At the inauguration of President Theodore Roosevelt, March 4, 1905, an aged Indian chieftain rode in the procession, clothed in rich and gaudy attire. As he passed by the reviewing stand, I watched the expression upon his face. It was stolid, imperturbable, sad, and as he looked up at the figure of the Chief Executive of the all-conquering Anglo-Saxons, he did not deign to give him a nod of salutation. With a scowl upon his countenance, he rode up the broad avenue, while the people gazed at him in some amazement. It was the renowned Geronimo: the bloodthirsty Apache chief.
This warrior had fought in many a desperate encounter with the whites of Arizona and New Mexico, and, because of his strength of body and ability to live in a country in which his pursuers could scarcely exist, it was many years before he was eventually captured. Physically he was somewhat "squatty," but with a tremendous girth of chest. His muscles were as hard as bone, so hard that he could light a match upon the bottom of his feet. His wants were few, and he cared for no luxuries. War was his business, his life, and victory was his dream. He would gladly travel hundreds of miles to attack a Mexican camp, or an isolated village. He would incur every risk to run off a herd of cattle, mules, or sheep.
Courtesy of the Bureau of American Ethnology, Smithsonian Institute.GERONIMO.
Courtesy of the Bureau of American Ethnology, Smithsonian Institute.GERONIMO.
Courtesy of the Bureau of American Ethnology, Smithsonian Institute.
GERONIMO.
Geronimo, in his native wilds, wore no clothing save a narrow piece of calico, or buckskin, about his loins, a headdress also of buckskin, crested with the plumage of the wild turkey and eagle, and long-legged moccasins, held at the waist by a string, and turned up at the toes by a shield which protected him from stones and from the "cholla" cactus. If he felt thirsty when on the warpath, he knew where to find the tiny springs and brooks of the arid wastes, or, if he could find no water, he would put a stone or twig in his mouth in order to induce a flow of saliva. With this as a stimulus, he would journey onward for hours.
This crafty warrior would pitch his bivouac by nightfall at some distance from any spring, where his pursuers would be least likely to look for him. Generally it would be upon the side of some rocky mountain, along which no trail would be left, and up which no pursuing band of United States cavalrymen could ascend without making so much noise that they would wake him long before they were near enough to do any damage. He was familiar with every ravine, cavern, cañon, defile, gorge, and place which was inaccessible to horses. When on a raid, his followers often lived upon rats, mice, rabbits, and coyotes, and, if very hard pressed, killed and ate the horses which they were mounted upon. No wonder that they held out against the white men for months after any other Indian tribe would have been annihilated.
As the whites took up ranches and settlements in Arizona and New Mexico, there was continuous difficulty with the Apaches. Various causes led to a final outbreak, and, much as one may regret the fact, theactions of some United States officers who were on the frontier were mainly the reason for Indian hostility. The Apaches soon instituted a reign of terror in the Southwest, and there seemed to be no cruelty too atrocious for them to commit. They made sudden and daring raids upon the scattered ranch houses, burning them to the ground, killing the inmates, and carrying off the sheep, cows, and horses.
One day a ranchman of New Mexico was returning from a distant search for a stray heifer, when, upon mounting a hill just beyond his ranch house, he saw flames issuing from the roof and windows of his home. Putting spurs to his horse, he galloped up to the front yard, anxiously looking for signs of his family. As he did so, a wild yell came to his ears, and gazing across the plain, he saw a band of four Apaches, with his little son in their arms. Waving their hands at him defiantly, they soon disappeared beyond the sloping hillocks, while he, terrified and horrified at this unlooked-for assault, hastened to the garrison of United States troops, ten miles away, to warn them of the raid and ask assistance. Not long afterwards a squad of cavalry was in hot pursuit of the redskins, guided by the heartbroken parent, who urged his horse at top speed in the endeavor to overtake the marauders. But knowing that pursuit was almost certain, the Apaches had rested their ponies, and, as they were fresher and tougher than those upon the trail, they soon left the latter far behind. Plunging into a shallow river, they wheeled about, and, while one held the little boy in his outstretched arms to let the heartbroken fatherknow that they still had him, the other shouted defiantly at the United States soldiers. Then, turning suddenly, they were soon lost in the mountains.
This was but one of many such raids, so when General Crook took command of the United States troops of Arizona, in June, 1871, the settlers of the border country were in a frenzy of delight. At once this skillful Indian fighter enrolled a number of friendly savages as scouts. They were under a chief named Miguel, who was perfectly familiar with the mountain haunts of the Apaches, and, like bloodhounds upon the trail of criminals, were perfectly able to hunt down the followers of Geronimo to their last resort. In December the American troops gathered in the Tonto Basin, a mountain plateau surrounded by high ridges of the Mogollen, the Mazatal and the Sierra Ancha ranges, heavily timbered slopes deep with the winter's snow. For the first time since they had been striving against the whites, the Apaches found themselves matched in their own game. The allied scouts of Crook's army were as keen, as daring, and as untiring as the followers of Geronimo, and piloted the men in blue uniforms to the very heart of the bad lands, where was the lair of these enemies of the border.
Splitting into small detachments, the United States soldiers scoured the barren wastes in search of their human quarry. The Apaches skulked, like mountain lions, in the crevasses and coulies of the hills, and, seeing that they were being surrounded, concentrated in their strongholds, three of which were almost impregnable. These were the fortress at the summit of Turret Butte,the cliffs of the Superstition Mountains, and the cave in the cañon of Salt River.
Major Brown's command was near the latter place on December 28, 1872, when one of the friendly scouts came up to the officer, saying:
"Heap 'Pache down below in cave. I show you there, if your men follow. I live there once, but now heart bad against Geronimo."
"My men will follow any trail you lead them on," said the United States officer. "We will be ready to fight any band of Apaches in Arizona in fifteen minutes. Lead us to the fort."
