WITH SULLY INTO THE SIOUX LAND
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE CONQUEST OF THE MISSOURI. Profusely illustrated. Large 8vo _net_,
$2.00.
FRONTIER BALLADS. Cover, end-paper design, and illustrations by Maynard
Dixon. Novelty binding. $1.00 _net_
A. C. MCCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS CHICAGO
[Illustration: Catching up a heavy stick he hurled it at the head of one
of the warriors [CHAPTER III] ]
"AMONG THE SIOUX" SERIES
WITH SULLY INTO THE SIOUX LAND
BY
JOSEPH MILLS HANSON
AUTHOR OF "THE CONQUEST OF THE MISSOURI,"
"FRONTIER BALLADS," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY
JOHN W. NORTON
[Illustration: Logo]
CHICAGO
A. C. MCCLURG & CO.
1910
COPYRIGHT
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1910
Published, November 12, 1910
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England
PRESS OF THE VAIL COMPANY
COSHOCTON, U. S. A.
TO MY FATHER
JOSEPH RANDALL HANSON,
WHO, AS A BOY AND YOUNG MAN ON
THE OLD DAKOTA FRONTIER, LIVED
THROUGH MORE ADVENTURES THAN A
VOLUME COULD DESCRIBE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE SCOURGE OF THE BORDER 9
II THE FLIGHT THROUGH THE DARKNESS 35
III BESIEGED IN FORT RIDGELY 54
IV REFUGEES 77
V HOPE DEFERRED 95
VI ON GENERAL SULLY'S STAFF 119
VII UP THE MISSOURI 130
VIII PRAIRIE MARCHING 149
IX THE REVENGE OF THE COYOTES 167
X THE FORT ON THE RIVER 183
XI TRAILING THE HOSTILES 207
XII THE BATTLE OF TAHKAHOKUTY 224
XIII BESET IN THE BAD LANDS 253
XIV TE-O-KUN-KO 279
XV IN THE WAKE OF THE GRASSHOPPERS 302
XVI ADRIFT IN A BARGE 319
XVII CAPTURED BY GUERILLAS 345
XVIII THE DEFENCE OF GLASGOW 372
XIX REUNITED 394
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Catching up a heavy stick he hurled it at the
head of one of the warriors _Frontispiece_
She charged at him as he fired 159
The Indian raised his rifle to shoot Corporal Wright 179
He was just pulling himself up 247
Bill Cotton protects Al from the guerilla 355
WITH SULLY INTO THE SIOUX LAND
CHAPTER I
THE SCOURGE OF THE BORDER
"Papa is coming, mama! Papa is coming!"
Tommy Briscoe, brimming over with excitement, ran, shouting, across the
yard and darted into the kitchen, leaving a half emptied pail of milk
standing on the ground before the stable, where a small red calf he had
been feeding promptly upset it. In a moment he reappeared in the
doorway, his mother and little sister Annie behind him. Mrs. Briscoe, a
woman still evidently under middle age but whose sweet, serious face
showed plainly the lines which the patient endurance of hardships draw
upon the faces of most frontier women, looked down the faintly marked
road running away to the southward, surprise and perplexity in her
eyes. Along the road and still some distance away, a horseman was
galloping toward them furiously. The road led only to the Briscoe cabin,
which was distant a number of miles from its nearest neighbors. The
rider could hardly be any other than Mr. Briscoe; moreover, even at that
distance his wife could recognize the color and the short, jerking
gallop of the horse he was riding.
"It is certainly Chick," she said, half to herself and half to the
children. "But what can bring Tom home so soon? He did not expect to be
back before four or five o'clock and now it is hardly past noon. He must
have left Fort Ridgely almost as soon as he reached there. I hope
nothing is wrong."
"I hope he got the calico for my dolly's dress," exclaimed Annie,
dancing up and down in anticipation of the gift her father had promised
to bring her when he rode away in the morning.
"And I hope he got my coyote trap," added Tommy. "The coyotes will carry
off all our chickens, first thing we know."
He raised the short bow he was carrying and sent a little iron-tipped
arrow whizzing accurately into a tree-trunk fifty feet away. He had been
going out to the meadow in a few minutes, and he never went anywhere
without his bow and arrows, for he was sufficiently expert with them to
bring down now and then a squirrel or a quail and sometimes even a
prairie chicken.
