covering up the ashes, pushed on for several
miles and camped among the bluffs. Nelson carried up several
logs from the creek, with which to make a barricade in case of
attack, and, Nelson taking first watch, I lay down to sleep,
without fire or supper, except a piece of raw pork.
At nine o'clock I arose to watch, and soon after midnight,
the moon coming up bright and clear, I awoke Nelson, and
suggested to him we should saddle up and cross over to Cedar
Creek, for I had a strong presentiment that some misfortune
would befall us if we remained longer where we were. It is
not a little singular, but true, that man has a wonderful
instinct, and can nearly always divine coming trouble or
danger. This instinct in the frontiersman, of course, is
wonderfully developed by the perilous life he leads; but,
call it presentiment or what you will, this instinct exists
in every beast of the field, as well as in the human breast,
and he who follows it can have no safer guide. Several times
have I saved my life by obeying the dictates of that silent
monitor within, which told me to go, and yet gave me no reason
for my going.
We had not ridden far when we came upon a heavy Indian trail,
and found it not more than four or five hours old. The tracks
showed some fifty ponies, and all going in the direction of
the Republican. We were now convinced that Rolla had escaped
and the Indians were pursuing him. Following on the trail for
some distance, until we came to a bare spot on the bluff where
our horses would leave no tracks in the snow, we turned to the
left, and, whipping up the ponies, struck out for a forced
march. We knew the Indians might return at any moment, and if
they should find our trail they would follow us like blood-hounds.
All night long we pushed on, halting only at sunrise to eat a
bite and give our poor ponies a few mouthfuls of grass. Again
we were off, and throughout the day whipped and spurred along
our animals as rapidly as possible. At night we halted for
two hours to rest, and then mounted the saddle once more.
On the fifth day we met a company of cavalry that had been
sent out by Colonel Brown to look for us, and with them we
returned to camp.
We learned from the cavalrymen that Sergeant Hiles had been
attacked by the Indians, and Sergeant Rolla had been killed.
Hiles, though he had lost his horse, had managed to work his
way back to camp on foot, where he had arrived the morning
they left camp, nearly starved. We had gone much out of our
way to escape the Indians who had followed Hiles; but since we
had avoided them and succeeded in saving our scalps, we did
not care a fig for our long and toilsome journey.
Sergeant Hiles related to me his adventures after leaving camp,
and I will here repeat them as a sequel to my own. He said:
“Rolla and I travelled several days, and finally pulled up
on Prairie Dog Creek. We had seen no Indians, and were
becoming careless, believing there were none in the country.
One morning just about daybreak I built a fire, and while
Rolla and I were warming ourselves we were fired upon by some
forty Indians. Rolla fell, pierced through the heart, and
died instantly. How I escaped I know not, for the balls
whistled all around me, knocking up the fire, and even
piercing my clothing, yet I was not so much as scratched.
“I ran to my horse, which was saddled and tied near by, and
flinging myself on his back, dashed across the prairies.
The Indians followed, whooping and yelling like devils, and
although their ponies ran well, they could not overtake my
swift-footed Selim. I had got well ahead of them, and was
congratulating myself on my escape from a terrible death, when
suddenly Selim fell headlong into a ravine that was filled
with drifted snow. It was in vain I tried to extricate him;
the more he struggled the deeper he sank. Knowing the Indians
would be up in a few minutes, I cut the saddle-girths with
my knife, that the horse might be freer in his movements, and
then, bidding him lie still, I took my pistols and burrowed
into the snow beside him. After I had dug down a little way,
I struck off in the drift, and worked myself along it toward
the valley. I had not tunnelled far before I heard the
Indians coming, and, pushing up my head, I cut a small hole in
the crust of the snow, so I could peep out. As the savages
came up they began to yell, and Selim, making a great bound,
leaped upon the solid earth at the edge of the ravine, and,
dragging himself out of the drift, galloped furiously across
the prairies. Oh! how I wished then I was on his back, for I
knew the noble fellow would soon bear me out of reach of all
danger.
“The Indians divided, part of them going up the ravine and
crossing over to pursue Selim, while the rest dismounted to
look for his rider. They carefully examined the ground all
around to find my trail, but not finding any, they returned
and searched up and down the ravine for me. Two or three
times they punched in the snow near me, and once an Indian
passed within a few feet of the hole. Great drops of
perspiration stood on my forehead, and every moment I expected
to be discovered, dragged out, and scalped, but I remained
perfectly still, grasping my pistols, and determined to make
it cost the redskins at least three of their number.
“After a while the Indians got tired searching for me, and
drew off to consult. I saw the party that had gone in pursuit
of Selim rejoin their companions, and I was not a little
gratified to observe that they did not bring back my gallant
steed with them, from which I knew he had made his escape.
“The Indians mounted and rode down the ravine, examining every
inch of ground for my trail. As I saw them move off, hope
once more revived in my breast; but in an hour they came back
and again searched the drift. At last, however, they went
off without finding me, and I lay down to rest, so exhausted
was I, from watching and excitement, that I could not stand.
I knew I did not dare to sleep, for it was very cold, and a
stupor would come upon me. All that day and night, and the
next day, I lay in the drift, for I knew the Indians were
watching it.
“On the second night, as soon as it was dark, I crawled out,
and worked my way to the foot of the ravine. At first I was
so stiff and numb I could hardly move hand or foot, but as I
crawled along, the blood began to warm up, and soon I was able
to walk. I crept cautiously along the bluffs until I had
cleared the ravine, and then, striking out on the open prairie,
steered to the northward. Fortunately, the first day out I
shot an antelope and got some raw meat, which kept me from
starving. In two days and a half I reached the camp, nearly
dead from fatigue and hunger, and was thoroughly glad to be at
home in my tent once more, with a whole scalp on my head.”
We had not found an Indian village, and none of us got the
five hundred dollars, but we all had a glorious adventure, and
that to a frontiersman is better than money.
While we lay in camp on Medicine Creek, Colonel Brown sent
for me, and ordered me to look up and map the country. I was
detached as a topographical engineer, and this order relieved
me from all company duty, and enabled me to go wherever I
pleased, which was not a little gratifying to one so fond of
rambling about.
