Part 10

“Do I know him, young feller? Know Shuridan? Why, bless my soul, I knowed Shuridan ’way up in Oregon more’n fifteen years ago, an’ he was only a second lootenint of infantry. Quartermaster of the foot, or somethin’ of that sort. I had a sneakin’ notion if ever they turned him loose he’d hurt somebody. Say, warn’t he old lightnin’, in the war! I tell ye!” And Joe wiped his hairy face with a piece of gunnysack that he used as a handkerchief. “I jest been app’inted by Gen’ral Custer chief o’ scouts down here; but I told him I wouldn’t serve if this was to be ary ambulance campaignin’. He said no; him an’ Shuridan was goin’ to chase the Injuns horseback, so as to ketch ’em. That hit the nail squar on the head. A column on wheels, with the wagons piled full o’ soldiers like as if they was goin’ to a town fun’ral in the States, stands ’bout as many chances of ketchin’ Injuns as a six-mule team would of ketchin’ a pack of coyotes. Why, that sort o’ thing is only fun for the Injuns.”

While waiting for instructions from General Sheridan, the Seventh Cavalry worked hard to arrive at what Odell called their “fighting weight.” Five hundred fresh horses arrived by trail from Leavenworth. The general chose for himself a lively bay which he named Dandy. The others were apportioned out, and then the troops or companies were “colored.” That is, the horses were divided by colors; so that one troop was composed of the grays, another of the blacks, another of the bays, and so forth. The junior company commander must be content with the brindles—the mixed colors left over.

Target practice was made an order of the day, for some of the recruits never had fired a gun. Forty of the best shots at all distances were formed into a company of sharpshooters, under Lieutenant “Queen’s Own” William Cook, he with the long English side-whiskers.

There were scouting expeditions, and plenty of hunting. The camp fairly lived on wild turkey and deer and elk and buffalo and rabbit and grouse. The general’s dogs chased wolves and antelope.

October wore away. Soon the Indians of the plains would be retiring into their villages, for the winter. They would eat dried buffalo meat and their horses would eat cottonwood bark and willows; and they would not expect to be interfered with. Then in the spring they would issue forth again, to ride hither-thither, three miles to the cavalry’s one.

By the reports which Scout Buffalo Bill had brought up to Fort Hays from Fort Larned, the families of the Indians had been moving southward. Therefore General Sheridan believed that the main winter villages would be found down in the Indian Territory, toward Texas. This was a wild rugged country, where white men rarely penetrated. But the Cheyennes and the Kiowas and the Comanches knew it well.

General Sully and Uncle John Smith, an old trader who had married into the Cheyennes, had located a good rendezvous place for the expedition, where, forming the North Canadian River, Wolf Creek and Beaver Creek joined, about one hundred miles south of Fort Dodge. With a huge supply train of four hundred wagons and with five companies of the Third Regular Infantry under Major John H. Page, the eleven companies of the Seventh arrived there, to wait for the Nineteenth Kansas Volunteer Cavalry. Governor Crawford of Kansas had resigned to be its colonel in the field; and General Sherman’s last dispatch had said that the regiment was on its way.

The camp was named Camp Supply, because the supplies were to be stored here. It is in present Woodward County, northwestern Oklahoma.

XIV

THE WINTER WARPATH

Around-about storms continued to threaten. The air was crisp but uncertain. Everybody must turn to and help erect store-houses to shelter the supplies. The Kansas Volunteers should arrive at any moment; but they did not, for they were lost and snowed in and starving, far to the north.

However, in the midst of the anxiety and the impatience General Sheridan arrived. With his escort he appeared in the afternoon of November 21. He brought in 350 men: a company of the Tenth Regular Cavalry; the “Sandy” Forsyth scouts who had fought at the Arikaree, now under Lieutenant Lewis Pepoon; two companies of the Kansas Volunteers who had been sent ahead of the regiment to Fort Dodge; twelve Osage Indian scouts, and ten Kansas Indian scouts. Lieutenant Thomas Lebo of the Tenth Cavalry was in command of the escort.

Everybody was glad to see General Sheridan come. With “Little Phil” on the scene, the campaign would start right up. General Custer had gone enthusiastically galloping to meet him and ride in with him, and discuss the situation.