The two children, unconscious of any cause for uneasiness in their
father's early return, followed Mrs. Briscoe as she stepped from the
door and walked a few paces down the road to meet the approaching rider,
who came on without slacking pace until he drew up beside them. His
horse, a small animal, was dripping with sweat and trembling with
exertion, for it was a hot August day and his rider was a large man. Mr.
Briscoe, for he it was, stepped down from the saddle rather stiffly. His
face was very grave as he kissed his wife and children.
"Did you get my coyote trap, papa?" cried the little boy, almost before
his father's foot had touched the ground.
"Did you bring my calico, papa?" chimed in Annie.
"No, my dears, I hadn't time. You had better run away a minute." He
glanced at his wife significantly.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" exclaimed Tommy. "But let me unsaddle Chick." He caught
the stirrup leather and swung himself nimbly into the saddle.
"Go and finish feeding the calf, Annie," said Mrs. Briscoe.
The little girl, with disappointed face, walked obediently toward the
stable, into which Tommy had already ridden.
"What has happened, Thomas?" exclaimed Mrs. Briscoe, her voice quivering
with anxiety, as soon as the children were beyond hearing.
Her husband laid his strong hand reassuringly on her arm.
"Don't be frightened, Mary," he said, "we shall doubtless get out of it
all right, but we must hurry. The Indians broke out at the Lower Agency
this morning; you know they have been becoming more and more restless
for a good while past. When I reached Fort Ridgely, about eleven,
Captain Marsh had already started for the Agency with about fifty men.
He may have the disturbance crushed by this time. I saw Lieutenant Geer,
who is left in command with forty men. Lieutenant Sheehan marched for
Fort Ripley yesterday with fifty men. Geer would have sent an escort
with me while I came for you but of course he could not spare a man from
the handful he has. I think it would not be really dangerous to stay
here, but to be on the safe side and not expose you and the children to
any risk we had perhaps better pack what we can on the wagon and go to
the fort for a few days till the trouble blows over. Where is Al?"
Mr. Briscoe was slapping the dust from his coat and hat as he talked. He
tried to speak in as reassuring terms and as confident a tone as
possible, but his wife intuitively knew that he was not telling her all
that was in his mind.
"Al just went up to the meadow to turn the wind-rows," she said. "Tommy
was going to help him as soon as he finished feeding the calf. Shall he
go for Al?"
"Yes."
Mrs. Briscoe called to the boy, who dashed away toward the meadow,
which lay only a short distance north, beyond a thicket of bushes and
small trees. Then she turned to her husband, who was walking into the
stable.
"You have had no dinner, Tom," she said.
"No, but I want none."
"Were any white people killed at the Agency?" she asked, as Mr. Briscoe
came out with a halter and started toward the pasture lot where their
other horse was grazing. He seemed to want to avoid questions, but he
answered:
"They say there were."
"Many?"
Her husband paused. He was not accustomed to conceal things from his
wife.
"Why," he replied, hesitatingly, "it is reported that all of them were
killed; but that is probably exaggerated, and very likely it will prove
there were none."
Mrs. Briscoe's face paled a little but she retained her composure. She
asked no more questions, for now she knew all that was necessary for the
present of the gravity of the situation. Moreover, she had supreme
confidence in her husband's judgment. He started again toward the
pasture, saying, as he glanced toward the lumber wagon standing near the
kitchen door:
"You had better begin putting things in the wagon, Mary. You know what
to take; only the most necessary and valuable things, for we shall
doubtless be back in a few days."