Packing my traps on my pony one day, I set out down the
Medicine ahead of the command, intending to hunt wild turkeys
until near night, and then rejoin the command before it went
into camp. The creek bottom was alive with turkeys, the cold
weather having driven them to take shelter among the bushes
that lined the creek. I had not gone far when a dense fog
arose, shutting out all objects, even at the distance of a few
feet. It was a bad day for hunting, but presently as I rode
along I heard a turkey gobble close by, and, dismounting,
I crept among the bushes and peered into the fog as well as
I could. I saw several dark objects, and drawing up my
double-barrelled shot-gun fired at them. Hardly had the noise
of the explosion died away, when I heard a great flopping in
the bushes, and on going up to it found a large turkey making
his last kicks. I picked him up and was about to turn away,
when I saw another fine old gobbler desperately wounded, but
trying to crawl off. I ran after him, but he hopped along
so fast I was obliged to give him the contents of my other
barrel to keep him from getting away into the thick brush.
I had now two fine turkeys, and, as the day was bad,
determined to go no further, but ascend the bluffs and wait
for the command. I went out on the prairie, and made a
diligent search for the old trail, but, as it was covered with
some seven inches of snow, I could not find it. Knowing the
command would pass near the creek, I went back to hunt,
thinking I would go up after it had passed, strike the trail,
and follow it into camp.
I had not gone far down the creek when I ran into a fine elk,
and knocked him over with my Henry rifle. I cut off the
choice pieces, and, packing them on my pony, once more set out
to find the trail. I knew the command had not passed, and
ascended the highest point on the bluff, straining my eyes to
see if I could not discover it moving. I waited several hours,
but not finding it, I concluded it had not marched by the old
trail, but struck straight across the country. I now moved up
the creek, determined to keep along its bank until I came to
the old camp, and then follow the trail. I had not gone far
when I came upon two Indians who belonged to my company, and
who were also looking for the command.
Night was coming on, the wind rising, and the air growing
bitter cold, so I said to the Indians we would go down the
creek where there was plenty of dry wood, and make a night
camp. They readily assented, and we set out, arriving at a
fine grove just before dark.
While one of the Indians gathered wood, the other one and I
cleared away the snow to make a place for our camp. The snow
in the bottom was nearly three feet deep, and when we had
bared the ground a high wall was piled up all around us.
The wood was soon brought, and a bright fire blazing. After
warming ourselves, we opened a passage through the snow for a
short distance, and clearing another spot led our horses into
this most perishable of stables. Our next care was to get
them some cottonwood limbs to eat, and then we gathered small
dry limbs and made a bedstead of them on which to spread our
blankets. Piling in some wood until the fire roared and
cracked, we sat down in the heat of the blaze, feeling quite
comfortable, except that we were desperately hungry. Some
coals were raked out, and the neck of the elk cut off and
spitted on a stick to roast. When it was done we divided it,
and sprinkling it with a little pepper and salt from our
haversacks had as savoury and wholesome a repast as any
epicure might desire. After supper, hearing the coyotes
howling in the woods below, I had the Indians bring in my
saddle, to which was strapped the elk meat, and, cutting the
limb off a tree close by the fire, we lifted the saddle
astride the stump so high up that the wolves could not reach
it. All being now in readiness for the night, we filled our
pipes and sat down to smoke and talk.
At nine o'clock the Indians replenished the fire, and, feeling
sleepy, I wrapped myself in my blankets and lay down to rest.
I soon fell asleep, and slept well until nearly midnight, when
I was awakened by the snapping and snarling of the wolves near
the fire. The wood had burned down to a bed of coals, and
gave but a faint light, but I could see a dozen pair of red
eyes glaring at me over the edge of the snowbank. The Indians
were sound asleep, and, knowing they were very tired, I did
not wake them, but got my gun, and, wrapping myself in my
blankets, sat up by the fire to watch the varmints and warm my
feet. Presently I heard a long wild howl down in the woods,
and knew by the “whirr-ree, whirr-ree” in it that it proceeded
from the throat of the dreaded buffalo wolf, or Kosh-e-nee, of
the prairies. There was another howl, then another, and
another, and, finally, a loud chorus of a dozen. Instantly
silence fell among the coyotes, and they began to scatter.
For a time all was quiet, and I had begun to doze, when
suddenly the coals flew all over me, and I opened my eyes just
in time to see a great gray wolf spring out of the fire and
bound up the snowbank. I leaped to my feet and peered into
the darkness, where I could see scores of dark shadows moving
about, and a black cluster gathered under my saddle. I called
the Indians, who quietly and nimbly jumped to their feet, and
came forward armed with their revolvers. I told them what had
happened, and that we were surrounded by a large pack of gray
wolves. We had no fear for ourselves, but felt uneasy lest
they might attack our horses, who were pawing and snorting
with alarm. I spoke to them kindly, and they immediately
became quiet. At the suggestion of the Indians I brought
forward my revolvers, and we all sat down to watch the
varmints, and see what they would do.
In a few minutes, a pair of fiery, red eyes looked down at us
from the snowbank; then another, and another pair, until there
were a dozen. We sat perfectly still, and presently one great
gray wolf gathered himself, and made a leap for the elk-meat
on the saddle. He nearly touched it with his nose, but failed
to secure the coveted prize, and fell headlong into the fire.
We fired two shots into him, and he lay still until one of the
Indians pulled him out to keep his hair from burning and
making a disagreeable smell. In about five minutes, another
wolf leaped at our elk-meat and fell in the fire.
We despatched him as we had done the first one, and then threw
him across the dead body of his brother. So we kept on firing
until we had killed eight wolves; then, tired of killing the
brutes with pistols, I brought out my double-barrelled
shot-gun, and loading each barrel with nine buckshot, waited
until they were gathered thick under the tree on which hung
my meat, and then let them have it. Every discharge caused
some to tumble down, and sent the rest scampering and howling
to the rear. Presently they became more wary, and I had to
fire on them at long range.
The Indians now went out and gathered some dry limbs, and we
kindled up a bright fire. Then we threw the carcasses of the
nine dead wolves, that were in our camp, over the snowbank,
and knowing that the beasts would not come near our bright
fire, two of us lay down to sleep, while the third remained up
to watch and keep the fire burning.
The coyotes now returned, and with unearthly yells attacked
their dead brothers, snapping, snarling, and quarrelling over
their carcasses as they tore the flesh and crunched the bones.
We rose at daylight, and through the dim light could see the
coyotes trotting off to the swamp, while near the camp lay
heads, legs, and piles of cleanly licked bones, all that was
left of the gray wolves we had killed.
After breakfast we set out to find the command, striking
across the country, expecting to come upon their trail.
