Part 1

ON THE PLAINS WITH CUSTER

SECOND EDITION

ON THE PLAINS WITH CUSTER

THE WESTERN LIFE AND DEEDS OF THE CHIEF WITH THE YELLOW HAIR, UNDER WHOM SERVED BOY BUGLER NED FLETCHER, WHEN IN THE TROUBLOUS YEARS 1866–1876 THE FIGHTING SEVENTH CAVALRY HELPED TO WIN PIONEER KANSAS, NEBRASKA, AND DAKOTA FOR WHITE CIVILIZATION AND TODAY’S PEACE

BY EDWIN L. SABIN

_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY_ CHARLES H. STEPHENS _AND PORTRAITS_

“The bravest are the tenderest,— The loving are the daring.” —BAYARD TAYLOR

PHILADELPHIA & LONDON J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER, 1913

PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.

TO THE ARMY WOMEN

MOTHERS, WIVES, AND SWEETHEARTS WHO WORKED AND SMILED AND WEPT AND PRAYED WHILE SOLDIERS MARCHED AND FOUGHT

FOREWORD

This is a story of Ned Fletcher, and the Seventh Regular Cavalry, United States Army, when upon the Western plains they followed the yellow-haired General Custer. Yet it is not all a story of fighting; for to be a good soldier does not mean that one must serve only to fight. Indeed, there are worthy battles other than those with lead and steel, horse and foot. Every earnest citizen is a good soldier. General Custer was as great in peace as in war; in his home as in the field, and he loved his home duties as much as he loved his other duties, which is token of a true man.

General Custer is real to-day. Men and women live who marched with him. As to Ned Fletcher, who may say? A little girl named Fletcher was captured by Cheyennes and Sioux, as Ned’s sister was captured; and Chief Cut Nose called her “Little Silver Hair.” General Custer would have rescued her, as official records show. Two little children were found in the Cheyenne village on the Washita. In the battle here a bugler boy was wounded just as Ned was wounded. Aye, and at Fort Wallace a little bugler boy was slain. So that boys served in the old Seventh Cavalry, under General Custer. As a brave boy, Ned might have been there, even though by a different name.

General Custer has left his own story of his plains days in Kansas and Nebraska. It lies before me. Mrs. Custer, his comrade of garrison and camp and march, has written several books about him. They lie before me. There is a biography by one Captain Whittaker, written at the close of the last battle, near forty years ago. With General Sheridan and General Custer upon their campaign against the Cheyennes and the Kiowas was a newspaper reporter, Randolph Keim, who also wrote a book. Chapters have there been, in other books and in magazines, and pamphlets of time agone; and, as I say, men and women are now alive who knew the general. From all these more information should be sought. No one pen can describe so fine a thing as a Man.

So this book must tell of the Custer whom Ned the boy and youth saw; and of affairs in which he took part during that final struggle when the white race would supplant the red race, on the plains of north and south. In the narrative of these years I have tried to show how the white race felt and how the red race felt; for each had their rights and their wrongs, and each did right and did wrong. Out of the result came general good, that the church and the school-house might rise and people might work and play in peace, where formerly stood only the unproductive hide lodges, and the main thought was war and Plunder.

EDWIN L. SABIN.

Coronado, California, June 1, 1913.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE I. A WAIF ON THE PRAIRIE 17 II. AT OLD FORT RILEY 34 III. THE SEVENTH TAKES THE FIELD 48 IV. SATANTA MAKES A SPEECH 67 V. IN BATTLE ARRAY 79 VI. THE ABANDONED INDIAN VILLAGE 89 VII. SCOUTING WITH CUSTER 104 VIII. PAWNEE KILLER PLAYS TRICKS 114 IX. DANGER ON EVERY SIDE 129 X. SAD NEWS FOR THE ARMY BLUE 142 XI. GRIM DAYS ALONG THE TRAIL 153 XII. PHIL SHERIDAN ARRIVES 160 XIII. THE YELLOW HAIR RIDES AGAIN 173 XIV. THE WINTER WARPATH 180 XV. “WE ATTACK AT DAYLIGHT” 192 XVI. “GARRYOWEN!” AND “CHARGE!” 204 XVII. AFTER THE BATTLE 215 XVIII. TO THE LAND OF THE DAKOTAH 227 XIX. SCOUTING AMONG THE SIOUX 236 XX. RAIN-IN-THE-FACE VOWS VENGEANCE 249 XXI. SITTING BULL SAYS: “COME ON!” 256 XXII. OUT AGAINST THE SIOUX 264 XXIII. LOOKING FOR SITTING BULL 274 XXIV. SITTING BULL AT BAY 290

ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

And now at full speed passing Ned also he leaned, Indian-wise _Frontispiece_

Major-General George A. Custer 12

“Tell this chief that if another man of his crosses the river my men will advance” 133

The big Indian was a fair mark, but the bullet must not hit Mary 213

“Here, take that to Captain Benteen, and don’t spare your horse” 289

CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE

GEORGE ARMSTRONG CUSTER

Famous American soldier and cavalry leader in the Civil War and on Indian campaigns afterward. A loyal citizen, a tender son, a devoted husband. Family name “Autie”; otherwise called Armstrong; by war correspondents styled “the Boy General”; by the soldiers nicknamed “Old Curly,” and “Jack”; entitled by the Indians “the Yellow Hair,” “the Long Hair,” or, in full, “White Chief with the Long Yellow Hair.”

Born at New Rumley, Ohio, December 5, 1839.

Father: Emmanuel H. Custer, of Maryland.

Mother: Maria Ward Kirkpatrick, of Pennsylvania.

Spent his boyhood at New Rumley, on the farm, and with his sister at Monroe, Michigan.

Educated at New Rumley, at the Stebbins Academy (Monroe) and the Monroe “Seminary,” and at the Hopedale, Ohio, Normal School.

Appointed to West Point Military Academy, 1857.

Graduates last in his class, 1861.

Assigned as second lieutenant, G Company, Second United States Cavalry.

Three days after leaving West Point reports for duty with General McDowell’s army, on the morning of the battle of Bull Run.

Soon detailed as aide-de-camp and assistant adjutant-general on the staff of General Philip Kearny.

Second lieutenant, Fifth United States Cavalry, 1862, under General Stoneman.

Serves briefly with the Topographical Engineers, 1862.

Appointed aide-de-camp on the staff of General McClellan, June, 1862, with rank of Captain.

After McClellan’s removal is appointed first lieutenant, Fifth Cavalry.

On waiting orders, at Monroe, winter of 1862–’63, woos and wins his future wife, Elizabeth Bacon.

Reports for duty as first lieutenant with M Company, Fifth Cavalry, Army of the Potomac, April, 1863.

Appointed aide-de-camp to General Pleasanton, commanding First Division, Cavalry Corps of the Army of the Potomac.

June, 1863, at the age of 23 appointed brigadier general of volunteers, in command of the Second Brigade (the “Michigan” Brigade), Third Division, Cavalry Corps, under General Kilpatrick, and distinguishes himself at the battle of Gettysburg. “The boy general with the golden locks.”

Slightly wounded at Culpepper, September, 1863.

Married, February 4, 1864, at Monroe, Michigan, to Elizabeth Bacon, daughter of Judge Daniel S. Bacon, and takes his bride with him to the brigade headquarters camp.

By Sheridan, the new cavalry commander, is given the advance in the various raids.

Transferred to command of the Second Division of Cavalry, and finally September, 1864, to that of the Third Division.

October, 1864, aged 25 is brevetted major-general of volunteers, for gallantry. The youngest in the army.

Continues to lead the Third Division of cavalry, which is conspicuous for its discipline, its dash, and the long hair, cavalier hats and flying red neckties of its men, copied after the well-known Custer garb.

Eleven horses are shot under him, in battle. In six months his division captures 111 pieces of field artillery, 65 battle-flags, and 10,000 prisoners including seven generals. It does not lose a flag or a gun or meet defeat.

April 9, 1865, he receives flag of truce conveying the first word that General Lee is considering surrender. Thus “the boy general” has fought through from Bull Run to Appomattox.

At the close of the war is ordered with a division of cavalry to Texas.

Offered the command of the cavalry of the army of General Juarez, Mexico, in the conflict with Emperor Maximilian; but by Congress is not permitted to accept.

In 1866 brevetted major-general in the regular army, for war services.

October, 1866, appointed lieutenant-colonel to command the Seventh United States Cavalry, and ordered to Fort Riley, Kansas.