Indeed, Mrs. Briscoe knew well by hard experience what to take. Once
before during the brief year they had spent in the wild valley of the
Minnesota River, they had fled to Fort Ridgely, about twenty miles south
of their claim, at the alarm of an Indian uprising, which, however, in
that instance had fortunately proved false. That was in the Spring of
1862; it was now August of the same year. When they moved into the
country during the previous August, bringing the few possessions which
remained to them from the wreck of their fortunes in Missouri, their
nearest neighbor lived fourteen miles away. Now there were three pioneer
families within a radius of ten miles of them, and, in comparison with
the earlier isolation of their new home, they felt that the country was
becoming quite densely peopled. But away to the southwest and west of
them, not more than twenty-five miles distant, swarmed a host of
neighbors whose presence there always oppressed their imaginations like
the sight of a low, black bank of thunder clouds when they looked toward
that quarter of the horizon. For southwest, at Red Wood Falls, was the
Lower Agency, the assembling place of the M'dewakanton and the Wakpekute
Indians, and west was the Upper Agency, on the Yellow Medicine River,
where lived or congregated several thousand Sissetons and Wahpetons.
Still further west and extending away to Big Stone Lake, nearly one
hundred miles distant, were some other agencies and missions, where
greater or less bodies of Indians of the above tribes made their
headquarters. The Sissetons and Wahpetons on the Yellow Medicine were
not greatly to be feared. Many of them had become Christians under the
wise and kindly training of such heroic missionaries as Thomas L. Riggs
and Thomas S. Williamson, who with their families had for years lived
and maintained schools among them. Assisted by the United States
Government, many of these Indians had come into the possession of good
homes and farms and were rapidly becoming prosperous and accustomed to
the ways of civilization.
But the M'dewakantons and Wakpekutes at the Lower Agency were of a
different character. Few of them had ever shown a disposition to settle
down to industry, and generally they spent their time out on the
limitless western prairies of the then newly erected Territory of
Dakota, living the wild, free life of their ancestors and coming to the
Agency only when one of the annual payments was due them for the lands
in Minnesota which they had sold to the Government several years before.
At such times they were usually accompanied to the Agency by many
turbulent spirits from the Sioux tribes living further west, who came to
share in the Government's bounty and the feasting and celebrating which
commonly followed its distribution.
In the month of August, 1862, the distribution of the Government
payment, for various reasons, had been long delayed, and the wild
Indians, waiting in idleness for it to come instead of being, as they
should have been, out on the prairies hunting buffalo, became constantly
more restless, suspicious and arrogant as time went on. The idea gained
strength among them that the Government intended to cheat them of the
payment. Moreover, they had heard many rumors of the great civil war in
which the United States was engaged, and many white people among them
did not hesitate to make them believe that the Nation was about to be
overthrown, which, indeed, did not seem improbable in 1862 in view of
the many reverses which the Union armies were suffering. Such reports,
coupled with the fact that most of the United States troops along the
Minnesota frontier had been sent to the South and that those remaining
were few and scattered, caused the leaders of the hostile element among
the Minnesota Indians to believe that the time had come when the whites
might be driven back beyond the Mississippi, leaving the Indians again
in possession of all their old territories west of that stream. At the
time the Briscoe family had come into the country this feeling did not
yet exist among the Indians, but during the Spring and Summer of 1862
many exciting incidents had occurred at the Agencies and elsewhere, in
which the growing arrogance and self-confidence of the hostiles had been
made plain. Of these incidents Mr. Briscoe had been made aware through
his occasional trips to Fort Ridgely after supplies, and, having had
some previous experience of the ways of Indians in the Southwest, he had
been disquieted and apprehensive for the future. But he had kept his
misgivings to himself as far as possible, not caring to alarm his family
needlessly.
He knew that, early in August, Little Crow, the hereditary chief of the
M'dewakantons, had been deposed from the chieftainship by his fellow
tribesmen because of his attitude on an unpopular treaty made sometime
before, and that the crafty old chief was eager to find some means of
recovering his lost honors. He knew that Inkpaduta, the most cruel and
bloodthirsty leader of all the Sioux Nation, together with a throng of
his outlawed followers who had participated with him in the atrocious
massacre of the white settlers at Spirit Lake, Iowa, in 1857, was
hovering about the Lower Agency and mingling with the four or five
thousand dissatisfied Indians who were gathered there, waiting with
increasing impatience for the arrival of the annuity, and in a mood to
listen eagerly to any suggestions of massacre and pillage which might be
poured into their ears by Inkpaduta and his villainous companions. But
what he did not know until he rode into Fort Ridgely on that terrible
morning of August 18, 1862, was that on the previous day a wandering
party of young M'dewakanton braves had murdered three white men and two
white women near the hamlet of Acton, forty miles north of Fort Ridgely
and about twenty from his own claim; that the young assassins had then
ridden post-haste to the Lower Agency and with their news of bloodshed,
which was like a match in a powder magazine, had set the whole savage
horde assembled there into a frenzy for the blood of the whites; that
Little Crow, seeing in a flash the opportunity for regaining the chief
control of his tribe and, indeed, of the whole Sioux Nation, by leading
them in a triumphant war, had given the word to the Indians--who had
instinctively turned to him in the crisis--for a general uprising and
massacre of all the whites; and that, in accordance with his orders and
the mad impulse of the crowd, they had swarmed over the Agency,
slaughtering every white person whom they could find,--store-keepers,
Government employees, men, women, and children.