The soldiers welcomed the news of a near-by fight with a cheer, for they were tired of perpetual marching with no enemy in view, and, starting from their bivouac in a small box cañon at the first appearance of a certain star in the East, they pushed onward through the night. At daybreak they were at the cañon of the Salt River, where, in a cave halfway down the face of a vertical cliff, the Apaches were in hiding. The trail leading to this stronghold was narrow and dangerous, so narrow in fact, that, should the Indians have discovered the presence of the whites before they reached some rocky hills, they could have annihilated the command. "Men, will you follow me?" asked the gallant Major, at this juncture. "We will," came from every throat. "Then look to your carbines and ammunition," continued Brown. "Put some crackers, bacon, and coffee in your blankets slung over your shoulders; fill your canteens with water; give a look at your moccasins, and follow me."
The friendly scouts gathered about little fires, and stuffed themselves full of mule meat, while the soldiers were picketing the horses and mules. Then their medicine men walked before them, telling them what to do, how to shoot, and how to creep upon the enemy. This ceremony was soon over, and, as the bright light of the guiding star began to twinkle in the East, the soldiers and slinking redskins softly began the descent to the cave of the Apaches.
Moving like a long file of spectres, the band of attackers crept down the sides of the barren mountain. For an hour or more the progress was leisurely. The air was chill and blew keenly through the scraggy cedars, which, like ghostly sentinels, nodded and beckoned in the wind. At the crest of each hill the column halted for a few moments, when a warning "Tzit! Tzit!" hissed from the rear, signalled that the last man had reached his place in line. Thus the black army of death approached the sleeping followers of Geronimo.
Midnight had come, and all was silence. The sharp yelp of a coyote sounded far off across the barren waste, and Nantje (the head Indian scout) turned, seizing Major Brown firmly about the body. "Quiet," he whispered. "We have discovered a footprint in the soil!" All were still, as the keen-eyed scout lay down upon the trail with some comrades by his side, and, with their blankets over their heads so that not the slightest gleam could escape, struck a few matches and inspected the sign. "Ugh! Ugh!" growled Nantje. "It is a big bear's foot. He has been here but an hour past. It is good luck for us, for when a bear crossesthe path of a war party, they will meet the enemy and will be successful!"
Moving onward again for three or four hours, suddenly the warning, "Tzit! Tzit!" sounded from the advance guard. "Ponies!" whispered the scouts, and there in a small, grassy glade were fifteen Pima ponies, which had been driven up the mountain by Apache raiders that very night. "See," cried Nantje, "the sweat is not yet dry upon their flanks. Their knees are full of cactus thorns, against which they have been driven during the night. The Apaches have done this."
"Carefully, now," whispered Major Brown. "Advance with great caution, and make no noise. We are within rifle shot of the enemy."
Although there was no moon, the stars gave out sufficient light to show that the soldiers were in a country filled with huge rocks, behind which a well-armed foe could fight for hours. In front was a deep valley: dark, precipitous, vague. "You are at the place," said Nantje. "A dozen picked men must be sent forward with me to climb down the precipice in order to attack."
"All right," whispered the Major. "Fifty more will come behind you. A strong detachment will hold the edge of the precipice to prevent any of the hostiles from getting above and killing our people with their rifles. As soon as these first detachments secure the field, the rest of our force will come down."
The Indians in the cave below were absolutely unaware of the approach of the soldiers. They were in high good humor, and were dancing to keep themselveswarm. Several of the raiders who had just returned from a trip of killing and robbing in the settlements near Florence, on the Gila River, were bending over a fire, and stirring some deer meat in a bubbling pot, while a few sleepy squaws were cutting faggots. Sheltered in the bosom of these grim precipices, they fancied themselves secure from any intrusion save that of the eagle, the hawk, the turkey buzzard, or the mountain sheep. The fire danced upwards, sending the fitful gleam of the flame over the rugged precipices of inky blackness; while far below the glowing current of the rushing Salado sounded like solemn music of an invisible orchestra. But, hark, as the first glint of dawn reddened the horizon, a call sounded forth, and its echoes woke the stillness of the grim solitude: "We have you surrounded. You cannot escape. Surrender!"
Taken aback at this unlooked-for demand, the Apaches scattered, like slinking wolves, into the cave. They then hurled back their savage defiance in their own tongue. "We will die first. Not one of your own party will escape from the cañon!" The death wail came from the fortress, and then, out of the cave and over the great pile of rock, which protected the entrance, swarmed the warriors. Although outnumbered three to one, they fought like tigers. The bullets rained down upon the rocks like hailstones, and, striking the roof and mouth of the cave, glanced along and wounded a number of the women and children. Sharp wails of pain and rage rent the air as the battle continued.
Again the Apaches were summoned to surrender, or, if they would not do so, to allow such of their women and children as they desired pass out between the lines.But to this demand came yells of defiance. A little boy, not more than four years old, now ran out of the cave and stood dumbfounded at the affray. Without a moment's pause, Nantje rushed forward, grasped the trembling infant by the arm, and escaped to the lines of the troopers with the boy unhurt. A bullet struck the little Apache, but did not injure him, and, as the new recruit reached a place of safety, the troopers gave a yell of encouragement and appreciation of the brave rescue.
The end of the fight had nearly come. A detachment left by Major Brown at the top of the precipice to protect the retreat, in case of necessity, had worked its way over to a high shelf of rock, overlooking the cave of the Apaches, and began to tumble down great boulders, which speedily crushed the greater number of these rude warriors of the mountains. The rifle fire grew hot and savage; so savage that, in twenty minutes, every Indian was dead at his post, and the troops swarmed into the little fort. In the inner recesses of the cave were the women and children, a number of whom had been struck by glancing bullets and fragments of rock. They were seized, carried to the pack train, mounted on horses and mules, and started for the nearest railway station. The great fight in the mountains was over.
This was a crushing blow to the savages. Driven to bay in their chosen fortress, where they thought that no one could reach them, all of the warriors had been exterminated, while only one white soldier had been killed. As Major Randall, two days later, delivered another crushing blow to the hostiles, at Turret Butte,the remaining Apaches, including Geronimo, soon capitulated to the governmental forces. But this snakelike warrior was not to remain long in peace and quiet, for he resented the control of the whites. In May he escaped from Fort Apache, taking with him thirty-four warriors, eight boys, and ninety-one women, who travelled one hundred and twenty miles before camping. Thus and thus only they eluded the cavalry sent in pursuit, and, although chased hundreds of miles, the band safely reached the wild wastes of the Sierra Madre Mountains.
