A SCOUT FOR THE SIOUX
The dawn of an autumn day was breaking over a barren and desolate
landscape. The mist was rising from the silent pools of the narrow
stream that alternately lay in lazy reaches and sped leaping and
laughing in swift rapid over pebbly bed--the Mini Chaduza of the Sioux.
The sun was still far below the eastward horizon, but the clouds were
gorgeous with his livery of red and gold, and the stars had shrunk from
sight before the ardor of his beams. The level "bench" through which
the stream meandered, the billowing slopes to the north and south, were
bare of foliage and uninviting to the eye, yet keen and wary eyes were
scanning their bald expanse, studying every crest and curve and ridge
in search of moving objects. Only at the very brink of the flowing
waters, and only in far-scattered places along the stream, little
clumps of cottonwood-trees gave proof that nature had not left the
valley utterly without shade and refuge when the summer's sun beamed
hotly down upon the lower lands of the Dakotas. And now only among
these scattered oases could even practised eyes catch any sign of life.
Here and there under the banks and shielded from outer view, near-by
watchers might discover little, dull-red patches glowing dimly in the
semi-darkness. Here and there among the timber and along the brink
little groups of dark objects, shifting slowly about, betrayed the
presence of animal life, and afar out upon the prairie slopes tiny
black spots on every side, perhaps a dozen in all, told the
plains-practised eye that here was a cavalry bivouac--a little detached
force of Uncle Sam's blue-shirted troopers, thrown out from the shelter
of fort or garrison, and lurking for some purpose in the heart of the
Indian country.
For Indians there were by scores right here at the old antelope
crossing only the night before. The sands of the ford were still
trampled by myriad hoofs of ponies and streaked by the dragging poles
of the travois. The torn earth on the northward rise out of the stream
was still wet and muddy from the drip of shaggy breast and barrel of
their nimble mounts. No need to call up Iron Shield or Baptiste or
young Touch-the-Skies, Sioux scouts from the agency, to interpret the
signs and point the way. The major commanding and all his officers and
most of his men could read the indications as well as the half-breeds,
natives to the soil. A big band of young warriors, with a few elders,
had yielded to the eloquence of the messengers of Sitting Bull and were
out for mischief. They had been missing from the agencies several
weeks; had been ghost-dancing with their fellows from Pine Ridge to the
west, and were by this time probably on their way to swell the ranks
and stiffen the back of that big chief of the Minniconjou Sioux--"Big
Foot," as known to the whites, Si Tanka, as known to the Indian
Bureau, and "Spotted Elk," so said Iron Shield, the scout, as known to
the Sioux themselves.
A famous character was Si Tanka. Next to Sitting Bull, now that Gall
was out of the way, dying of illness and old age, Si Tanka had more
influence than any chief afield, and he longed to be acknowledged head
of the allied Sioux. He had been to Washington, had been photographed
side by side with Mr. Blaine on the steps of the Capitol; had sold to
the whites the right of way for a railway through his Cheyenne River
lands. He belonged to the Cheyenne River Agency far to the east, and
declined to live there. He had his own village up in the Cherry Creek
country, midway between the troops at Fort Meade in the Black Hills and
Fort Bennett on the Missouri. He had white man's log-cabins, wagons,
furniture, horses, hens, and chickens. He had, moreover, hundreds of
cartridges, and the means and appliances wherewith to reload his
shells, and he had, what was worse, a lively son, Black Fox, who had
more Winchesters than he knew what to do with, and an insatiable
longing to use them against the whites.
Ever since the ghost-dancing had begun, Si Tanka stayed in the open.