All these things Mr. Briscoe knew, though in a confused and imperfect
way, when he met his wife after his swift homeward journey from Fort
Ridgely. But, being a brave man and one who had served his country with
honor and courage during the Mexican War, he faced the situation with
coolness and at the same time began preparing swiftly for the instant
flight of his family to the fort. He realized that this was imperative
if they were to escape destruction.
When her husband, as previously mentioned, started for the pasture, Mrs.
Briscoe re├źntered the house, a log building of three rooms, quite
capacious for the region and the time, and pulling a trunk from the
corner of each of the bedrooms, began hastily filling them with the
family clothing and a few books, standard works, much worn but of good
editions and carefully kept. From a locked cupboard drawer in the
kitchen she brought a small box containing a few pieces of handsome
silver ware, some of recent pattern but most of it old, into which she
looked carefully before depositing it in one of the trunks. Two small
oil paintings in frames she packed carefully, and when these had been
disposed of in the trunks little remained in the slenderly furnished
house except its rude furniture, largely homemade, the bedding and the
pots and pans and crockery dishes in the kitchen. She had just begun
taking these down and arranging them in a large box when a boy of about
fifteen years, straight and tall for his age, with light complexion,
light hair, and keen gray eyes, bounded into the kitchen from outside,
closely followed by Tommy, who was merely a smaller, eight-year-old
edition of himself. The elder lad stopped short, regarding Mrs.
Briscoe's preparations for departure with startled eyes.
"What's the matter, mother?" he exclaimed. "What are you going to do?"
"Your father has just come back from the fort, Al. Haven't you seen
him?"
"No, mother."
"He has gone to the pasture for Monty. We must drive to the fort at
once, this afternoon. The Indians have broken out at the Lower Agency
and the report at Fort Ridgely is that they have killed many white
people."
"Whew-w!" whistled Al. "That's bad, isn't it? What will become of the
hay?"
"Let's stay here and fight 'em!" cried Tommy, his head thrown back and
his eyes flashing. "Why should we run away from a lot of bad Indians?
They won't dare hurt us with papa here."
"Hush, Tommy," said his mother, yet not without a glance of pride at the
fearless little fellow, so like his father. "There are a great many of
them and we are far away from help."
"I don't care," persisted Tommy. "We could block up the doors and
windows, and they can't shoot through these thick logs."
"No, Tommy," interrupted his brother, patting the small boy's shoulder,
"but they could burn the house, and then where should we be?"
"Run for the woods."
"And be shot there, out of hand. No, no! Mother, are the trunks ready to
put in the wagon?"
"Yes, but wait for your father to help you with them. You and Tommy can
take out the mattresses and pillows. The fort will probably be full of
refugees, and we shall need our bedding."
At this moment Mr. Briscoe entered.
"Hello, Al, boy," he said, in his usual tone, as if nothing unusual had
happened.
"Hello, father," returned Al, while Tommy ran to Mr. Briscoe for another
kiss. "You got back early."