General Crook pushed hot upon the trail of the terrible Apache. The thermometer registered one hundred and twenty degrees, and often more. The air was like a fiery furnace, and the soil was like a hot stove, under the feet of the troopers. Often the metal work upon their guns became so hot that it could not be touched with the bare hand, and sometimes, aflame with thirst, they would reach a tiny spring—the only one for miles—to find it befouled by the retreating Apaches, so that neither man nor beast could drink from it. Still Crook persisted and finally captured the crafty Geronimo. He held him for only one night, and then the slippery Apache escaped to the arid wasteland, leaving his wife behind him in the hands of the soldiers. Several nights later he stole into camp with four of his warriors, found his wife's tent in the blackness, and, before the dozing sentries discovered him, was off again into the wilderness, with his better half strapped before him on his scraggly pony.
Geronimo retreated into Mexico and lost himself inthe treeless mountains which seemed to be incapable of sustaining human life. But he was pursued by the American troops as if he were a wild animal. Fortunately, a treaty with Mexico made it possible for United States forces to venture far beyond the Rio Grande, and thus several detachments were soon upon the trail of the outlawed Apache. Captain H. W. Lawton and Assistant Surgeon Leonard Wood did their utmost to capture him. He was hunted from mountain range to mountain range; through snowfields, cactus plants, and sun-baked ridges. Every device known to the red men was practiced to throw the pursuing enemies off the trail, but the half-breed trailers were good, and it was soon evident that not a spot could be reached by Geronimo's band which would offer them security. Twenty-five different commands, or detachments, representing four regiments, kept up this persistent trailing through narrow paths, along dangerous divides, down side cuts into the middle of precipices hundreds of feet high, up precipitous banks and beetling crags; sometimes leading the jaded horses for hours, at times looking vertically into cañons whose bottom was a mile below. One of the scouts, while looking for signs of the fugitives, rode one horse nearly five hundred miles in less than seven days and nights; while a young lieutenant once climbed a mountainous ascent for twenty-six hours, with the heat at 110°, and without water for eighteen hours of this time. Such perseverance was bound to tell.
At length Lawton's troopers, clinging to the trail like bloodhounds, and suffering much from heat and thirst, cornered Geronimo's men in a valley three hundredmiles south of the Mexican boundary line, in the Sonora range of mountains. There had been several skirmishes with them along the way, and the United States troopers had shown great gallantry under fire, especially in rescuing their own wounded troops when under close range of the rifles of Geronimo's Apaches. The food supply of these fugitives was now exhausted, and, realizing that to stand out longer would be the height of absurdity, the Indians made signs of peace. At the risk of his life, a young lieutenant, named Gatewood, of the Sixth Cavalry, went unattended into Geronimo's camp, and meeting the Apache chieftain face to face, gave him the terms of speedy surrender. The old chief was helpless, and he knew it. So he surrendered and was brought back to New Mexico with the remnants of his once powerful army of mountain fighters.
Upon his capture and return to the United States, a tremendous call went up from the settlers of the Southwest to have him removed to some place from which he could not escape. "We do not know when this terrible raider will not again break out and renew his plundering and murder," wrote a committee of the settlers to the Department of the Interior. And thus, in deference to the wishes of the white pioneers, Geronimo and the few people of his tribe, who had survived the war, were sent to Florida, and then to Alabama, to be confined upon a reservation. Geronimo, the famous fighter, died in 1909, treasuring no doubt to the last, happy memories of the time when, as a mountain outlaw, he was the scourge and terror of the Southwestern frontier.
A stalwart warrior of the Sioux nation was lying before his tepee, busily sharpening his hatchet upon a stone, when a cloud of dust upon the horizon warned him of the approach of a rider. He looked up languidly, as a calico pony approached at breakneck speed, and, when a half-naked warrior threw himself upon the ground and advanced to speak with him, he scarcely deigned to notice the visitor.
"Mahapiya-luta," said the dismounted warrior, "I have news for you. Great news."
"Ugh," said he with the hatchet. "Let us have it, Soboya."
"The palefaces are upon the waters which sound with the music of bells. There are many of them with horses with long ears, and boxes which run on wheels. They are cutting down the pine trees and are building a big house. The squaws of the paleface warriors are with them, and the pappooses. They have iron pieces on wheels which speak with the voice of thunder, and instruments which, when placed to their mouths, sound forth in tones of sweetness. Yea, they are many and they are in the heart of our best hunting grounds."
Courtesy of the Bureau of American Ethnology, Smithsonian Institute.RED CLOUD.
Courtesy of the Bureau of American Ethnology, Smithsonian Institute.RED CLOUD.
Courtesy of the Bureau of American Ethnology, Smithsonian Institute.
RED CLOUD.
Mahapiya-luta had leaped from the turf, as the otherwas speaking, and in his eyes shone a fierce and sinister lustre.
"How many are there?" he asked.
The courier looked puzzled for an instant, and then held up both hands with a sweeping motion.
"There are as many as ponies in yonder herd," said he. "The palefaces are as thick as trees along the side of the mountain behind our camp. But we are greater by ten times. Yes, we can sweep them off the face of our land."
"And we will," shouted Mahapiya-luta, who was known to the whites as Red Cloud. "Did I not tell the Great White Eagle (General Carrington) so, in the council at the house, called Laramie by the palefaces? Did I not say that if he and his Long Swords stole the country of our fathers without asking my permission that we would take their scalps? Did I not tell him that the fireboat which walks on mountains (locomotive) could not come into our hunting grounds and scare off all the game? Show me the place where the palefaces have camped, O Soboya, and we will drive them from the soil."
"Come with me," answered Soboya, "and you can see for yourself that what I say to you is the truth."