Agents went forth and begged him to come in where he belonged--to the
Cheyenne Agency at the east, or to the Pine Ridge to the southwest, or
the Rosebud to the southeast, or, if his lordship preferred, he might
even go camp near Fort Meade, or surrender at Standing Rock Agency to
the northeast, but to be out in the wilds and barely one hundred miles
from Sitting Bull, also posing as a private and sovereign citizen,
accepting government support but declining government supervision--that
was something the Indian Bureau viewed with alarm, and well it might,
for if Tatanka Iyotanka (Bull Sitting Big) and Siha Tanka, Si for short
(Foot Big), should take it into their dusky heads to be allies and not
rivals, if the great Uncapapa and the big Minniconjou were to join
forces, there would be the mischief to pay all over the West. So the
Bureau sent and civilly requested. Si Tanka most uncivilly replied,
and Tatanka Iyotanka scorned to reply at all.
What made matters bad was this, that young braves were eternally
getting crazy over the ghost-dancing and going off to join these big
chiefs. "_Akichita hemacha_" ("I am a warrior"), being all they had to
say to friends and teachers who sought to dissuade them.
Away up at Fort Meade, in the Black Hills, were some high-mettled
fellows, cavalry and infantry, who were eagerly watching the
indications, one burly major of Horse fairly losing his temper over the
situation, and begging the powers to let him take his capital squadron,
with one or two companies of infantry, and, between his horsemen, his
"walkaheaps," and himself, sturdy "Napa Yahmni," as the Sioux had named
him, swore he'd bring Big Foot to his senses and back to the agency.
Napa yahmni meant "three fingers," that being all that were left on one
of his hands after a scrimmage with Southern sabres during the great
Civil War. Really, there was reason why something should be done, or
surely the settlers and ranch folk would be made to suffer. And with
troops there at Fort Meade, in the Hills, and over at Fort Yates, on
the Missouri, and at Fort Robinson off to the southwest, or Niobrara
here to the east, it was high time Mr. Big Foot was made to behave, and
still the government stayed its orders and held its hand.
One cool-headed, nervy, mild-mannered young officer had taken his life
in his hands, and a half-breed interpreter in civilized clothing,
visited Si Tanka's big village and had a talk with his turbulent
braves, to the end that as many as forty decided to quit, go home and
be good, give up evil spirits, intentions, and ghost-dancing, to the
rage of Black Fox and the amaze of Napa Yahmni, but it wasn't a week
before another Messiah broke loose among the sand-hills of western
Nebraska, and braves by the dozen sped thither to hear him; and
presently both agencies had another influx of outsiders, urging revolt
and uprising, and the old men counselled vainly, and preachers and
teachers pleaded without avail. The young wards of the nation were
ripe for mischief. The day of their deliverance had come. The Messiah
was calling his chosen to the wild wastes of the Bad Lands, where they
could sing and shout and dance till they dropped, and then if they went
mad with religion, and away to the warpath, it meant woe for western
Nebraska and for the Dakotas far and near. This was the situation that
called for a scout from Fort Niobrara, and thus it happened that for
over a fortnight a little column of cavalry had been patrolling the
breaks and the valleys away to the northwest, peering into the old
haunts of the Sioux along the headwaters of the pretty streams rising
among the hills beyond the weather-beaten landmark of Eagle's Nest.
They found lodge poles a-plenty on Black Pipe Creek, and the ashes of
many a little fire along Pass Creek and Bear-in-the-Lodge, and away to
the Yellow Medicine. They circled clear round the wild worshippers, it
seems, far west as the Wounded Knee, without ever encountering one; and
yet keeping them on the move had broken up their incantations, and, as
the major believed, had worn out their obstinate determination to
stick to their medicine-men and Messiahs whether the Great White Father
would have it or not.
For two days the column had followed, eastward now, the trail of a big
band, and just when Baptiste and Touch-the-Sky, interpreters, would
have it that the crazy chiefs and their followers had been fairly
headed off and balked of their purpose of joining Big Foot beyond the
Cheyenne, just when it seemed likely that another day would enable the
troops to overhaul them and herd them peaceably, if possible, forcibly,
if not, back to the sheltering wing of the agency and the Indian
police, lo, just at sunset, after a long day's march, a corporal had
come galloping, full cry, from the rear-guard, while the scouts were
still far out to the front: "The Indians are back of us at least six
miles, going like mad for the north!"