Five years of service, 1866–’71, on the plains of Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado and Indian Territory, resulting in the subjugation of the Kiowas, Arapahos, Cheyennes, Comanches and Apaches in that district.

From 1871 to 1873 stationed with his regiment in Kentucky.

Spring of 1873 ordered with his regiment to Fort Rice, Dakota, for operations among the Sioux. Occupies the new post of Fort Lincoln.

Engages in campaigns along the Yellowstone River, and explores and exploits the Black Hills.

June 25, 1876, aged 37, killed with five companies of his cavalry from which only one man, a Crow scout, escapes, in the battle of the Little Big Horn, Montana, with 3000 Sioux.

ON THE PLAINS WITH CUSTER

I

A WAIF ON THE PRAIRIE

In every direction wide stretched the lonely brown prairie-land of north central Kansas, 1866. From horizon to horizon not a house of any kind was to be seen, nor even a tree except low lines of willows and occasional cottonwoods marking the courses of streams. Late November’s pale blue sky bent mildly over, the steady plains breeze rustled the dried weeds and the sun-cured carpet of buffalo-grass; and Ned Fletcher, trudging wearily, felt that he was a very small boy in a very large world.

However, he was not afraid of the largeness; and as he hastened as fast as he could, with ear alert for sunning rattlesnakes and eye upon a vast herd of buffalo grazing far to the northeast, he was rather glad of the loneliness. Moving objects, ahorse, might mean Indians, and Indians he did not want. Ah no, no, no.

Ned was bare-headed, his tow hair long and matted as if it needed cutting and combing. But who had there been, in the Indian camps, to cut or comb a white-boy prisoner’s hair? He wore on his body a tattered fragment of stained blanketing, his head thrust through a slit. One foot was supplied with an old moccasin that lacked part of the sole; the other foot had nothing. As he hurriedly walked he limped.

Where he was he did not know. He was still in Kansas, he believed, although one part of this flat prairie-country looked much like another. Since his escape from the Sioux he had been trying to travel straight east; but he had sneaked down crooked stream-beds and had slept some, and now exactly where he might be or how far he might have come, he could not tell.

Somewhere on before were the settlements of the Kansas frontier, out of which was creeping westward the Kansas Pacific Railroad, bound for Denver. North was the Republican Fork emigrant trail to Denver, and south was the Smoky Hill trail. With these, and with the outlying ranches and hamlets which were liable to be encountered, it did seem to Ned that by hook or crook he would be rescued if he only kept going.

Suddenly he stopped short, with lame foot upraised, and peered. He was all ready, like prairie-dog or other timid wild animal, to disappear. This was what alarmed him: the grazing herd of buffalo, resembling a great tract of black gooseberry bushes, had broken and were on the run!

As everybody in the far West knew or ought to know, running buffalo were frightened buffalo; and the question naturally would be: “Which has frightened them—white hunters or Indian hunters?” Upon the answer might depend much, even life.

Ned’s heart thumped inside his bony chest, under the thin blanket, and he glanced about for hiding-place.

The creek-bed was too far; the earth around was flat and sandy and bald; but near at hand was a curious circular hollow, like a dimple in the brown face of the prairie. Crouching and skimming, Ned darted for it, and plunged in.

This was a buffalo-wallow. In the beginning some old buffalo bull, tormented by flies, had pawed and horned and turned up the sod of a soft spot in the prairie, and there had taken a good roll. Other buffalo bulls had followed him, enlarging the hole as they enjoyed their mud-baths. Now, in late November, the wallow was dry, but it was two feet deep and fifteen feet across.

Behind the sloping edge of the wallow Ned lay close, and peeped over. He was a brave boy, but he shivered with excitement. After he had escaped, and had come so far, and was almost within touch of white people, was he to be re-captured? He couldn’t stand it—no, he couldn’t stand it, unless he had to. When they have to, people can stand a great deal.

The buffalo were increasing in size rapidly, as with their peculiar headlong rolling gallop they came thundering on. There were several thousand of them; the beat of their hoofs merged into a dull roar; over their torrent of black backs floated a yellow spume of dust.