Most interesting of the new arrivals were the Osages. They hated the Cheyennes, Comanches, Kiowas, and all these raiding Indians who pillaged them as well as the whites; through the Civil War the Osages had acted as Union scouts, on the plains.

The chief in the squad was a tall straight old man named Cha-pa-jen-kan, or Little Beaver. Another chief was old Wen-tsi-kee or Hard Rope, rather fat and reported to be very wise. Of the warriors Koom-la-Manche or the Trotter was the most famous, as a fast runner and a fine shot.

The Osages had “made medicine” for the warpath at Fort Hays; the Kaws had made their medicine on the way down. They all were armed with the new breech-loading Springfield rifles; and were paid seventy-five dollars a month and expenses. To show how they could shoot, that evening the Osages on their war-ponies galloped past a log of wood, firing at it; and every shot struck.

The Sheridan column reported terrible weather, on their march down from Fort Hays. One blizzard after another had assailed them; the plains were covered with snow; the Arkansas River at Fort Dodge was thick with floating ice.

This very evening the winter descended upon Camp Supply also. The snow began to fall heavily; but standing out in the storm the Seventh Cavalry band lustily serenaded the Sheridan headquarters. The Seventh were proud of their band. Odell said that it was the best in the army. It could play as well on horseback as afoot. Wherever the troopers went, the band went too. General Custer was fond of music and believed that it did the regiment good.

General Custer was in consultation with General Sheridan that evening; and in the morning was it soon known that the Seventh Cavalry would not wait for the Kansas Volunteers, but would start at once against the Indians. The General Sheridan column, in coming down from the Arkansas, had struck a fresh trail of an Indian war party heading north, on a raid. The Seventh Cavalry were to follow this trail backward, so that it would lead them to the village.

Ned heard his general reading the orders over to Adjutant Moylan. They sounded just like Sheridan, as they said:

To proceed south, in the direction of the Antelope Hills, thence toward the Washita River, the supposed winter seat of the hostile tribes; to destroy their villages and ponies; to kill or hang all warriors, and bring back all women and children.

The snow was still falling fast; but nobody cared, and least of all General Custer. He had told General Sheridan that he would be ready to move out in twenty-four hours; and so he was. By night the wagon-train of supplies for thirty days had been made up. Only a few tents were allowed; the baggage was stripped down to blankets and overcoats.

Reveille was at three o’clock; into the snow and the dark tumbled out the troopers of the Seventh; and at stables and mess and even at roll-call sundry jokes passed about. Everybody was uncomfortable, but nobody was complaining.

The sentries were knee-deep in the snow; the horses shivered; the cooks had hard work to cook the breakfasts.

“How’s this for a winter campaign?” demanded Adjutant Moylan, trudging almost over his cavalry boots, to the headquarters tent.

“Fine! Fine!” declared General Custer, peering out. “Just what we want.”

“Well, we’ve got it, then,” assured the adjutant, snow-covered.

So they were off, willy-nilly, thought Ned.

It was just daylight when at the word from the adjutant he blew “Boots and Saddles.” The notes not only set the cavalry into action, but seemed to awaken all the camp; for tents were thrown open and officers and men of the infantry and the volunteers poked out their heads. The general went galloping across to the tent of General Sheridan.

“Is that you, Custer? What do you think about the storm?” The words of General Sheridan issued muffled but plain, into the driving flakes.

“Just the thing, general,” answered so buoyantly “Old Curly.” “We can move but the Indians can’t. I’d ask nothing better than a week of this.”

“Good-by, old fellow. Take care of yourself,” called from the door of his tent Lieutenant Taylor, an aide, as General Custer galloped back. Wrapped in a huge buffalo-robe, Lieutenant Taylor looked like a chief.

The general waved at him.

“To horse,” sounded Ned.

The troopers, misty in the storm, stood ready.

“Prepare to mount!” was shouted the order. “Mount! By fours—right! For-r’d—march!”