On a plateau between two branches of the Piney Creek—a branch of the Powder River in Wyoming—a camp and stockade had been established, on the thirteenth of July, 1866. Four miles away was the magnificent Big Horn Range of Mountains, with a toweringsnow peak, called Cloud Peak, jutting nine thousand feet into the azure sky. It was a lonely place—the farthest post of United States regulars in the wilderness—but as General Carrington, its commander, looked about him upon the wide plateau decked with beautiful flowers, and green with waving grass, he smiled grimly at the scene of natural beauty. The mountains and hills were covered with pines of restful green, the waters of the creek and its tributary rivulets were as pure as crystal. Trout leaped in the tiny pools and cataracts. Antelope grazed upon the wide sweep of the plains, while deep-rutted trails showed where the bison had recently passed by. "It is a glorious situation," said Carrington to himself, "but the Indians will not let us enjoy it as we should. Well, they will find us ready and prepared. I, for one, am glad to be here."
As the soldiers fell to work to erect the stockade and buildings of this new fortification, called Fort Phil Kearney, they were not long in realizing that the redskins did not intend to leave them alone. Picket posts were established upon the surrounding hills, which overlooked the Bozeman trail and approaches from both the East and the West. Three times they were attacked by the hostiles. Upon the third of these, a warrior in warpaint and feathers rode far out beyond his yelping followers, and, shaking his clenched fist at the soldiers who were bringing up a howitzer, called out:
"Red Cloud has told you to leave the hunting grounds of the Sioux. If you remain here, you will all be killed. Red Cloud has spoken."
A jeer of derision greeted this insult, and a case-shot was immediately exploded among the clusters of red men. They scattered like chaff before the wind. The soldiers cheered their departure, and, turning towards the fort, withdrew in close order, with their faces towards the evil-looking adherents of the Sioux chieftain.
This was not the last attack upon General Carrington's frontiersmen, by any means, for many who ventured from the fort were ambuscaded. The wood trains which went out to fetch logs from a saw mill, some miles away, were constantly attacked. There was fighting all the time. Many stragglers who had ventured out alone were cut off and killed. A few were scalped, and crawling back to the stockade, were rescued by their now terrified companions, who were constantly warned not to leave the protection of the log fortress. From the first of August, until the close of the year, the Indians killed one hundred and fifty-four persons, wounded twenty more, and captured nearly seven hundred horses, mules, and cattle. Every train which passed over the Bozeman trail was attacked, and there were fifty-one demonstrations against the fort by Red Cloud and his followers. Men grew used to war and the sound of spitting bullets and flying arrows.
Among the officers of the fort was a Captain Fetterman, who had had less experience in the country than the other officers, and who was always anxious for a fight. On the twenty-first of December a wood train was sent out to gather a supply of timber for the fort, and, at eleven o'clock in the morning, the lookout on a hill near-by signalled that it had been attacked by theIndians in force, about a mile and a half from the fort. A relief party of eighty-one men was immediately sent out to the aid of the beleagured whites, and the command was entrusted to Fetterman. He boasted that with this troop he could ride through the entire Sioux nation.
As the soldiers left the post, General Carrington gave specific orders that they were not to pursue the Indians across a trail which was visible from the fort. "You shall relieve the wood train, drive back the Indians, but on no account pursue them beyond the Lodge Trail Ridge," said the careful commander at the moment of departure, and in a loud voice. "All right," called Fetterman, "I shall be sure to obey your orders." With a smile on his face, he rode out into the open, taking a direction which would lead him to the rear of the Indians who were menacing the wood train.
Red Cloud was in command of the savage horde upon the plains, and, when he heard that Fetterman's command was approaching, he directed his braves to retreat down the valley. The wood train immediately broke corral, and, as the redskins went away, made for the fort. Fetterman and his men rode after the red men, and, entirely disregarding the orders from General Carrington, followed the fleeing braves down a ravine. This was exactly what Red Cloud had wished, and, taunting the oncoming soldiers with jeers and insults, he had soon drawn them into an ambuscade. Suddenly the bluecoats found themselves surrounded. Too late they turned about to retreat to the protection of Fort Phil Kearney. In their rear a vast and overwhelmingmass of Indians galloped upon them, driving them into a circle for defense, and shooting them down by scores. The whites fought gamely and well, but it was of little avail. They were soon overwhelmed by the great numbers of the Sioux, as well armed as they were themselves, and led by Red Cloud in person. Soon not a single soldier was alive, and the air resounded with the wild warwhoops of the victorious savages.
At the fort the heavy firing of the battle was heard about twelve o'clock. Carrington instantly dispatched fifty-four men to the relief of Fetterman and his doomed command, who had disappeared from view behind the sloping hills. The men went forward on the run. Carrington, himself, mounted the observatory tower, fieldglasses in hand, and anxiously scanned the distant hills. He was fearful of the result of the expedition, but dared say nothing to his officers and men, or to the women and children who had husbands and fathers in Fetterman's detachment. Late in the afternoon the relief party returned with terrible tidings of an awful disaster.
When they had reached the end of the ridge nearest the fort, they saw evidences of a great battle. Forty-nine men were lying behind a pile of rocks, in a space only about six feet square. They had been killed by arrows and spears, and not by bullets. Fetterman was found prostrate behind a hillock with another officer by his side. As their heads were burned and filled with powder around the wounds, it was evident that they had committed suicide when they found that it was all up with them. On every side were signs of the fiercestkind of hand-to-hand fighting. Behind a pile of stones were two civilians who had been armed with modern six-shot rifles, and as many Indian ponies lay near by, it was evident that they had put up a stout defense. Ghastly and mutilated remains, shot full of arrows and stripped naked, were on every side. Red Cloud and his braves had had a terrible victory.
By this defeat and slaughter of Fetterman's command, Red Cloud gained so much fame that he was chosen to be the leading war chief of the Sioux. Thousands of painted warriors enrolled themselves with his band, and he soon found himself in control of numbers of daring spirits who were constantly on the lookout for another battle with the Government troops. Travel on the Bozeman trail was given up entirely. Letters from the soldiers which got through the prowling Indians to the East often had in them the words: "We are in constant fear of our lives. This may be my last letter. The Indians fairly swarm about the fort." Men of the garrison who had moved West for adventure's sake had found all that could satisfy the most delicate palate. Danger was always present.