We travelled all day, however, and saw no trail. At night
we camped out again, and were scarcely in camp, when we again
heard the wolves howling around us. They had followed us all
day, no doubt expecting another repast, such as had been
served to them the night before. We, however, kept a bright
fire burning, and no gray wolves came about; so the coyotes
were disappointed, and vented their disappointment all night
long in the most dismal howls I ever heard. At times, it
seemed as though there were five hundred of them, and joining
their voices in chorus they would send up a volume of sound
that resembled the roar of a tempest, or the discordant
singing of a vast multitude of people.
While we cooked breakfast, a strong picket of wolves watched
all around the camp, feasting their greedy eyes from a
distance on my elk-meat. When we started from camp, a hundred
or more of them followed us, often coming quite close to the
back pony, and biting and quarrelling about the elk that was
never to be their meat. When we halted, they would halt, and
sitting down, loll out their tongues and lick the snow.
At length, I took my shot-gun, and loading the barrels, fired
into the thickest of the pack. Two or three were wounded, and
no sooner did their companions discover that they were
bleeding and disabled, than they fell upon them, tore them to
pieces, and devoured every morsel of their flesh. I had seen
men who would do the same thing with their fellows, but until
I witnessed the contrary with my own eyes, I had supposed this
practice was confined to the superior brute creation.
The third day out, finding no trace of the command, we
concluded to go back to the Medicine and seek the old camp,
from which we could take the trail and follow it up until we
came upon it. We reached the Medicine at sundown, and there,
to our satisfaction, found the troops still in camp, where we
had left them. They had not marched in consequence of the
cold and foggy weather.
I was soon in my own tent and sound asleep, being thoroughly
worn out with the exposure and fatigue of my long journey.
I was sent down from Camp Cottonwood (now Fort McPherson),
with thirty men, to Gilman's Ranch, fifteen miles east of
Cottonwood on the Platte, where I was to remain, guard the
ranch, and furnish guards to Ben Holliday's overland
stage-coaches. In those days, Gilman's was an important place,
and in earlier times had been a great trading point for the
Sioux. Two or three trails led from the Republican to this
place and every winter the Sioux had come in with their ponies
loaded down with buffalo, beaver, elk, and deer skins, which
they exchanged with the traders at Gilman's. War had, however,
put a stop to these peaceful pursuits; still the Sioux could
not give up the habit of travelling these favourite trails.
The ponies often came in from the Republican, not now laden
with furs and robes, but each bearing a Sioux warrior.
The overland coaches offered a great temptation to the
cupidity of the Sioux, and they were not slow to avail
themselves of any opportunity to attack them. The coaches
carried the mails and much treasure, and if the savages could
now and then succeed in capturing one, they got money, jewels,
scalps, horses, and not infrequently white women, as a reward
for their enterprise.
Troops were stationed in small squads at every station, about
ten miles apart, and they rode from station to station on the
top of all coaches, holding their guns ever ready for action.
It was not pleasant, this sitting perched up on top of a coach,
riding through dark ravines and tall grass, in which savages
were ever lurking. Generally the first fire from the Indians
killed one or two horses, and tumbled a soldier or two off the
top of the coach. This setting one's self as a sort of a
target was a disagreeable and dangerous duty, but the soldiers
performed it without murmuring. My squad had to ride up to
Cottonwood, and down to the station below, where they waited
for the next coach going the other way, and returned by it to
their post at Gilman's. All the other stations were guarded
in like manner; so it happened that every coach carried some
soldiers.
One evening my pony was missing, and thinking he had strayed
off but a short distance, I buckled on my revolvers and went
out to look for him. I had not intended to go far, but not
finding him, I walked on, and on, until I found myself some
four miles from the ranch. Alarmed at my indiscretion, for I
knew the country was full of Indians, I hastily set out to
return, and as it was now growing dark, I determined to go up
a ravine that led to the post by a nearer route than the trail.
I had got nearly to the end of the ravine, where the
stage-road crossed it, and was about to turn into the road
when, on looking up the bank, I saw on the crest of the slope
some dark objects. At first I thought they were ponies, for
they were moving on all fours, and directly toward the road.
I ran up the bank, and had not gone more than ten yards, when
I heard voices, and looking around, saw within a dozen steps
of me five or six Indians lying on the grass, and talking in
low tones. They had noticed me, but evidently thought I was
one of their own number. Divining the situation in a moment,
I walked carelessly on until near the crest of the hill, where
I suddenly came upon a dozen more Indians, crawling along on
their hands and knees. One of them gruffly ordered me down,
and I am sure I lost no time in dropping into the grass.
Crawling carefully along, for I knew it would not do to stop,
I still managed to keep a good way behind and off to one side.
We at last reached the road, and the Indians, gun in hand,
took up their position in the long grass close by the roadside.
I knew the up-coach would be due at the station in half an hour,
and I was now myself in the unpleasant position of waylaying
one of the very coaches I had been sent to guard. Perhaps one
of my own soldiers coming up on the coach would kill me, and
then what would people say? how would my presence with the
Indians be explained? and how would it sound to have the
newspapers publish, far and near, that an officer of the
United States army had deserted his post, joined the Indians,
and attacked a stage-coach? However, there was no help for it,
and I lay still waiting for developments. It was now time for
the coach, and we watched the road with straining eyes. Two
or three times I thought I heard the rumbling of the wheels,
and a tremor seized me, but it was only the wind rustling in
the tall grass. An hour went by, and still no coach.
The Indians became uneasy, and one who seemed to be the leader
of the expedition rose up, and, motioning the others to follow
him, started off down the hill toward the ravine. I made a
motion as if getting up, and seeing the Indians' backs turned,
dropped flat on my face and lay perfectly still. Slowly their
footsteps faded away, and raising my head I saw them mount
their ponies and disappear over the neighbouring hill, as if
going down the road to meet the coach.
As soon as they were out of sight, I sprang up and ran as fast
as I could to the ranch when, relating what had happened,
I started with some soldiers and citizens down the road to
meet the stage. We had not gone far when we heard it coming
up, and on reaching it found it had been attacked by Indians
a few miles below, one passenger killed and two severely
wounded. The coach had but three horses, one having been
killed in the fight. The Indians had dashed at the coach
mounted, hoping to kill the horses, and thus cut off all means
of retreat or flight, but they had only succeeded in killing
one horse, when the passengers and soldiers had driven them
off, compelling them to carry two of their number with them,
dead or desperately wounded.
I was more careful after that, when I went out hunting ponies,
and never tried again to waylay a coach with Indians.