All along the line of tents hands waved and voices called, for good-by and good luck, as in column of fours out at a walk rode the Seventh Cavalry, eleven companies, 800 men, bound against the storm and the Indians. Bravely blared the band, playing “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”

General Custer wore a round wolf-fur cap with ear-tabs, fur mittens, and on his feet great buffalo-hide over-shoes with the hair inside. That was trapper style. His double-breasted cavalry overcoat kept his body warm. The whole command was dressed after any fashion that would be comfortable. California Joe was rigged as customary in his old slouch hat tied down scoop-shape, on his hands were enormous buffalo-hide mittens, on his feet hide shoes like the general’s. The Osages, who were taken, sat stiffly with their buffalo robes projecting above their heads, behind. Hard Rope shivered and shook, and murmured plaintively.

“What’s he saying?” queried the general, of the interpreter.

“He says it’s bad for an old man to be alone in cold weather, and he will capture a Cheyenne squaw to keep his back warm,” explained the interpreter.

But the scouts were soon out of hearing and out of sight. They were supposed to take the advance, so as to read sign and guide the column to the next camping place, fifteen miles. After them trailed the long column of snow-covered troopers and horses, with the baggage wagons toiling at the rear. Behind the wagons rode a troop as guard.

The scouts knew where the trail of the hostile war party had been crossed, but the snow concealed it and all landmarks. And still the snow fell, until when after the fifteen miles march (which required all day) the column went into camp the chill white mantle was eighteen inches thick.

“How is it, Joe? Cleared off, hasn’t it?” invited the general, as on a short tour of inspection in the gray of the next morning he encountered that worthy.

“Yep, trav’lin’s good overhead to-day, good mornin’, gen’ral,” answered the ready Joe. “An’ I’ve got an infarnal chronical cough that’s been nigh scuttlin’ me this two days, an’ I’ve bin thinkin’ that I cotched the glanders, an’ they might as well shoot a fellow to onct as to have that botherin’ him.”

“Sorry, Joe,” laughed the general.

The march was south, up the valley of Wolf Creek. Patches of willows and timber were full of deer and elk and buffalo that had been driven there by the storm. Maida and Blucher the general’s stag-hounds had great fun chasing them; and the column secured plenty of meat.

Now the march left the valley of the Wolf, and crossed to the valley of the Canadian, a day’s march southward. Beyond the Canadian lay the country of the Washita River, where, everybody believed, were the winter villages of the hostile Indians. The Cheyennes, the Kiowas, the Comanches, the Apaches—there might they be found, snugly encamped until the call of spring.

This was the third day. The Yellow Hair and his cavalry were sixty miles into the Indian’s own country, where white cavalry never before had been. Around-about stretched the snowy wilderness of plains and water-course. It was time that some trace of the Indians be found. On a scout up along the Canadian was sent the gallant Major Joel Elliot, who never did things by halves. He was given three troops. He was to travel light, without wagons, but with one hundred rounds of carbine ammunition to the man, one day’s rations, and horse forage. If an Indian trail was discovered, he was to pursue at once, and to send back a courier with the news. With soldiers and scouts, both red and white, west along the snowy banks of the Canadian, from whose red soil the wind had blown the snow, rode Major Elliot.

California Joe had found a ford, and aiming for the Washita, through the floating ice of the swift current crossed the horses and the wagons. Helping, the men must wade waist-deep. This was cold, mean work, but it was done in three hours.

The high round Antelope Hills loomed ahead. These were the landmarks of the march and Little Beaver and Hard Rope and their followers had struck them exactly. Up the further slope of the Canadian Valley toiled the hooded, heavy army wagons.

Major Elliot had been gone three hours or more.

From a little knoll the general had been surveying and directing, while Ned sat his horse beside him, and Adjutant Moylan bustled hither-thither. The rear guard finally had crossed, below. For this they were waiting.

“All right,” remarked the general, shortly, to Ned. “Sound to horse.” And—“No! Wait!” he thundered. “Here comes somebody.”

He pointed, and leveled his glasses. Down from the north was approaching at steady gallop a figure black against the white background.

“It’s Corbin,” pronounced the general, gazing earnestly through his glass. His tanned face flushed high.

Yes, it was Corbin—Jack Corbin the scout who was a partner of California Joe. Evidently he bore important news, for he was urging his horse mercilessly. He arrived—his face frosty and his horse gasping through wide frosty nostrils. The general did not say a word, in query; none was needed, for Corbin spoke at once.

“We’ve struck the trail, about twelve miles north. Hundred and fifty Injuns, pointin’ southeast, for the Washita. Made within twenty-four hours.”