As winter passed and the warm breath of summer blew across the prairie, Red Cloud was persuaded by his warlike followers to make another attack upon the whites. The painted braves were weary of cutting off stragglers and attacking stagecoaches; they wanted another stand-up fight. Half of the Sioux were armed with rifles which they had obtained from white traders, and some had repeaters. There were about three thousand of these red warriors, and they were notcowards, although they had a healthy respect for the white troops. Under cover of frequent skirmishes, Red Cloud collected his adherents within striking distance of the fort, and by the first of August he was prepared to have a desperate encounter with those who had dared to trespass upon the land of his fathers.
Woodcutting was still going on in the vicinity of this stockade in the far wilderness, and, under the leadership of Major James Powell, numerous soldiers protected those engaged in this task. The wagons used by the woodcutters were furnished by the quartermaster's department. In order to afford as much protection as possible to their occupants in case of an onslaught by the Sioux, loopholes were cut in the sides. Major Powell had fourteen of such vehicles, and he drew them up in the form of an oval, as the men busied themselves in cutting down the neighboring forest trees. The wheels were removed from all but two, which were placed at either end of the barricade. It was thus a formidable obstacle to an Indian attack.
On August the second Indians were seen approaching the fort in great numbers. Red Cloud had made his plan of attack, and had decided to annihilate the little detachment under Major Powell (twenty-eight in all) before he set upon Fort Phil Kearney. Although his warriors dashed forward with extreme speed, they were seen long before they reached the wagon-box corral. On they galloped—three thousand of them—and, as they appeared above the rolling hills, the sun glistened upon their shining rifle barrels and painted faces. Chanting a wild war song, and brandishing spears and riflesaloft, they came down upon Powell's little force like an overwhelming wave of the sea. Yelping with savage delight at the thought of an easy victory, they sent forward a party of two hundred red men to stampede the mules which were used in the wagons. The herders stood them off for some time, but, seeing that it was useless to fight against such odds, retreated towards Powell's corral. Immediately a large force of painted braves hastened to cut them off.
But Powell dashed out from the wagon boxes to their rescue. With him were only fifteen men, but they shot so accurately into the mass of Indians that the redskins turned to drive them away. The herders, meanwhile, made their escape towards the fort, and, after a stiff brush with another detachment of Red Cloud's army, managed to reach the safety of the log stockade. Powell retreated to his wagon boxes, and there, with his paltry twenty-eight, prepared for the onslaught of Red Cloud's three thousand. There were greater odds here than when Roman Nose charged upon the defenders of Beecher's Island, and the whites were to distinguish themselves as splendidly as did the Rough Riders of "Sandy" Forsyth.
"Lie down!" shouted Powell to his men. "Throw blankets over the tops of the wagons to screen yourselves! Bore loopholes through the sides of the wagons with the augurs, if you need more room to fight. And, for your lives, don't fire until the savages are close upon us!" So saying, he stationed himself at the end of the corral, rifle in hand, and awaited the onslaught of the painted followers of Red Cloud. As he ceased speaking, threecivilians and one old frontiersman, a dead shot, succeeded in joining his party. Thus the numbers were increased to thirty-two.
Powell was seven miles from the fort, and the chances were that he would be relieved. This gave him some satisfaction, as he saw Red Cloud busily giving directions to his warriors, and massing them for a charge upon the corral. The redskins were determined to ride clean over the soldiers and end the battle with one, swift blow. Remembering their success with Fetterman, they doubtless felt that the fate of the thirty-two would be the same. Their women and children were with them, and, massed upon a number of hills, eagerly watched their relatives as they formed in line of battle. Five hundred Sioux warriors, magnificently mounted, suddenly detached themselves from the three thousand, and, urging on their multi-colored steeds with blows and wild cheers, started head-on for the corral.
On, on, they charged. Slowly went the ponies at first, but gradually their speed was increased, until they were galloping with great swiftness upon the silent wagon boxes. A cloud of alkali dust surrounded the yelling band, while, in their rear, Red Cloud gathered together his main force to rush into any opening which the five hundred might make. They went on, on, on, until it seemed as if they would be right among the wagons, when, with a deafening roar, a frightful and overwhelming fire was poured into their very faces. A rain of bullets ploughed into the mass of redskins. Ponies rolled over each other in great confusion. Painted warriors fell headlong upon the turf. All were mixedtogether in a wild and tangled mass of maddened bronchos and screaming Sioux.
As each of Powell's men had several rifles, the fire from the wagon boxes was steady, persistent, and continuous. Checked, but not halted, the redskins rode up to the very edge of the corral and shot over the tops of the wagons at the garrison. But not one leaped into the enclosure. Dividing like a great billow of the sea, what was left of the five hundred swept around the hollow oval in a vain endeavor to find an opening. But, as they rushed onward in a mad and desperate gallop, a withering fire was directed into their very backs, so that many fell helpless to the ground within striking distance of the sides of the wagon boxes. So close were the Sioux that often one bullet from a frontiersman would kill two redskins. The rifles of Powell's men were hot from rapid use, and revolvers finished the defense of the gallant thirty-two, as the Indians rode back to their disgruntled companions.
Disgusted with the failure of this attack, Red Cloud consulted with his chieftains, and determined upon another method of procedure. Seven hundred Indians were formed into a skirmish party, and were told to creep as near the corral as they could and to pour a heavy fire into the wagons. The rest—about two thousand warriors—were gathered upon a hill and placed in several long lines. They were to overwhelm the men under Powell, and to deal with them as they had with Fetterman,—the disobedient. Let us see how they fared.
After the skirmishers had poured a hot fire into the silent wagon boxes, which literally tore the tops topieces, the two thousand began a mad gallop towards the corral. Again there was an awful silence, until they reached a distance of ninety yards or so from the defenders of the wooden oval. The thirty-two had been reduced to twenty-eight, but their spirits had not suffered. As the stalwart braves came onward in splendid war bonnets and beaded war shirts, it was a sight which would have made many a man quail. Several had shields of buffalo hide upon their left arms, which were brightly painted and decorated with fantastic designs. Led by the nephew of Red Cloud, they dashed forward in a wide semicircle, chanting wild war songs, calling upon the Great Spirit to aid them, and brandishing their weapons aloft. It was a clear day. The sun shone brightly upon them, and made good targets for the silent and watchful men from Fort Phil Kearney.