Then the major commanding said things that made his pilots' ears
tingle. It was all gospel truth. Finding themselves followed and being
steadily pressed onward toward the fort and the settlements, the
astute warriors had left a goodly sized party ambling along in front,
to lead the cavalry on; had dropped away all afternoon by twos and
threes as though looking for antelope or black tail, not northward
where the valley of the upper Chaduza was open and shallow and they
could be seen for miles, but southward among the breaks and ravines
where they were hidden entirely; had reassembled on a little branch to
the southwest and then, when the column was well out of sight, had
rushed for the north and the wild country so recently left; had forded
the Chaduza and by moonrise were doubtless safely camped for the night
on the south fork of White River. All the major could do was order his
men to the right-about, march to the crossing (another weary six miles
after the thirty-six of the day), and, with drooping horses and riders,
unsaddle, cook supper, and settle for the night, then send couriers to
the post in the morning.
And now morning had come and couriers had not yet gone, for an hour
before the first break of day--the _anpaniya_ of the Sioux--there had
come galloping from the northeast a riderless horse, at sight of whose
blood-stained saddle and stirrup hood the herd-guard woke the officer
of the pickets. The captain unrolled from his blanket, took one look by
the light of the moon, and bade the corporal find Baptiste, who needed
not to see the saddle; he knew the horse at a glance.
"Pete Gamble's," said he. "They've begun killing!" And Pete Gamble was
a ranchman well known to them all, both Indian and white. "If they
would kill _him_," said he, "they would kill anybody."
And as if this were not enough, barely half an hour later two men, mad
with terror, came spurring in over the northward ridge, almost
delirious with joy to find themselves in the presence of friends. Their
little hunting camp, they said, had been suddenly "jumped" early in the
night. They had managed to get out with stampeded horses, but every one
else was butchered, and the Indians were after _them_. The major
doubled his guards to the north and awaited the Indian coming. He
would not rouse his wearied men until actually assailed.
But now it was fairly broad daylight, and not an Indian feather had
shown nor an Indian shot been heard. Slowly, sleepily, at the gruff
summons of their sergeants, the troopers were crawling out of their
blankets and stretching and yawning by the fires. No stirring
trumpet-call had roused them from their dreams. A stickler for style
and ceremony was the major in garrison, but out on Indian campaign he
was "horse sense from the ground up," as his veterans put it. He
observed all formalities when on ordinary march, and none whatever when
in chase of the Indians.
He had let them sleep to the very last minute, well knowing he might
have stern demands to make that day. He and his adjutant had reduced
the statements of the hunters to writing, and a brief, soldierly report
was now ready to go to the general commanding the department, who had
come out to Fort Niobrara to be nearer the scene of action. The fort
lay nearly fifty miles away, south of east, the agency even farther to
the north and east, and the recalcitrant braves were heading away
through the wilds of their old reservation, and might stop only for
occasional bite, sup, or sleep until they joined forces with Big Foot
or Black Fox, full a hundred miles as the crow flies, for now were they
branded renegades in the light of the law.