Gazing beyond them anxiously Ned searched for the hunters. He thought that he saw them—some horsemen, veiled in the dust as they so furiously pursued. Were they white horsemen, or red? Then he saw, to his relief, that the course of the tossing herd was past his wallow, not over it. He would not be trampled to death, anyway; and perhaps he would not be seen. And then he saw that a single buffalo had separated from the flying herd, and that had paired off with it a single horseman, to ride it down. _They_ were heading almost directly for the wallow.

Ned flattened himself as flat as a horned toad or a lizard, and motionless, watched. He did not dare to stir his head, he dared scarcely to breathe. Indians, as well he knew, had eyes very keen for any movements against the surface of the ground.

The buffalo was running gallantly—head down, tail curved, heavy fore-quarters propelled by light hind-quarters. In its rear pursued the hunter. Ned, peering through a screen of weeds, fastened eyes upon him to read him. He wore a hat; good! He wore a shirt or coat; pretty good! He held a revolver; very good! He rode like a white man; hurrah!

Heart beating afresh, Ned waited a minute longer, to make certain.

How the buffalo ran! How the hunter rode! It was a big bull buffalo. Ned could see his shaggy head, like a lion’s; he fancied that he could see his tongue as it hung foamy and red; almost could he see his glaring eyeballs and hear his panting breath. The horseman—yes, he was white!—was leaning forward, lifting his long-legged bay to the race. His right hand held high a heavy revolver, his left hand gathered the loosely drawn reins; his broad-brimmed hat flared in the breeze that he made; his hair, yellow and free, streamed backward. He gave a wild, exultant halloo, and his horse, lengthening with leap after leap, fairly was eating the space to the straining, lumbering quarry. It took a fast horse to do this; but the buffalo was wounded, for now from his red tongue was dripping something redder still.

Ned had just concluded that the hunter must be a soldier, for his trousers-seams, showing between boot-tops and shirt or coat, bore broad stripes, when he realized also that this chase, like the rest of the chase, was passing his wallow; and that if he did not make himself known he would not be seen. Another minute, and buffalo and rider would be by, and the chances were small that they ever would notice such a small thing as he, behind them. With a spring, out rushed Ned; waving his arms and calling, he ran forward across the prairie.

His thoughts and eyes were on the rider—that white man rider. He was regardless of the buffalo, now—but the buffalo proved not regardless of him. Into the very path of the onward scouring chase went Ned, waving and shouting; and veering at sharp tangent the buffalo instantly charged for him. The buffalo’s little tail flicked up, in half-cocked manner, his shaggy head dropped lower, and he made a savage lunge at what he thought was a new enemy.

Ned paused not for parley. An enraged buffalo bull coming full tilt won’t listen to talk, and the fact that Ned was only a boy made no difference to this big fellow. In a sideways jump Ned dodged and turned and made for his wallow again.

This seemed the thing to do. Now he forgot about the rider and thought about the buffalo. He had small hope of beating him, for a buffalo can run as fast as an ordinary horse and this buffalo was very angry. Ned imagined that the hot breath of the great animal was burning his back—that the hard stubby horns were grazing him there; his legs were weak and his feet heavy; and nervously glancing behind him, as he ran, he stumbled, sprawling head over heels. When he should stop rolling, then what?

He stopped, and scrambling for his feet he looked quickly, poised on hands and knees, before he should rise. His next movements depended upon the buffalo. The buffalo had halted, as if surprised. He was almost towering over, so huge he stood; he was surveying Ned, his matted hump high, his bearded hairy head low again, his tongue dripping crimson froth, his red-streaked eye-balls standing out amidst his matted locks, his throat rumbling, his forehoofs flinging the dirt in defiance. As soon as he could debate a little over what had upset his new enemy, he would charge again.

Ned, crouched on hands and knees, stared at the buffalo; the buffalo, rumbling and pawing and bleeding, stared at Ned.

But the rider—the rider! With rapid thud of hoofs he galloped. “Keep down, lad! Keep down!” he shouted, in clear ringing voice. Ned never forgot how he looked, as with bright yellow hair floating, crimson necktie-ends at his throat streaming, black hat-brim flaring, wide blue eyes in bronzed moustached face blazing, bridle free and revolver levelled, like a whirlwind he passed the great beast—firing as he did so—and now at full speed passing Ned also he leaned, Indian-wise, grasped Ned under the arms and with strong heave hoisted him right up to the saddle.