They advanced in a wild, uneven column, when
Crash!
A volley poured into their faces, knocking the nephew of the great Red Cloud to the turf, and sending down full twenty warriors among their plunging bronchos. Still they came on, and
Crash! Crash!
A still more deadly mass of lead ploughed gaps in the line. They did not falter, but swept forward with fierce cries of anger and disdain. Ponies screamed in agony and broke from the mass of maddened braves whenever their riders fell prostrate to the turf. The Sioux were now within twenty yards. It was a terribly critical situation. Should they leap over the woodenbarrier, it would be all over with Powell's valiant band. But
Crash! Crash! Crash!
The Sioux were so close that the troopers rose to their knees, in their excitement, and threw their augurs, revolvers, and knives into the faces of the Indians. It was like the charge of Grover's brigade on Stonewall Jackson's men behind the railroad cut at Second Bull Run. The white men did anything to keep off the foe. They were desperate.
Crash! Crash! Crash!
Others were keeping up the fire. The Indians wavered. They broke. They began to ride away. A fierce cheer rent the air from the brave twenty-eight, and, upon a hillock a half mile away, Red Cloud, like Napoleon at Waterloo, bitterly bewailed this sudden and appalling reverse. He thought that he saw the end of his power as head war chief of the bloodthirsty Sioux.
With desperation the Indians now formed for another attack. The ground around the corral was literally piled with heaps of the slain. In spite of this they charged six times upon the defenders of the wagon-box corral. For three hours there was continuous fighting and stubborn resistance. Finally, as Red Cloud's warriors apparently formed for a last, desperate onrush a shell burst in the midst of the Indian skirmishers, and, through the trees away off to the left, the gallant defenders of the wooden fortification saw the blue uniforms of approaching soldiers. They were saved!
Cheer upon cheer rent the air, as, at the head of one hundred men, Major Smith galloped into view. Theherders, woodsmen, and scouts who had escaped from their camps in the morning had reached the fort with the news of Powell's danger. Thus, all who could be spared from the stockade had been sent, with a howitzer, to rescue the brave defenders of the wagon-box corral. Red Cloud's warriors retreated in sullen silence, carrying off their dead, as is their custom. Had they again turned upon the whites, when they were in the open, there is no doubt that they could have nearly annihilated Smith's little body of rescuers, because of their overwhelming numbers.
When Powell's rangers reached the protection of Fort Phil Kearney, many were half crazy with the excitement and nervous strain of the fight. Several never completely recovered from the terrible experience through which they had just passed, and Powell, himself, was an invalid for three years. Never had white men displayed greater hardihood, courage, and fighting prowess against overwhelming masses of redskins; and the fact that nearly half of the total Indian force were either killed or dangerously wounded (as was afterwards learned from Red Cloud himself) bears full witness to the accurate marksmanship of the whites.
A treaty was made with all the Sioux within six months, and Fort Phil Kearney was abandoned to its fate. The troops were withdrawn. The followers of Red Cloud immediately burned the wooden stockade to the ground. Red Cloud, himself, never afterwards participated in an important action with the soldiers,although elected to the position of head chief of the Sioux. The prestige which he had lost at the wagon-box fight returned after the abandonment of Fort Phil Kearney, and he was always admired and respected by his red followers. In the war of 1876, General Mackenzie surprised his camp before he had an opportunity to go upon the warpath, which, to say the least, was most fortunate for those who wished to have peace upon the frontier.
The Sioux leader lived to be nearly ninety years of age, and, when questioned upon his feelings about the defeat by Powell's men, would say: "It was a big fight. The long swords fought as I had never seen them before. My warriors were as thick as blades of grass. I went in with many. I lost over half. The long swords shot true to the mark. My warriors never fought again."
A troop of United States cavalrymen wound, like a great worm, up the dry bed of a tortuous creek. It was in March, 1876, and the weather was bitterly cold. Sharp, biting gusts blew the dry alkali dust into the faces of the bronzed troopers. But with determined manner they pressed on towards the purling waters of the Powder River.
As the weather-beaten commander of this expedition trotted quietly in the front of the line, a horseman suddenly appeared upon the horizon, and, galloping hard for the travel-stained column, drew rein before the leading officer.
"General Reynolds," said he, "the village of Crazy Horse is not more than five miles away. You must approach with caution, but, as you outnumber them, I feel sure that there can be but one outcome of the fight."
The officer in command smiled grimly.
"Thank you, Lieutenant," said he. "You have scouted well. We will be all prepared for a brush with my old friend Crazy Horse within an hour."
Then, turning about, he called:
"Close column, men! Tighten saddlegirths, and look to it that your ammunition is all ready. We are about to have a warm affair."
As the men busied themselves with their arms and accoutrements, a lean timber wolf sneaked from behind a small bunch of cottonwood trees. Sitting on his haunches, he howled dismally. It was the song of death.
What did this alkali-covered column mean—there upon the bleak, unpopulated Wyoming plains? Why these grim-visaged warriors: these munitions of war: these scouts and vigilant-eyed officers of the Government? It meant that the last great Indian campaign had begun; and that within the course of a year the power of the native Americans would be irrevocably broken. The country of the Sioux was encircled by the forts and agencies of the white men. A railroad now crossed the continent and ran through the land of the elk and the buffalo. Surrounded by their civilized enemies, the Indians determined to make one last desperate stand against the whites.
Sitting Bull, an Unkpapa chief and medicine man, was the real leader of the Sioux. His were the brains which conceived and executed the movements of the warriors. But Crazy Horse, an Oglala, was the true leader in time of battle. Sitting Bull was the Grant, and Crazy Horse the Sheridan, of the Sioux army. One conceived and the other executed.
There was plenty of ammunition among the savages, and they were as well armed as the soldiers. There were still many buffalo in the country of the red men,and of food and clothing they had abundance. Their women and children were with them. Their ponies were many. Their warriors numbered several thousand. And, realizing that they were now encircled and enveloped by their hated enemies, they determined to make a last, desperate resistance to the power of the Government, which had determined, late in 1876, that thereafter all Indians in the Northwest must live upon the reservations.