Among the soldiers stationed at Gilman's Ranch were a number
of Omaha and Winnebago Indians, who belonged to my company, in
the First Nebraska Cavalry. I had done all I could to teach
them the ways of civilization, but despite my instructions,
and their utmost endeavours to give up their wild and
barbarous practices, every now and then old habits would
become too strong upon them to be borne, and they would
indulge in the savage customs of their youth. At such times
they would throw aside their uniforms, and, wrapping a blanket
about them, sing and dance for hours.
One evening they were in a particularly jolly mood, and having
obtained permission to have a dance, went out in front of the
building, and for want of a better scalp-pole, assembled
around one of the telegraph poles. One fellow pounded lustily
on a piece of leather nailed over the mouth of a keg, while
the others hopped around in a circle, first upon one leg, then
the other, shaking over their heads oyster-cans, that had been
filled with pebbles, and keeping time to the rude music, with
a sort of guttural song. Now it would be low and slow, and
the dancers barely move, then, increasing in volume and
rapidity, it would become wild and vociferous, the dancers
walking very fast, much as the negroes do in their “cake-walks.”
We had had all manner of dances and songs, and enough drumming
and howling to have made any one tired, still the Indians
seemed only warming up to their work. The savage frenzy was
upon them, and I let them alone until near midnight. Their own
songs and dances becoming tiresome, I asked them to give me
some Sioux songs, for I had been thinking all the evening of
the village up the Missouri, and of my squaws. The Indians
immediately struck up a Sioux war song, accompanying it with
the war dance.
All the Indian songs and dances are terminated with a jump,
and a sort of wild yell or whoop. When they had danced the
Sioux war song, and ended it with the usual whoop, what was
our surprise to hear it answered back at no great distance,
out upon the prairie. At first I thought it was the echo, but
Springer, a half-breed Indian, assured me what I had heard was
the cry of other Indians. To satisfy myself, I bade the
Indians repeat the song and dance, and this time, sure enough,
when it was ended the whoop was answered quite near the ranch.
I went inside, lest my uniform should be seen, and telling
Springer to continue the dance, I went to a back window and
looked out, in the direction from which the sound came.
The moon was just rising, and I could distinctly see three
Sioux Indian warriors sitting on their ponies, within a few
hundred paces of the house. They seemed to be intently
watching what was going on, and were by no means certain as to
the character of the performers or performance. At a glance,
I made them out to be our deadly enemies, the Ogallalla Sioux,
and determined to catch them. I quickly called Springer, and
bade him kindle up a small fire, and tell the Indians to
strike up the death song and scalp-dance of the Sioux. This,
as I expected, at once reassured the strange warriors, and,
riding up quite close, they asked Springer, who was not
dancing, and who had purposely put himself in their way:—
“What are you dancing for?”
“Dancing the scalps of four white soldiers we have killed,”
replied Springer.
“How did you kill them?” inquired the foremost Indian warrior.
“You see,” said Springer, who, being part Sioux, spoke the
language perfectly, “we were coming down from the Neobarrah,[61]
and going over to the Republican to see Spotted Tail and our
friends, the Ogallallas, when some soldiers fired on us here,
and seeing there were but four of them, we attacked and killed
them all. They are now lying dead inside; come, get down and
help dance their scalps.”
Two of the warriors immediately dismounted, giving their
ponies to a third one to hold, who remained mounted. Springer
seemed to take no notice of this, but leading the warriors up
to the dance, joined in with them, the other Indians making
room in the circle for the newcomers.
When the dance was ended, Springer said, “Come, let us bring
out the scalps,” and turning to the two Indians, inquired,
“Will you look at the bodies?” About half the Indians had
already gone into the ranch, under pretence of getting the
scalps, and the two Sioux walked in with Springer, apparently
without suspicion that anything was wrong.
As soon as they had crossed the threshold the door was closed
behind them, and two burly Omahas placed their backs against it.
It was entirely dark in the ranch, and Springer proceeded to
strike a light. When the blaze of the dry grass flared up
it revealed everything in the room, and there stood the two
Sioux, surrounded by the Omahas, and a dozen revolvers
levelled at their heads.
Never shall I forget the yell of rage and terror they set up,
when they found they were entrapped. The Sioux warrior
outside, who was holding the ponies, heard it, and plunging
his heels into the sides of his pony, made off as fast as he
could. Notwithstanding my men fired a dozen shots at him,
he got off safely, and carried away with him all of the three
ponies.
The two Sioux in the ranch were bound hand and foot, and laid
in one corner of the room; then my Indians returned to the
telegraph pole to finish their dance. Feeling tired, I lay
down and fell asleep.
Next morning I was awakened by most unearthly yells, and
looking out, saw my Indians leaping and dancing and yelling
around the telegraph pole, where they now had a large fire
burning. Presently Springer came in and said the Indians
wanted the prisoners. I told him they could not have them,
and that in the morning I would send them to Colonel Brown,
at McPherson, as was my duty. Springer, who was a
non-commissioned officer, communicated this message to the
Indians, when the yelling and howling redoubled. In a short
time, Springer came in again, and said he could do nothing
with the Indians, and that they were determined to have the
prisoners, at the same time advising me to give them up.
I again refused, when the Indians rushed into the ranch, and,
seizing the prisoners, dragged them out. Seeing they were
frenzied I made no resistance, but followed them closely,
keeping concealed, however.
They took the Sioux to an island on the Platte, below the
ranch, and there, tying them to a tree, gathered a pile of
wood and set it on fire.
Here follows a description of the unspeakable tortures which the
unfortunate prisoners suffered, and which are too horrible to be told
in these pages.
The Sioux uttered not a complaint, but endured all their
sufferings with that stoicism for which the Indian is so justly
celebrated, and which belongs to no other race in the world.
Sick at heart, I crept back to the ranch and went to bed,
leaving the Indians engaged in a furious scalp-dance, and
whirling the bloody scalps of the Sioux over their heads,
with long poles to which they had them fastened.
Next morning, when I awoke, I found the Indians wrapped in
their blankets, and lying asleep all around me. The excitement
of the night had passed off, and brought its corresponding
depression. They were very docile and stupid, and it was with
some difficulty I could arouse them for the duties of the day.
I asked several of them what had become of the Sioux prisoners,
but could get no other answer than, “Guess him must have got
away.”
I was sorely tempted to report the affair to the commanding
officer at Fort McPherson, and have the Indians punished, but
believing it would do more good in the end to be silent,
I said nothing about it. After all, the Omahas and Winnebagoes
had treated the Sioux just as the Sioux would have treated
them, had they been captured, and so, it being a matter
altogether among savages, I let it rest where it belonged.