For an instant longer the horse, with Ned thus suspended beside him, careened on. Then in response to vigorous command and tug of gauntleted hand holding both revolver and lines, he wheeled and stopped. Giddy, clinging desperately to the buckskin waist, Ned gazed before. The great bull was prone, feebly kicking his last. Ned looked up, into a face looking down. It was a handsome, manly face; lean and deeply tanned, with sunny blue eyes, broad high forehead, straight nose, flowing tawny moustache, firm cleft chin, all under a large soft-brimmed black slouch hat, from beneath which the bright yellow hair fell in long curly waves to the shirt collar. This shirt collar was generous and rolling, of blue flannel with a white star at either point in front. Under the collar lay a long soft tie of crimson silk, its ends loosely knotted and hanging down outside a fringed buckskin coat. Between skirt of coat and tops of riding-boots showed dusty trousers of army blue, with broad yellow stripes down the seams. Altogether, to Ned’s quick and wondering eye he was a most attractive and remarkable individual.

Looking down, while Ned looked up, he smiled heartily, and said:

“Well, we got the buffalo before he got you, didn’t we? Let’s see.”

With a “Whoa, Phil! Steady, now!” to the horse, he carefully lowered Ned and set him back upon the ground; then swinging easily off he dismounted, and leaving the horse to stand, with revolver ready he approached the buffalo. But the buffalo was stone dead.

“All right,” he called back, to Ned, who was anxiously watching. “Hurrah! He’s a big fellow, isn’t he! And there come the dogs! Hi!” and raising a cow-horn from its sling to his lips he blew a stirring, rollicking blast. “Watch them leg it! The pace was too hot for them, this time. Well,” he spoke, more directly, to Ned, “come over here, and tell me about yourself. You’re a white lad, aren’t you? My name’s Custer—Autie Custer; what’s yours?”

“Ned Fletcher,” faltered Ned. “I’m a white boy, but I’ve been captive with the Indians. Now I’m escaping. You—you’re an officer in the army, I guess.”

“What makes you think so?” The query was quick and crisp—with blue eyes twinkling behind it.

Ned hesitated. His gaze strayed to the blackish specks, said to be dogs, rapidly nearing across the prairie; and returned to this straight, lithe, square-shouldered figure, standing there so fascinating in face and form and garb. Ned could not tell exactly why, but he felt that this man was every inch a soldier and a leader. If he wasn’t an officer he ought to be, anyway. So Ned hazarded:

“By those stripes—and you’ve got stars on your shirt collar.”

The blue eyes twinkled merrily.

“Oh, those stars don’t count for anything. That’s a sailor shirt. And maybe I stole the pants. My wife calls me ‘Autie,’ the men call me ‘Jack,’ but once in a while somebody calls me ‘Colonel,’ so I suppose I’m a sort of an officer, after all. But here—if you’re a white boy you’ve got to have something on. Aren’t you cold? You must be cold. Take my coat. Captive to the Indians, you say? Where? How did that happen? Put on that coat, and tell me. I’ll be cutting out this buffalo’s tongue. Did you ever see a buffalo’s tongue cut out? It’s quite a job, isn’t it! Hi! Hello, pups! (For the dogs were arriving.) Down, Maida! Down, Flirt! Blucher! Good dog, Byron! Where’s Rover? Oh, yes; I see. Hurry, Rover, or you’ll be too late. There! That’ll do. Next time you hunt with the old man you’ll save your wind for the final spurt, won’t you!”

The dogs were splendid animals: three gaunt, rough-coated stag hounds, a deer hound, a fox hound or two. They came in panting and eager, whining and gambolling and sniffing right and left. Colonel Custer knelt and whipping out his hunting-knife pried open the dead bull’s mouth and slashed at the thick tongue.

Ned didn’t want to put on the buckskin coat, but he had been ordered to, so he did, and dropped the ragged blanket. The coat almost covered him. While the dogs nosed him and excitement still reigned, he answered the questions.

“The Dog Soldiers killed my father and burned the ranch and took my mother and sister and me away with them. My mother is dead—they made her work too hard (and Ned choked up), and I don’t know where my sister is but I’m going to find her.”

“Where was the ranch?”

“On the Bijou in Colorado.”

“How long ago?”

“About a year. I was traded to the Sioux. But when I had a chance I ran away.”

“From their village?”

“No, sir; on the march.”

“Who were the chiefs?”