“Good!” ejaculated the general. “Where’s Elliot?”

“Follerin’.”

“Can you catch him, with a fresh horse?”

“Reckon I can.”

“Take that horse there,” directed the general.

Corbin was changing saddle in a jiffy.

“Tell Major Elliot to push the pursuit as rapidly as he can, and I’ll cut across country and join him. If the trail changes direction so that I may not strike it, he is to let me know. If I do not join him by eight o’clock tonight he is to halt and wait for me.”

Without a word away galloped Jack Corbin.

“Sound officers’ call, bugler,” bade the general, to Ned.

So busy had been the officers that apparently none had noted the arrival and departure of Jack. But now at the bugle notes they hastened up, curious to know the occasion. In his quick, sharp manner the general told them what had happened.

“Now, gentlemen, this is our chance,” he added. “We mustn’t neglect it, and we mustn’t let Major Elliot do all the fighting. We’ll cut loose. The wagons are to be left here, under guard of one officer and of ten men detailed from each company. Company commanders will make their own details. The officer of the day will remain in charge of the guard, and bring on the wagons, following our trail as fast as practicable. The pursuing column will be in light marching order. Never mind the weather. The Indians are of more importance. Commands will be limited to one hundred rounds of ammunition to the man, and such coffee, hard bread, forage and blankets as he can carry on the saddle. Tents and extra blankets to be left with the wagons. That is all, gentlemen.” And the general looked at his watch. “The advance will be sounded in twenty minutes. Adjutant, you will inform the officer of the day as to the arrangements.”

At once half a dozen voices spoke, in little chorus.

“That’s Hamilton! Oh, we ought to have Hamilton with us!”

The general smiled and shook his head.

“Somebody’s duty is with the wagon-train.”

Out scattered the officers, for time was indeed short, and the general never accepted excuses for delay. Young Captain Hamilton, as officer of the day in charge of the rear guard, which had just crossed, had been absent from the conference; now he came galloping, interrupting the general who had plunged into the preparations. The captain’s face was white and anxious. He saluted.

“Beg your pardon, general,” he blurted. “But do I understand that the officer of the day remains with the wagon-train?”

“Yes, captain.”

“But, general! I’m officer of the day!”

“I did not think of it at the time, Hamilton,” replied the general, frankly. “I simply gave the instructions, and I’m afraid they must be followed.”

“General!” exclaimed the captain. He was much distressed. Ned knew why, and appreciated. To stay behind, while the others fought, would be awful. “Then I must remain? Can’t I go, sir?”

“The wagon-train must be protected,” answered the general, kind but firm. “We’d like to have you with us, Hamilton. We need such men as you. But the train needs an officer, too; and this is soldier’s luck. Your duty is here.”

“It seems pretty hard that I’ve got to stay,” he murmured, dismayed. “There’s liable to be a big fight—and I won’t be on hand to lead my squadron.”

The general surveyed him, with eyes softening. Truly, the young captain, high-mettled and soldierly, made a sorry figure.

“I’ll tell you, Hamilton. If—_if_ you can find an officer who by one reason or another feels convinced that he should stay rather than you, he may take your place. Otherwise, as officer of the day your duty is with the train.”

Captain Hamilton’s face lighted.

“Thank you, general! Thank you! I’ll go and see.” And whirling his horse, back he galloped, on this forlorn hope. Ned rather trusted that he would be successful.

Presently, here he came again. He was fairly shining, as he saluted.

“Lieutenant Mathey, sir! He has snow-blindness so he can scarcely see, and he would be of no use with the column. He has kindly consented to exchange with me. Shall I join my squadron, sir?”

“Very well, sir,” approved the general. And the glad Captain Louis Hamilton, grandson of Alexander Hamilton, went flying to his post.

In precisely due time the general looked at his watch. He vaulted into the saddle.

“All ready, Moylan,” he called. And, to Ned: “Sound the advance.”

XV

“WE ATTACK AT DAYLIGHT”

It was a long, long forced march. Wide and white lay the desolate desert beyond the Canadian, and through the foot of snow ploughed the eager column. Not a moving figure broke the white expanse; not a moving figure save the figures of California Joe and Romeo and Little Beaver and Hard Rope and the other scouts, as far in advance and on either side they rode seeking the Elliot trail. As the major, following the Indians, had been heading southeast, a course south ought to strike his tracks, soon or late.