I was for a time, in 1865, on duty at Fort Cottonwood,
Nebraska, as adjutant of my regiment, the First Nebraska
Volunteer Cavalry, when the scarcity of officers at the post
made it necessary for the commanding officer to detail me,
with thirty Indian soldiers, to proceed to, and garrison
Jack Morrow's Ranch, twelve miles west of the fort, on the
south side of the Platte River. The Sioux were very hostile
then, and it was an ordinary occurrence for ranches to be
burned and the owners killed.
Morrow's Ranch, unlike the little, low, adobe ranches
everywhere seen, was a large three-story building, with
out-buildings adjacent, and a fine large stable for stock,
the whole being surrounded by a commodious stockade of cedar
palisades, set deep in the ground, and projecting to the
height of about ten or twelve feet above the surface.
Upon arriving at the ranch, late at night, my usually noisy
Indians were quietly sleeping in the huge ox-wagons, which had
been provided for transportation. I found the front of the
ranch lit up by fires built between the stockade and the
buildings on a narrow strip of ground, serving for a front
yard. I had been informed by the commanding officer at
Cottonwood, that Mr. Morrow was not living at his ranch, but
was away East, and the object in sending me there was to
prevent the Indians from burning so valuable a property.
I was not prepared to find a party encamped at the ranch, and
not knowing but that they might be Indians, waiting in so
favourable a spot to waylay travellers or emigrants passing
the road in front of the stockade, I told my drivers to halt
their teams, and, quietly awakening my Indians, I bade them be
in readiness to rush up if I should give them a signal by
yelling, but to remain in the wagons until I called them, and
to make no noise. I then quietly rode forward to reconnoitre,
and as the stockade timbers were set very close together,
I had to crawl up to the loop-holes cut in the timber to see
what was going on inside. Standing on the ground, and holding
my pony's nose with my hand to keep him quiet, I stood on my
tiptoes, and could see, through one of the loop-holes,
a curious sight, but one natural enough on the frontier.
Grouped around three small fires, built close to the front of
the ranch, sat some ten or twelve weather-beaten men, whose
hair hung to their shoulders, and each one of whom wore a
slouched hat, a pair of revolvers, and a good stout knife,
the inseparable companions of a western prairie man. All were
intent on eating supper of fried bacon, slapjacks, and coffee.
They had no guard, doubtless feeling secure in their number
and means of defence, against any Indian attack that might be
made. “Hello!” I shouted, “have you got supper enough for one
more?” “Yes, if you are white or red; but if black, no,” was
answered back, with an invitation to “show” myself. I led the
pony across the narrow trench which ran around the stockade,
and, mounting him, rode into the yard. As I approached the
party I overheard remarks, such as, “An army cuss”; “One of
those little stuck-up officers.” But not appearing to have
heard them, I got down, and asked what party they were.
“Wood-haulers,” they replied; “taking building logs down the
road”; followed by “Who are you, and where are you going this
late at night?” I told them who I was, and that I had now
finished my journey, as I intended to stop there. I was
immediately informed in a curt manner that they guessed I was
rather “mixed” about staying there, if I had any stock along,
for the stables were full, and the ranch, too; and they had
no room for any additional people or stock. I told them that
I had two teams standing outside, and that it was my intention
to put the mules and my pony in the stable; and if there was
no room there, I should make room by turning out some of their
animals. To this I was plainly told that I could neither turn
a mule out nor put an animal in, nor could I remain at the
ranch, which they had occupied for their own quarters,
Jack Morrow having left and gone East, probably never to return.
They said they were a little stronger in numbers than myself
and my two drivers, and I must move on or they would make me.
I told them that I was a United States officer, acting under
orders, and that it would be an easy matter for me to ride back
to Cottonwood and get men enough to enforce my orders unless
they submitted. Several of the rough-looking fellows said that
they each carried good revolvers, and that it was an easy
matter to stop me if I attempted to return to Cottonwood, and
swore they would do so. I remained quiet for a moment, and
the leader of the party looking at me, asked: “What are you
going to do about it?” “I am going to open the stables and
put my animals in that shelter,” I replied, at the same time
mounting my pony and riding out to the stables, a short
distance in front of which stood my teams. Several of the
frontiersmen got up, and, without saying a word, walked to the
stables, and went up close to the doors. I ordered the
teamsters to drive to the stables, unharness from the heavy
ox-wagons, place their teams inside, and if they could not
find vacant stalls enough, to untie and turn loose mules to
empty the required number for my teams. The teamsters obeyed
by driving up, and when they had dismounted and were about to
unhitch from the wagons, one of the wood-haulers at the stable
door said: “You can save yourself the trouble, mister, of
unhitching them mules, for you ain't a going to put them in
this stable; and the first man that attempts it I'll fix.”
“Suppose I wish to open that door and put up my teams,” said I,
“without any trouble; wouldn't it be better for all concerned?”
“You go to h——l!” he replied; and added, “You won't get in
this stable; that's settled.” “I'll see about that!” and
yelling “Turn out! Turn out!” in the Indian language, my
soldiers jumped from the canvas-covered wagons, yelling like
demons, and brandishing their carbines and revolvers in a
threatening manner. Never were men so taken back as the
wood-haulers. They were sure we were Sioux, and started to
run, but I called them back. Not a word was then spoken while
my Indians led the mules, that were now unhitched, into the
stables.
Leaving the teamsters to feed and water their animals, I turned
my pony over to an Omaha, to unsaddle, and marched my soldiers
up to the house, of which I took possession. The roughs
changed their tune, and tried to laugh the matter off, saying
they knew all the time the wagons were full of soldiers, and
they only wanted to see if I had “nerve.” I told them they
could leave their teams in the stables, as my teamsters told
me there was room enough yet remaining for all the mules, but
that in the morning they must leave. At early light they were
off, not, however, before I had found out the names of the
leaders of the gang. The doors of the house had been taken
off the hinges, and the framed pine used to sleep and chop
meat on, all being marked with gashes chopped in them with
axes. The windows were also broken, the glass and sashes gone,
and the building as much damaged as if Indians had been there
for a month. I did all I could to save the property scattered
over the grounds, and remained at the ranch some weeks, until
an order came for me to go to Omaha as a witness before the
United States Court.
While the troops lay at Camp Cottonwood, now Fort McPherson,
the scurvy broke out among the men and caused terrible
suffering. There were no anti-scorbutics nearer than
Leavenworth, Kansas, which could be had for the troops, and
before these could be received, the disease increased to an
alarming extent. At last, however, the remedies arrived, and
the men began rapidly to convalesce. The doctor advised them
to eat wild fruit and berries, and to take plenty of exercise
in the open air. There was a plum grove about four miles from
the camp, and as this wild fruit was very wholesome, the sick
men went out nearly every day to gather it.