In the crisp, chill air of the late autumn morning tiny smokes from the
cook-fires sailed straight aloft, melting speedily into the blue. For
nearly half a mile along the stream horses and pack-mules were
scattered upon the "bench," browsing eagerly on the dew-laden bunch
grass. Farther out beyond them on every side, with their campaign hats
pulled down over their grim eyebrows and their heads deep in the
collars of their cavalry overcoats, the men of the guard still kept
vigilant watch. Long years of experience on the Indian frontier had
taught their leaders the need of precaution, and the sentries took
their cue from the "old hands." By a little camp-fire, booted,
spurred, slouch-hatted, like his troopers, and muffled in a light-blue
overcoat that could not be told from theirs, the major commanding was
giving brief directions to three troopers who stood silently before
him, their carbines dangling from their broad shoulder-belts, with the
reins of their chargers in hand. Wiry and gaunt were these chargers,
wiry and gaunt were the men, for those were days when neither horse nor
rider went over-weight on campaign, or came back with a superfluous
ounce. But horses and men had stripped for the day's work. Blanket,
poncho, and overcoat, saddle-bags, side lines, lariat, and
picket-pin--everything, in fact, but themselves, their arms,
cartridges, canteens, saddles, saddle-blankets, and bridles--had been
left to the pack-train. A good breakfast to start with, a few hardtack
and slices of bacon in the breast-pocket of the hunting-shirt, settled
the question of subsistence. They were to start at once, deliver those
despatches at Niobrara, unless headed off by Indians, long before set
of sun, and be back with reply before its rise on the morrow.
Then came the question as to the fate of the poor fellows of Gamble's
and the hunters' camp.
"Mr. Willard," said the major to his adjutant, as the couriers mounted
and rode away, "send one platoon over to Gamble's camp--it'll take 'em
all day--and another back on the trail of the teamsters, and see what
they can find of the outfit. They'll have to hunt for it themselves.
The hunters say they wouldn't go back for a million apiece."
The adjutant was figuring in his note-book. He closed it, arose at
once, and looked about him. Officers and men, the six troops, or
companies, of the detachment seemed busy at breakfast. The aroma of
soldier coffee floated on the keen morning air, and under the gentle,
genial influence of the welcome stimulant men began to thaw out, and
presently the firesides were merry with chaff and fun. A curious and
sympathetic group, to be sure, hovered about the survivors of the
hunters' camp, listening rather doubtfully to their tales, for the
tales had taken devious turns under cross-examination. But for the
bloody trappings of Pete Gamble's horse, telling mutely of tragedy, the
hunters might have met only contempt and scoffing. Indian scares were
old as the trails.
"Whose turn is it?" presently questioned the major, as Mr. Willard
started away. The adjutant halted and faced about:
"'D' and 'F' troops, sir."
"All right. One officer and twenty men from each will be enough."
And then came striding forward, with quick, elastic steps, a young
soldier in dark-blue campaign shirt and riding-breeches, a three weeks'
stubble on his clear-cut, sun-burned face, a field-glass slung over one
shoulder, a leather-covered note-book tucked away inside his
cartridge-belt. No sign of rank was visible about his dress, yet there
could be little doubt of it. The major looked up, smiling.
"Fast going for topographical notes yesterday, wasn't it, Mr. Connell?"
"I'm afraid so, sir. Indeed, I'm ashamed to submit them, but I wouldn't
have missed this scout for a month's pay, all the same."
"Well, we don't often see the engineers on this sort of duty. I'm glad
the general sent you along. What is it, captain?" he broke off, turning
to a gray-mustached, choleric-looking veteran who came suddenly upon
them, breathing rather hard.
"Major," began the stout man, impetuously, "this makes the third time
in ten days 'F' Troop's been ordered on side scout, or some part of it.
Now we're ordered back to hunt up what's left of that wagon camp,
and--"
"One moment, captain," interposed the commander, placidly. "You say
'we.' My orders are only one officer and twenty men."
"Well, I have only one officer with me, and _he_ don't belong," was the
querulous rejoinder. "He's simply a volunteer with the command, and so
utterly inexperienced that I consider it necessary to go myself. I
can't trust my men to a mere boy just out of school."
"That will do, Captain Garrett," said the major, promptly, yet with
absolutely unruffled tone and temper. "If _I_ can, _you_ may. Mr.
Graham has had more experience than you are aware of."
"Does Mr. Graham go--in command?" asked Connell, eagerly, as Captain
Garrett, silenced, but swelling with amaze, stood helplessly by. "May
_I_ go with him, sir?"
"By all means, Mr. Connell, if you wish."