"Yes," answered his father, simply. He glanced at his son, and the two
pairs of steady gray eyes looked understandingly into each other for a
second. Then Mr. Briscoe walked to a shelf and took down an army musket
which hung, together with a double-barrelled shotgun, on a rack beneath
it. The musket was loaded, but he took off the old percussion cap and
replaced it with a new one. He loaded the shotgun from a powder horn and
shot flask on the shelf and then carefully examined a large, six-shot,
44-calibre Starr revolver, also already loaded, of a model at that time
recent, in which each chamber was loaded from the front with powder and
ball and fired by a percussion cap. By this time his wife, aided by
Annie, had the kitchen utensils in the box. Having put the weapons in
condition for instant use, Mr. Briscoe said:
"Now, Al, we can load these heavy things in the wagon. We want to take
the saddle and the new plough, too; we can't afford to have them
destroyed while we're gone. Tommy, turn Spot out in the pasture with the
calf. She can get water from the creek, and there is plenty of grass for
her. It is a good thing that calf isn't entirely weaned yet. We will
leave the barn door open for the chickens to go in at night. Monty and
Chick are feeding now. As soon as they have finished we must be ready to
hitch up."
When they had placed the first trunk in the wagon and were alone, Mr.
Briscoe turned to his son.
"Al," he said, speaking rapidly and in a low voice, "be careful not to
alarm your mother and the children, but you must know that we are in the
greatest danger and that our only chance of safety lies in getting to
the fort without the least delay. The Indians at the Lower Agency have
gone mad. They have killed every white they could lay their hands on
and have started to sweep the whole country clean. Some of them may come
here at any moment. My boy--" He laid his hand on Al's shoulder and his
voice became very earnest. He spoke almost as if he felt a premonition
of coming events. "My boy, I know I can trust you; you are almost a man
in judgment and understanding. If we should encounter Indians before we
reach the fort and anything should happen to me, remember that your
first care must be your mother and your little brother and sister.
Protect them with your life but keep cool and do not throw it away. And
afterward,--well, my boy, just do your duty by our dear ones and
yourself as you honestly see it; no one can do more. And remember always
that you are the son of a soldier."
Al's face paled a little beneath the tan while his father was speaking
but he returned the latter's gaze steadily until he had finished. Then
he replied:
"Why, father, nothing is going to happen to you. But of course I shall
remember what you say and always try to do the best I can by mother and
the children."
"I know you will, Al. Now, let us load that trunk and box and the rest
of the things."
They continued their work rapidly while Mrs. Briscoe was busy putting up
some food to take along and placing the rest in the root cellar back of
the house where it might keep from spoiling as long as possible during
their absence. The day was hot and sultry, but the sky was beautifully
blue, with here and there white, fleecy clouds floating lazily across
it. Green, gently rolling prairies stretched away on every hand, broken
here and there by patches of dark, cool woodland where the trees stood
clustered on a slope or marked the winding course of some ravine or
sluggish creek. From the Briscoe cabin could be caught glimpses between
the trees north of it of the hay-cocks on the sun-flooded meadow, where
Al and Tommy had been working. It was a tract of native prairie grass
and a small one, for Mr. Briscoe had mowed it with a scythe. No sound
broke the stillness of the early afternoon except the rustle of the
breeze through the treetops and the piping of a chickadee which had
perched on a sunflower stalk beside the stable. It seemed impossible
that in the midst of such peaceful surroundings the horrors of savage
massacre and warfare could be abroad in the land; and so Al thought as
he looked about him, just as his father and he finished loading the last
of the household goods which they intended to take with them.
They were starting to the barn after the horses when they heard the
breaking of branches and a commotion among the bushes in the strip of
woodland toward the meadow. Mr. Briscoe and his son turned in sudden
apprehension and saw six Indians, one after another, issue from the
woods and ride toward them. They were mounted on ponies and were naked
except for breech-clouts, while their heads were decked with feathers
and streaming war-bonnets, and their faces and bodies hideously bedaubed
with paint. Mr. Briscoe turned and walked deliberately toward the house.
"Don't run," he cautioned Al, in a low tone. "But go in and stick the
revolver in your pocket under your coat, and set the guns just inside
the kitchen door. Tell your mother if she hears a shot to run with the
children from the bedroom door and hide in the rushes along the creek.
I'll meet the Indians here." He stopped by the kitchen door. Then
suddenly he asked, "Where's Tommy?"
"In the house, I think," answered Al. But Tommy was not in the house. He
had bethought himself of the eggs and was in the barn hunting them,
unconscious of the approaching visitors.