One morning, Captain Mitchell, of the Seventh Iowa Cavalry,
procured an ambulance, and, taking with him a driver named
Anderson, an orderly named Cramer, and seven hospital patients,
started for the plum grove. They arrived at the first grove
about ten o'clock, and, finding that most of the plums had
been gathered, drove on to another grove some three miles
farther up the cañon. They were now about seven miles from
camp, too far to be safe, but, as no Indians had been seen
lately in the country, they did not feel uneasy. At the upper
grove they found two soldiers of the First Nebraska Cavalry,
named Bentz and Wise, who had been sent out by the quartermaster
to look for stray mules, and they had stopped to gather some
plums. As both these men were well armed, Captain Mitchell
attached them to his party, and felt perfectly secure.
Bentz and Wise went up the cañon a little way, and while
eating fruit were suddenly fired on from the bushes by almost
a dozen Indians. At the first volley Bentz had his belt cut
away by a ball, and lost his revolver. The soldiers turned
to fly, but, as they galloped off, another ball entered Bentz'
side, desperately wounding him. They now rode down the cañon,
hoping to rejoin Captain Mitchell's party, but soon saw a body
of Indians riding down the bluff ahead of them, evidently with
the design of cutting them off. Wise told Bentz to ride hard,
at the same time handing him one of his revolvers, to defend
himself in case of emergency. Bentz was very feeble and dizzy,
so much so, indeed, that he could barely sit in the saddle.
Wise was mounted on a superb horse belonging to Lieutenant
Cutler, which he had taken out to exercise, and, seeing that
the Indians would head them off, and that Bentz, who was
riding an old mule, could not keep up, he gave the powerful
brute rein, and shot down the cañon like an arrow. He passed
the intervening Indians in safety, just as three of them
dashed out of a pocket in the bluff and cut off poor Bentz.
Wise saw Bentz knocked from his mule, and, knowing it was
useless to try to save him, left him to his fate, and thought
only of saving his own life. He rode hard for Captain
Mitchell, who was not far distant, but before he could reach
him another party of Sioux headed him off, and he turned and
rode up the bluffs to the flat lands. The Indians pursued him,
and made every effort to kill or capture him, but his fine
horse bore him out of every danger. Three times he was cut
off from the camp, but by taking a wide circuit he managed to
ride around the Indians, and at last succeeded in reaching the
high road above the camp. As many settlers lived on this road,
the Indians did not venture to follow him along it, and he was
soon safely housed in the log-cabin of a frontiersman, and
relating his adventures.
Meanwhile Captain Mitchell, having seen the fate of Bentz and
escape of Wise, made haste to assemble his party, and, lifting
those who were too weak to climb into the wagon, they set off
for the camp. Mitchell and Anderson were the only two of
the party who had arms, but they assured the sick men they
would defend them to the last. Anderson took the lines and
drove, while Mitchell seated himself in the rear end of the
ambulance, with a Henry rifle to keep off the Indians.
They had not gone far before they came upon a large force of
warriors drawn across the cañon, to cut off their retreat.
The bluffs were very steep and high on both sides of them,
and escape seemed impossible; nevertheless Mitchell ordered
Anderson to run his team at the right-hand bluff and try and
ascend it. The spirited animals dashed up the steep bank and
drew the wagon nearly half-way up, when one of the wheels
balked and nearly overturned the wagon. A loud yell from
the savages, at this moment, so frightened the horses that
they sprang forward, and, before they could appreciate it,
they were over the bluff on the level prairie, and flying
toward the camp at the rate of ten miles an hour.
They now began to hope, but had only gone as far as the first
plum grove when they saw the Indians circling around them, and
once more getting between them and the post. Still they hoped
that some soldiers might be in the first grove gathering plums,
or that Wise had reached the post and given the alarm, so that
help would soon come to them. Captain Mitchell fired his
rifle once or twice, to attract the attention of any persons
who might be in the plum grove, but there was no response, and
Anderson drove rapidly on.
The Indians now began to close in upon the ambulance from all
sides. They would ride swiftly by a few yards distant, and,
swinging themselves behind the neck and shoulders of their
ponies, fire arrows or balls into the wagon. Two of the sick
men had already been wounded, and Captain Mitchell, finding it
impossible to defend them while the ambulance was in motion,
the shaking continually destroying his aim, ordered Anderson
to drive to the top of the hill near by, and they would fight
it out with the redskins. Cramer now took the lines, when,
either through fear or because he did not believe in the
policy of stopping, he kept straight on. Captain Mitchell
twice ordered Cramer to pull up, but, as he paid no attention,
he told Anderson to take the lines from him. In attempting to
obey the Captain's order, Anderson lost his footing and fell
out of the wagon. The Captain now sprang forward, put his
foot on the brake to lock the wheels, when a sudden lurch of
the wagon caused him to lose his balance, and he fell headlong
on the prairie. Fortunately, he alighted near a deep gully,
where the water had cut out the bank, and, rolling himself
into it, he looked out and saw Anderson crawling into a bunch
of bushes near by. When these accidents happened,
the ambulance had just crossed over the crest of a little hill,
and, as the Indians had not come over as yet, they did not see
either of the men fall from the wagon. The Captain had only
two revolvers, but Anderson's gun, a Spencer rifle, had been
thrown out with him, and he picked it up and took it into
the bushes.
In a few moments the Indians came up, riding very fast, and
the main body crossed the ravine near where Captain Mitchell
lay. Some of them jumped their horses directly over the spot
where he was concealed, but in a few moments they were gone,
and soon had disappeared behind the neighbouring divide,
leaving the Captain and Anderson to their own reflections.
What to do was the next question. That the Indians would
overtake the ambulance, kill all its occupants, and return,
the Captain had not a doubt. He determined to go down the
ravine, and, calling Anderson to follow, started off. He had
already crawled some distance when, hearing the clatter of
horses' hoofs, he peeped over the edge of his cover, and saw
about seventy-five Indians riding directly up to where he was
concealed. Giving himself up for lost, he lay down, drawing
his revolvers and preparing them for action, for he was
determined not to let the savages have his scalp without
making a desperate resistance. The warriors came up, and,
dismounting within thirty yards of him, began a lively
conversation. The chief walked up close to the brink of the
ravine, and almost within arm's-length of the Captain, and
stood gazing on the ground. Mitchell now saw the chief was
blind of an eye and wore a spotted head-dress; and he knew by
these marks he was none other than the celebrated Sioux
warrior, Spotted Tail. On making this discovery the Captain
levelled both his revolvers at the chief's breast, and was
fully determined to fire. He believed that the loss of five
captains would be a small matter, if by their death they could
secure the destruction of the great leader of the Sioux.