"God made me an Indian, but not a Reservation Indian," Sitting Bull had said.
"The Great Spirit has told me that I shall defeat the whites," Crazy Horse had added.
Thus, stimulated with a just pride in their own strength and resources, the Sioux retreated to the region of the Big Horn mountains, determined to retain their independence, and to drive off the whites. They were patriots fighting for the soil which they had been born upon. They fought gamely, desperately, mercilessly; until beaten in detail by the superior ability of the whites, they at last were forced to a peaceable life upon the Government reservations.
General Reynolds soon found the Indians. Under fire from a band of warriors upon the hills, his men charged upon the camp of Crazy Horse and drove the redskins to a high bluff. While shot at very heavily by the warriors, the soldiers began to destroy the tepees. The fire from the followers of Crazy Horse grew more and more accurate. In spite of a stout resistance by the troopers, the redskins began to push them very hard. They soon had found the range ofthe camp, and many of the cavalrymen went down before their accurate aim. Suddenly Reynolds ordered a retreat—so suddenly that the bodies of several of his men were left behind to the fury of the Sioux, while one wounded man, it is said, was abandoned to an awful fate among the hostiles.
As is always the case when white men move back before red, the followers of Crazy Horse grew more and more bold as the whites withdrew. It was bitterly cold—so cold that the soldiers suffered intensely from the zero weather. Following the example of Crazy Horse, the red men made a vigorous attack upon Reynolds' force, and, by a bold and impetuous advance, succeeded in recapturing seven hundred of their own ponies which the troopers were driving before them. After this they seemed to be satisfied with their actions, and, apparently unmindful of the freezing temperature, rode quietly and joyously back to their own camp. All the honors were with Crazy Horse, and he was the hero of the western plains.
What General Crook said when Reynolds returned is not worthy of repetition, for he was the commanding officer of this expedition against the Sioux and was hastening to the assistance of that officer with his infantry and wagons. It was a disgraceful affair from the viewpoint of the Americans, but in the camp of the Sioux there was dancing and song. "The Great Spirit is upon our side," chanted the warriors. "We shall drive the palefaces into the land of the setting sun. We shall again sleep in peace upon the prairie." But they could not read the signs aright.
At Fort Fetterman, Wyoming, nine hundred cavalrymen and three hundred infantry were soon in motion against the Indians. Crook was in command of this, the most efficient force which had ever been sent against the Sioux. He was an officer of large experience, and so, on May 29th., 1876, began the advance, before the weather was too hot for campaigning. Past the ruins of old Fort Phil Kearney marched the dusty column; past the beetling cliffs of the mountains; the great stretches of glorious prairie covered with variegated wild flowers and the bleaching skulls of buffalo; on through the deep defiles and coulies of the numerous crystal streams which rippled through this glorious plateau, until, on June 9th., the army encamped upon the south side of the Tongue River. Here a message was received from Crazy Horse, which said:
"If you cross my river, my warriors will take your scalps. Go back into your own country and leave me and my children alone."
But Crook had no intention of going back. Instead of that, he remained where he was and laughed at the threats of Crazy Horse: the vainglorious.
At half-past six the cry of "Indians! Indians!" roused the weary troopers from their preparations.Crash! Crash!came two rattling volleys, and from the bluffs across the river arose the wild war whoops of the followers of the great Sioux leader, who had begun to make good his threat.
Springing to their feet, the soldiers immediately formed in line of battle and replied to the shots of the redskin braves. Imagining that the canvas tents ofthe white men were full of soldiers, the Sioux directed their fire upon them, and the camp was swept with bullets. Fortunately the troops had run out into the open, and, forming in a long skirmish line, vigorously replied to the fire of the warlike followers of Crazy Horse. The mess chests in camp were split with bullets; several horses were struck; the wagons were splintered by the leaden balls; a few tent ropes were cut; and the shelters toppled to the ground. "Cross the river with your battalion and charge the enemy!" shouted General Crook to Captain Mills, and, as the troopers splashed through the water with bugles blaring and pennons fluttering, he turned to a young lieutenant, and said: "Now watch them retreat! Nothing can stand this advance!"
With fierce war whoops the Indians greeted the charge of the troopers, and, aiming at them, endeavored to keep them away. They did not realize that the men under Mills were old-time fighters, and, not at all frightened at their rifle fire, charged upon them vigorously. Meanwhile the long-range rifles of the other troopers began to find them; so, waiting until the whites had reached the very top of the bluffs, they suddenly broke and fled. Few of their numbers had been wounded, and they had not killed a single United States soldier.
Leaving a portion of his men to guard the baggage and wagons, Crook now pushed on after the retreating Crazy Horse. In a few days he had reached a large, rolling bit of prairie, surrounded by high bluffs, near the Rosebud River. He camped here, while some ofhis Crow and Shoshone Indian scouts went on a buffalo hunt. Crazy Horse had his own scouts out watching the movements of the oncoming column, and when he saw them in such a favorable position for attack, he, himself, began the battle. In this he showed a confidence that few Indians had ever exhibited.
It was half-past eight upon a gloriously bright morning, when rifle shots sounded from the bluffs over which the Indian scouts had disappeared. A cloud of dust soon arose upon the skyline, and galloping into camp came a few of the Crow and Shoshone scouts. They were yelping with fright.
"Sioux! Sioux! Heap Sioux!" they shouted. "They are coming! Get ready!"
The bugle blared the call to arms, and immediately the troopers fell in. They were none too soon, for, suddenly, out on the plain before them came hundreds of painted warriors. Crazy Horse had joined forces with Sitting Bull. Their combined commands were determined to crush Crook's column, as Red Cloud had annihilated Fetterman. Gay with paint and war bonnets, they streamed out upon the plain, yelling their savage war songs, and firing their rifles at long range. The feathers from their head-dresses floated out in the wind; their war ponies were grotesquely painted; their entire bodies were bright with brilliant buckskin or yellow ochre. They circled around like blackbirds upon a field of grain. Thousands seemed to be in sight, and they were apparently little afraid of the resolute-looking forces before them.