Al disappeared in the kitchen, and Mr. Briscoe walked toward the ominous
group of callers, who came on in silence until they reached the door,
each holding with one hand a rifle or musket laid across the neck of his
pony. They looked at the loaded wagon, which betrayed the impending
flight of the family.
"How," said Mr. Briscoe, smiling and extending his hand.
No responsive smiles lit the faces of the Indians. They regarded him in
gloomy silence while their leader, a fellow of lighter hue than the
rest, evidently a half-breed, sprang to the ground and, ignoring Mr.
Briscoe's extended hand, said, gruffly, in broken English,
"We want food."
"You shall have it," replied Mr. Briscoe. "Wait a minute."
He stepped toward the door but the half-breed was before him.
"We take what we want," he said, jerking his head toward his followers.
"Come on."
Mr. Briscoe saw that conciliation was impossible. Once within the house
they would have the family at their mercy. He stepped inside the door
and with one push of his powerful arm thrust the half-breed out on the
step.
"Stay out, and I'll feed you. But not if you come in," he said.
Al, looking through from the next room, saw his father's action and
instantly understood that it meant trouble. With the sudden authority of
a man in the emergency, he exclaimed to his mother, pushing her toward
the south door,
"Run to the creek, you and Annie! Keep out of sight; hide in the reeds.
We'll take care of Tommy."
Then he ran back through the house toward his father. He reached him in
less time than it takes to tell it; but the half-breed, cursing
frightfully as he reeled back from Mr. Briscoe's thrust, had already
shouted to his companions,
"Shoot him!"
One of the mounted Indians threw his musket to his shoulder but Mr.
Briscoe, seizing the shotgun which Al had set beside the door, was
quicker than the savage. His shot rang out and the Indian pitched
headlong to the ground. Before he could cock the other hammer or even
spring aside from the doorway, the half-breed's rifle cracked.
"My God! Mary!" gasped Mr. Briscoe, clutching his hand to his breast. He
wheeled, staggered a step or two into the room and then sunk to the
floor at Al's feet, dead.
It had all happened so quickly that the poor boy's brain was reeling
with the horror of it. But in an instant he saw the half-breed's form
silhouetted in the doorway, an evil grin overspreading his face.
Mechanically Al raised the revolver in his hand and fired. Without a
word, his father's murderer tumbled backward through the doorway and
rolled out on the ground. Al stepped to the door. In one swift glance he
saw three of the four remaining Indians galloping furiously away toward
the meadow; he saw Tommy, half way between the barn and house, running
toward the latter, and he saw the fourth Indian, leaning far over from
his pony's side, swooping down upon the boy. The warrior looked back
toward the house and in that instant's glimpse Al noted that he was a
huge fellow, over six feet tall and that along his left cheek, down his
neck and clear out on his naked shoulder, extended a long, livid scar as
of an old and terrible wound by a sabre or knife. Again Al fired. But
the Indian was some distance away and the bullet apparently missed him
altogether. Before Al could get another aim the savage had caught Tommy,
screaming and struggling, from the ground and, swinging him up on the
pony's back, had ridden swiftly after his companions.
For a moment Al was beside himself with grief and rage. His brother was
being carried away under his very eyes, probably to torture and death,
and he could do nothing. He ran out madly after the fleeing Indians,
shouting senseless threats and waving his arms. But he dared not fire,
for the last rider held Tommy, struggling fiercely in his iron grip, as
a shield between himself and pursuing bullets. In a few seconds all the
Indians had disappeared in the strip of woods and then Al remembered his
mother and sister. He abandoned his futile pursuit and ran to the house,
not even glancing at the dead Indian in the yard nor the one before the
door. Rushing into the kitchen, he threw himself in a paroxysm of grief
beside his father's body, crying out to him and vainly striving to
discover a sign of life in the quiet face, already grown so peaceful
under the soothing touch of death. At length, with dry, silent sobs
shaking his body, he rose slowly to his feet, closed and locked the
door, composed his father's limbs and spread a cloth over his face. Then
he picked up the musket, got the powder horn and box of bullets from the
shelf, and, with one last glance at the still form on the floor, ran
swiftly through the house and out, striking directly down the slope
toward the marshy ground along the creek.