Just as he was about to pull the triggers a loud shout from
the warriors caused Spotted Tail to start forward and run
rapidly up the hill. The ponies were led down the ravine and
the warriors scattered in all directions, seeking cover.
One of them ensconced himself in the ravine not more than
thirty feet from Mitchell. Raising his head so that he could
see out, the Captain endeavoured to ascertain what caused all
the excitement among the Indians. At first he had thought
he was discovered, then that reënforcements from the fort had
arrived, and a battle was about to begin; but now he saw
Anderson was discovered. When the Captain had started down
the ravine Anderson had followed him, and just emerged from
the bushes when the Indians suddenly came up. He had dropped
on the ground, and endeavoured to roll himself back among the
sage-brush, when an Indian saw him and gave the alarm.
The warriors, not knowing how many white men might be in the
brush, with their usual caution, had immediately sought cover.
A hot fire was opened on Anderson's position, and at first he
did not respond at all. A warrior, more bold than discreet,
ventured to go closer to the bushes, when a small puff of
white smoke was seen to rise, a loud report rang out on the
air, and the warrior fell, pierced through the heart. A yell
of rage resounded over the hills, and three more Indians ran
toward Anderson's cover. Three reports followed each other in
rapid succession, and the three Indians bit the dust. There
was now a general charge on Anderson, but he fired so fast and
true that the Indians fell back, carrying with them two more
of their number.
The Captain now felt it his duty to help Anderson, and was
about to open fire with his revolvers, when Anderson, who,
no doubt, expected as much, yelled three or four times, saying
in a sort of a cry, “My arm is broken; keep quiet; can't work
the Spencer any more.” The brave fellow no doubt intended
this as a warning to the Captain not to discover himself by
firing, and he reluctantly accepted the admonition and kept
quiet.
A rush by some thirty warriors was now made on Anderson, and,
notwithstanding his disabled condition, he managed to kill
three more Indians before he was taken. He was overpowered,
however, dragged out of the bushes, and scalped in full sight
of the Captain. He fought to the last, and compelled them to
kill him to save their own lives. Nothing could exceed the
rage of the Indians, and especially old Spotted Tail, as he
saw the body of warrior after warrior carried down the hill,
until nine dead Indians were laid beside Anderson. In his
grief for the loss of his braves, the old chief kicked the
corpse of poor Anderson, and the other Indians came up and
mutilated it horribly.
In a few minutes after the death of Anderson, a mounted party
was seen coming over the hills, and about thirty warriors rode
up to Spotted Tail, and reported that they had captured the
ambulance and killed all who were in it. They exhibited to
Spotted Tail the scalps of all Captain Mitchell's late
companions, except that of Cramer. The ambulance horses were
brought back, each carrying what is known “down East” as a
“noble red man.”
In a few moments the warriors had their dead comrades securely
strapped to ponies, and, mounting their own, set out toward
the Republican. As soon as they were out of sight, and it
became dark, Captain Mitchell started for the camp, where he
arrived about ten o'clock, and told the story of the
“Cottonwood Massacre,” as I have here related it.
Early the next morning I was sent out with a large force to
pursue and, if possible, overtake and punish the Indians.
For two days I followed them hard, and, on the evening of the
second day, came upon a small party as they were crossing a
stream, but in attempting to charge them, they scattered over
the prairie and were soon lost in the darkness. The trail now
divided in every direction, and it would have been impossible
to follow it unless each soldier had pursued some half a dozen
warriors, when it is not likely he would have returned. So we
turned back, and marched for Cottonwood. The bodies of the
dead had been brought in and buried, and everything had been
found as Captain Mitchell had stated.
Private Wise was severely censured for not immediately going
to camp and giving the alarm, but he said he had no idea the
wagon and its sick men had ever left the cañon, for there
were at least one hundred and fifty warriors around it when
he came away, so he thought he might as well rest until
morning before bearing such dismal news as he had to
communicate to his fellow-soldiers.
In 1867 nearly all the Plains tribes of Indians evinced a sullen
disposition, and the indications were that the country was on the eve
of a prolonged savage war. The cause of this, perhaps, might well be
attributed to the encroachments by the whites, upon the great
hunting-grounds of the tribes. The transcontinental lines of railway
were nearly completed and in their wake followed an immigration from
the Eastern states, unprecedented in the history of the nation.
President Andrew Johnson appointed a Peace Commission, composed of
a large number of the most distinguished men of the country, both
military and civil. Their duty was to visit the various chiefs, and
endeavour to make such treaties with them as would ensure permanent
peace. History shows that so far as the object for which it was
created is concerned, it was a stupendous farce. Let it be understood,
however, that the failure to accomplish the work intended, was through
no fault of the Commission. The fault lies with Congress which
neglected to make the necessary appropriations to carry out the
stipulations of the treaties. On account of this broken faith on the
part of the government there occurred a series of massacres, and a
prolonged war, which cost millions of dollars.[62]
One of the stipulations on the part of the Commission was that the
Sioux, Arapahoes, and Cheyennes were to surrender that portion of
their country along the Big Horn Mountains and territory tributary to
them. The Man afraid of his Horses and Red Cloud were very determined
in their opposition, and Red Cloud with his entire band withdrew,
shortly after commencing his work of mischief. It is a fact that so
indignant and enraged were the Indians at the idea of the government
depriving them of their favourite hunting-grounds, that a messenger,
sent out to induce the chiefs to come in, was badly whipped, insulted,
and ordered to go back to where he came from.
Old Major Bridger, the celebrated scout, and Jack Stead,[63] the
interpreter of the Commission, had no faith in the propositions of
some of the chiefs, notably Black Horse, who agreed to accept the
proposition of the Commission and ally themselves with the whites.
These chiefs were the representatives of over a hundred lodges; they
had been out on a hunt when they met Red Cloud who stated to them
that they must join the Sioux and drive the white man back. To their
honour be it said, these chiefs kept their word and fulfilled to
the letter the pledges to keep the peace which they had given the
Commission.