It did not take Crook long to give his orders. "Charge,with your troop, in front," he shouted to Mills. "Van Vliet, take your squadron to the rear and keep the Indians from circling round us. To the left Royall and Henry's battalion will charge. The infantry and part of the Second cavalry will hold the centre!"
The fight was now on in earnest. Mills' troopers struggled through a bog; raced across a long stretch of prairie, and rushed up the bluffs upon which the Sioux were riding around in a circular motion. They dashed upon the Indians with revolvers drawn. Firing them in the very faces of the red men, they nearly reached the hostile line, when the Sioux broke and fled to a second ridge. Charging them here was quick work for the cavalrymen. But the savages would not stand and galloped off to a safe distance. As the troopers dismounted to form a skirmish line, the redskins circled about them, kicking up clouds of alkali dust, yelping like mad men, and firing at intervals. They only wounded one or two of their assailants.
The soldiers under Royal, Henry and Van Vliet had equal success in driving back the Sioux, until Henry was severely injured by a bullet which struck him in the face. The friendly Crows and Shoshones fell upon the flanks of the followers of Crazy Horse, about this time, but did little damage. The numbers of Sioux seemed to increase every moment, and, when Henry fell, they attacked with some spirit. Twice the redskins galloped across his prostrate form, but luckily he was not hit by the ponies' hoofs. His men rallied and rushed to his rescue. There was fierce fightingover the body of the gallant cavalryman—such fighting as at Cressy, Agincourt and Poitiers, when men fought hand-to-hand. Clouds of dust arose from the feet of the plunging horses; the air resounded with the fierce wails of the Indians; while thecrack, crackof rifles spat their slogans of death above the tumult of the fray. Mills was withdrawn to gallop down a cañon in order to attack the village of Crazy Horse, and, as his troopers disappeared, the Indians seemed to grow less eager to advance. Gradually their rifle fire slackened; they turned their ponies' heads towards their village; and soon went off down the sides of a deep cañon. For two hours this conflict had lasted, and the honors had been about even.
When Mills dashed down the cañon with eight troops of cavalry, he confidently expected to gallop into the Indian village and annihilate what reserve Crazy Horse had left behind him. His men moved rapidly and had come within a short distance of the tepees, when firing was heard in front.
"Halt!" shouted Mills. "Cinch up saddlegirths! load revolvers, and see that your ammunition in your guns is properly adjusted!"
No sooner had he halted than an aide came galloping up from the rear.
"Mills," said Nickerson, the courier, "Royall has been badly handled; there are many wounded. Henry is severely hurt, and Vroom's troop is all cut up. The General orders that you and Noyes defile by your left flank out of the cañon and return, at once, to the field. He cannot move out to support you and the rest, on account of the wounded."
"I will not obey," said Mills at first, so anxious was he to reach the village; but, thinking better of his resolution, he ordered his men to turn to the left and defile out of the cañon. It was well that he had done so, for just below was a great dam, covered with logs and broken timber. It was a trap laid by Crazy Horse. Here he had massed a great body of Indians, and had the eight troops of cavalry advanced, they would have been annihilated.
This ended the operations for the day. Crook camped upon the battlefield. Ten of his soldiers had been killed, and twenty-seven had been seriously wounded. It is true that he had driven the followers of Crazy Horse from the scene of conflict, but, as he himself had exhausted all his ammunition and a larger part of his supplies, he was forced to retreat to his base. Crazy Horse had protected his own village, crippled his adversary, and had withdrawn in peace and security. He had stopped the further progress of the expedition and had fought a drawn battle with one of the ablest of Indian fighters. His reputation and prowess among his own people was thus increased tenfold, and he was the idol of his nation.
The great numbers of savages under Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull soon camped further north in the valley of the Little Big Horn. Here on June the 25th., 1876, they were attacked by General Custer. In "Famous Cavalry Leaders," I have fully described the great fight which there took place, so it is useless to speak further of this famous affair. Custer, and the greater portion of his command, were annihilated. The Indiansescaped towards the Northeast, and, eluding the vigilance of Gibbon and Terry, were soon hastening towards the Canadian border.
After the defeat of General Custer, the Government realized that the Sioux war was a more serious affair than they had at first considered. Reinforcements were hurried into the country of the hostiles, and Crook and Terry were ordered to press after the Sioux with the utmost celerity. As Terry's forces were in bad condition, and were soon withdrawn from the field, Crook alone was left in active pursuit of the retreating bands of Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull. He chased them through the burning solitudes of that vast Northern wasteland like a veritable bloodhound. Through rain, snow and drought his weary troopers kept after the Indians. During the heated summer months there was no forage for the horses, and the rations of the men became wellnigh exhausted. The savages had swept the country free of game. They, too, were suffering from lack of subsistence, but their condition was never as bad as that of the troopers under Crook.
On, on, went this indefatigable column; now subsisting upon mule and horse meat; now thankful for a few raw onions which grew in the hollows unbaked by the blinding sun. Finally, when the supply of rations was reduced to two and one-half days', Crook realized that his men would all die of starvation if forage and food were not at once secured. It was either food, or death in the wilderness.
One hundred and fifty of the best men, with the last of the mules and the best horses, were formed into anadvance party under Captain Anson Mills, of the Third Cavalry, and sent to Deadwood City in the Black Hills to get provisions. They pushed on, little expecting to see Indians. But at a place called Slim Buttes, in the northwest corner of South Dakota, the scouts discovered a large village of forty or fifty lodges of the Sioux, pitched upon the banks of a small stream called Rabbit Creek. American Horse—a prominent chief—was here in command, and he was a good fighter. But Mills determined to attack the camp at once and made his dispositions with care.
The attack was a complete success, and the village was taken with but little loss. Some of the Sioux were killed and others were captured. Many escaped through the ravines to a plateau surrounding the valley, and, throwing up rifle pits, determined to sell their lives dear rather than to surrender. Several took refuge in a cave, and, when commanded to come out, replied with jeers and taunts, saying: "Crazy Horse will soon be here, and he will rescue us." American Horse was with these warriors, and he fought like an ancient Greek.