Late it proved to be; for not until within an hour of sunset, and after a day’s ride without halt for food or drink, did the column see Little Beaver stop short, and with uplifted hand signal a trail.

Such had been Thanksgiving Day, Thursday, November 26, 1868.

By the tracks, Major Elliot was still upon the trail of the village-bound Indians. After reading the pony sign, Little Beaver and his Osages declared that the Indians had passed on their way this very morning. Much relieved, the general ordered a trot; and forward pressed the column, to overtake the major. Dusk descended. Before were visible the outlines of timber, along a stream in a little valley. The general sent ahead a squad of soldiers and scouts, to catch the major and tell him to halt, at wood and water, and to wait.

“Tell him not to make camp, but to be ready for a night march when I join him,” added the general.

As for the column, at last they were given an hour, for rest and for coffee, and to feed the horses.

The zealous Major Elliot had gone further than anybody had expected. Not until nine o’clock at night, and after another hard ride through snow and timber and darkness, finally was he found, waiting as ordered, by a stream with high banks.

“An hour for rest, again,” ordered the general, briefly. “Then the moon will be up and we can take the trail. There are to be no bugle calls or other noise. Sound carries far, in this country. The men may make fire for coffee, small ones down under the edges of the banks so that the flames will not show. Send the Osages to me. I want to talk with them.”

The Osages were certain that this was a branch of the Washita River, and that the Cheyennes and Kiowas and all had their village not far down stream. The trail seemed to be leading straight for it. But through the half-breed interpreter Little Beaver kept insisting that the soldiers stay here concealed in the timber until daylight, and then march upon the trail again.

General Custer snapped his fingers impatiently, and laughed.

“That is the Indian way of fighting,” he promptly said. “They hate to attack anybody concealed by the dark or by entrenchments. No, tell Little Beaver that we are going to fight white man’s way, and that we march in one hour, when the moon rises.”

This did not seem to satisfy the Osages, who murmured gutturally among themselves. Evidently, like Pawnee Killer, although for different reason, they did not regard any too highly the skill of the white chief, whom they called the Chief with the Long Yellow Hair.

The hour passed; the half moon rose; and one by one Captain Hamilton, Colonel Cook, Captain Yates, Captain Smith, Major Bell, and all the other company commanders reported to Adjutant Moylan that their detachments were ready for the march.

No bugles were sounded; but in column of fours the eight hundred horsemen rode in dim column down the course of the creek, following the Indian trail so plainly showing in the white snow.

Two of the Osages, Hard Rope and a warrior, led, three hundred yards in advance. They were on foot, the better to read sign; with long, silent moccasined tread they stole swiftly across the snow. They saw scalps, to be taken from their hated enemies the Cheyennes and the Kiowas.

After them rode in single file the white and red scouts, California Joe on his mule to the fore. His old Springfield musket lay in the hollow of his left arm; but for the once the reek of his pipe did not drift back. The orders forbade any smoking. Beside California Joe rode the general himself, to be on hand to catch the first word or signal. Close behind him rode Ned, trumpeter orderly.

At a quarter of a mile the column cautiously followed. Now and then one of the officers advanced at a trot, and whispered to the general, making suggestion or query; but even this did not break the silence. Ever the march continued, as if for hours and hours.

Suddenly California Joe pointed, significantly. The two Osages picking the trail had halted; at short command from the general Ned must fall out and tell Adjutant Moylan to halt the column also.

When he returned, at trot, the general was with the two Osages. One of them could speak a little English.

“What’s the matter?” asked the general.

“Me don’t know,” replied the Osage. “But me smell fire.”

Adjutant Moylan, Colonel Myers (who was an old plainsman) and Colonel Benteen, arrived; they all sniffed hard, as did Ned; but none of them could smell a trace of smoke.

“Humph!” grunted Colonel Myers. “He’s scared; that’s what ails him. You know, these Indians don’t favor this march, and they’re trying to find an excuse to stop.”

“Me smell fire,” insisted the Osage; and his companion nodded violently.

“Do you smell anything, Joe?” queried the general.