Following the so-called treaty a series of depredations was made by
discontented bands of Indians, and culminated in the massacre of
troops near Fort Phil Kearny. The following account of this fight is
taken from Senate Document No. 13, 1867:—
On the morning of December 21 the picket at the signal station
signalled to the fort that the wood train was attacked by the
Indians, and corralled, and the escort fighting. This was not
far from 11 o'clock A.M., and the train was about two miles
from the fort, and moving toward the timber. Almost immediately
a few Indian pickets appeared on one or two of the surrounding
heights, and a party of about twenty near the Big Piney, where
the mountain road crossed the same, within howitzer range of
the fort. Shells were thrown among them from the artillery in
the fort, and they fled.
The following detail, viz., fifty men and two officers from
the four different infantry companies, and twenty-six
cavalrymen and one officer, was made by Colonel Carrington.
The entire force formed in good order, and was placed under
command of Brevet Lieutenant-Colonel Fetterman, who received
the following orders from Colonel Carrington: “Support the
wood train, relieve it, and report to me. Do not engage or
pursue Indians at its expense; under no circumstances pursue
over Lodge Trail Ridge.” These instructions were repeated by
Colonel Carrington in a loud voice, to the command when in
motion, and outside the fort, and again delivered in substance
through Lieutenant Wands, officer of the day, to Lieutenant
Grummond, who was requested to communicate them again to
Colonel Fetterman.
Colonel Fetterman moved out rapidly to the right of the wood
road, for the purpose, no doubt, of cutting off the retreat of
the Indians then attacking the train. As he advanced across
the Piney, a few Indians appeared in his front and on his
flanks, and continued flitting about him, beyond rifle range,
till they disappeared beyond Lodge Trail Ridge. When he was
on Lodge Trail Ridge, the picket signalled the fort that the
Indians had retreated from the train; the train had broken
corral and moved on toward the timber. The train made the
round trip, and was not again disturbed that day.
At about fifteen minutes before twelve o'clock, Colonel
Fetterman's command had reached the crest of Lodge Trail Ridge,
was deployed as skirmishers, and at a halt. Without regard
to orders, for reasons that the silence of Colonel Fetterman
now prevents us from giving, he, with the command, in a few
moments disappeared, having cleared the ridge, still moving
north. Firing at once commenced, and increased in rapidity
till, in about fifteen minutes and at about 12 o'clock M.,
it was a continuous and rapid fire of musketry, plainly
audible at the fort. Assistant Surgeon Hines, having been
ordered to join Fetterman, found Indians on a part of Lodge
Trail Ridge not visible from the fort, and could not reach
the force there struggling to preserve its existence. As soon
as the firing became rapid Colonel Carrington ordered Captain
Ten Eyck, with about seventy-six men, being all the men for
duty in the fort, and two wagons with ammunition, to join
Colonel Fetterman immediately. He moved out and advanced
rapidly toward the point from which the sound of firing
proceeded, but did not move by so short a route as he might
have done. The sound of firing continued to be heard during
his advance, diminishing in rapidity and number of shots till
he reached a high summit overlooking the battle-field, at
about a quarter before one o'clock, when one or two shots
closed all sound of conflict.
Whether he could have reached the scene of action by marching
over the shortest route as rapidly as possible in time to have
relieved Colonel Fetterman's command, I am unable to determine.
Immediately after Captain Ten Eyck moved out, and by orders
of Colonel Carrington issued at the same time as the orders
detailing that officer to join Colonel Fetterman, the
quartermaster's employees, convalescents, and all others in
the garrison, were armed and provided with ammunition, and
held in readiness to reënforce the troops fighting, or defend
the garrison.
Captain Ten Eyck reported, as soon as he reached a summit
commanding a view of the battle-field, that the Peno Valley
was full of Indians; that he could see nothing of Colonel
Fetterman's party, and requested that a howitzer should be
sent him. The howitzer was not sent. The Indians, who at
first beckoned him to come down, now commenced retreating, and
Captain Ten Eyck, advancing to a point where the Indians had
been standing in a circle, found the dead naked bodies of
Brevet Lieutenant-Colonel Fetterman, Captain Brown, and about
sixty-five of the soldiers of their command. At this point
there were no indications of a severe struggle. All the
bodies lay in a space not exceeding thirty-five feet in
diameter. No empty cartridge shells were lying about, and
there were some full cartridges. A few American horses lay
dead a short distance off, all with their heads toward the
fort. This spot was by the roadside, and beyond the summit of
the hill rising to the east of Peno Creek. The road, after
rising this hill, follows this ridge along for about half or
three-quarters of a mile, and then descends abruptly to Peno
Creek. At about half the distance from where these bodies lay
to the point where the road commences to descend to Peno Creek
was the dead body of Lieutenant Grummond; and still farther on,
at the point where the road commences to descend to Peno Creek,
were the dead bodies of the three citizens and four or five of
the old, long-tried, and experienced soldiers. A great number
of empty cartridge shells were on the ground at this point,
and more than fifty lying on the ground about one of the dead
citizens, who used a Henry rifle. Within a few hundred yards
in front of this position ten Indian ponies lay dead, and
there were sixty-five pools of dark and clotted blood.
No Indian ponies or pools of blood were found at any other
point. Our conclusion, therefore, is that the Indians were
massed to resist Colonel Fetterman's advance along Peno Creek
on both sides of the road; that Colonel Fetterman formed his
advanced lines on the summit of the hill overlooking the creek
and valley, with a reserve near where the large number of dead
bodies lay; that the Indians, in force of from fifteen to
eighteen hundred warriors, attacked him vigorously in this
position, and were successfully resisted by him for half an
hour or more; that the command then being short of ammunition,
and seized with panic at this event and the great numerical
superiority of the Indians, attempted to retreat toward the
fort; that the mountaineers and old soldiers, who had learned
that a movement from Indians, in an engagement, was equivalent
to death, remained in their first position, and were killed
there; that immediately upon the commencement of the retreat
the Indians charged upon and surrounded the party, who could
not now be formed by their officers, and were immediately
killed. Only six men of the whole command were killed by
balls, and two of these, Lieutenant-Colonel Fetterman and
Captain Brown, no doubt inflicted this death upon themselves,
or each other, by their own hands, for both were shot through
the left temple, and powder burnt into the skin and flesh
about the wound. These officers had also often-times asserted
that they would not be taken alive by Indians.
In the critical examination we have given this painful and
horrible affair, we do not find of the immediate participants
any officer living deserving of censure; and, even if evidence
justifies it, it would ill become us to speak evil of or
censure those dead who sacrificed life struggling to maintain
the authority and power of the government and add new lustre
to our arms and fame. . . .
The difficulty, in a “nutshell,” was that the commanding
officer of the district was furnished no more troops or
supplies for this state of war than had been provided and
furnished him for a state of profound peace.