did. After a short skirmish with them, he found that he had lost three

soldiers who were killed, and among the injured was the company blacksmith who was crippled by being shot through the hips. After this skirmish the soldiers withdrew from the fray and went into camp. There they buried their dead companions, but when they came to look for the injured blacksmith he was no where to be found. In fact, they never saw him again. The loss on the part of the Indians is unknown, but from what I can learn about the fray, to use the language of the prize ring, that battle might be considered a "draw." Some years afterwards, acting under orders from the Department at Washington that all soldiers killed in battle with the Indians on the plains, where their graves were known, their bodies should be exhumed and given a military funeral. This order was complied with in the case of the three soldiers killed in the Antelope Hill fight, and they were later on removed to the fort where they belonged and properly interred. The Major himself bore himself in a courageous manner, but he was suffering from the handicap of age. Brave as any man that ever straddled a horse, he wanted to be in the thickest of the fray, but owing to his eyesight being greatly impaired it was not a safe move to permit him to enter so ardently into an engagement, as he could not distinguish friend from foe at even a short range, and the difference between an Indian and any other object at a distance he could by no means make out. The Major was thoroughly discouraged with the outcome of the affray, and disgusted with the conduct of his troops on the occasion. He resolved to give up his commission and turn over his command to a younger man. He determined to make his resignation at Camp Supply, but before taking his departure he placed Captain Gunther in charge of the command. This man proved his unfitness for the position of trust confided to him later on at Sand Creek where he displayed the cowardice and worthlessness of his character, which stamped him as one of the most despicable characters who ever disgraced the uniform of an officer since the days of Benedict Arnold. The old Major in due time arrived at Camp Supply accompanied by an escort, whilst Dull Knife after carrying off and secreting his dead warriors, started northwards across the Cimmaron river, and began a series of depredations on the ranches and cattle in Clarke county, Kansas.

Once he had crossed the river, he did not confine his band to any definite route of travel. In place of an orderly line of march, such as characterizes the trained soldier, his followers scattered out each day in different directions to perpetrate whatever devilment might offer, with the purpose of meeting at night at some appointed rendezvous to plot and plan further rascality to be put in operation on the following day.

There were few stock ranches in the country at the time, and when they had heard that the Indians were on the warpath, and were in the neighborhood, they began to make preparations to protect themselves and their stock against an expected incursion of the marauding band. They rounded up their horses and kept them under close herd, but that was impossible as regarded the cattle, as they were scattered far and wide, and consequently would afford the Indians an opportunity for obtaining possession of what meat they wanted for their journey. It would have been flying into the teeth of danger to endeavor to round them up just then, as the ranchmen would, in all likelihood, have encountered some of the roving bands of cut-throats in their way, and the result would have been disastrous. However, it was not the nature of the cowboys to remain supinely inactive and permit the Indians to work havoc on the herds at will. They determined to have a hand in the fray, and decided that it was time to give the Indians their first lesson in civilization if they had not received it before. They let the cattle take care of themselves, and set out to deliver their instructions in the only manner that would appeal to the natives of the plains. The cowboys from Doc Day's ranch, and those from the Driskill ranch, with those of several other outfits, all turned out to take a hand in the fray that was sure to come. They set to work with enthusiasm, and continued it with so much zeal and ardor, that Dull Knife began to fortify himself against their unremitting attention. He selected for this purpose a location on what is called Gypsum Creek. The squaws set to work to dig rifle pits upon the side of the bluffs that overlooks the stream, where the warriors could fire down upon the persistent cowboys if they should have the audacity to follow them into their hiding place.

Everybody was, by this time, on the lookout for the invaders and prepared to give them a warm reception should they appear in the neighborhood, excepting one man named Sam Kiger. He lived on what is now known as Kiger Creek, so named in his honor. Sam had a little ranch. He lived in a dugout, and had a small herd of cattle, and was busy looking after his own interests. He was so far removed from everybody else, that he did not hear of the danger that was threatening the neighborhood. It is easy to understand how he was unaware of the menace of the Indians when it is stated that he seldom saw any one, seldom went abroad except when necessity compelled him to do so, and then went to Dodge City which was 45 miles distant, for supplies. He remained in ignorance of his danger until two weeks after the Indians had left that part of the country. That was one case where ignorance was bliss. But another man, Sam Williams, was not so fortunate. He was a sheepman and maintained his flocks on another creek, and had a very close call, in fact, just escaped being murdered by the savages by the narrowest margin. He was herding his sheep all alone at the time. Sam, among the other adornments of nature, was upholstered with a luxuriant crop of whiskers. They were his pride and he spent his spare time in combing them. Never did beauteous maiden bestow so much time and attention upon her personal adornment as Sam spent upon his hirsute appendage. In fact, the care and attention of those whiskers became a sort of obsession with him. Well, the first notice that the aforesaid Sam had of the presence of Indians was when a bullet came singing through the air from behind a sand hill and ploughed a furrow through his highly cultivated whiskers. It did not require any very rapid calculation on his part to tell him that he was living in the midst of alarms, and that he ought to seek the protection of his dugout so as to be secure from further manifestations of hostility on the part of the invisible riflemen. To think was to act, and Sam made the distance between where he was shot at and the dug-out in record breaking time. In fact, he might have shattered the record considerably, had he been timed, but there was no time to look for an official timekeeper then, so his efforts in speed must go unrecorded. Once inside the dug-out he felt comparatively safe, as an Indian would be very careful about approaching it as it was virtually impregnable. There was no mode of assaulting it except from in front, and no wise Indian, with a view to saving his skin from being perforated, would care to approach from that direction, as he would be compelled to take that direction if he wished to create any impression on the occupant of the dug-out. In the meantime, the proprietor of the place, acting on the law of self-preservation, would likely be cutting the dust from around the said Indian's moccasins, if not making a more successful effort to convert his assailant into what is called a "good Indian." Usually, as the besieging party came to realize that he could not set fire to the place, nor make any success of shooting into it, he would abandon his undertaking for some other more tractable victim. But, the fact that he could not kill his victim, did not prevent his turning his attention to some other mode of deviltry at which the Indian was usually adept. In this case, they rounded up the sheep belonging to Williams and drove them into a water-hole where six hundred of them were drowned.

While prowling among the Sand Hills, the Indians chanced upon and, after a running fight, killed a man, named La Force, a brother of Perry La Force who was foreman on the Diamond F. ranch, owned by the Franklin Land and Cattle Co., and managed by B. B. Groom, part owner of the stock. He was a fine type of Kentucky gentleman, actuated by the highest ideals, and one who ran true to the standard of the highest kind of hospitality. When the ranchman became aware of the absence of La Force, as he had not returned from his tour of inspection, or whatever duty took him away from the remainder of the party for the day, they organized a search party to discover his whereabouts. They probably had more than a suspicion that he had met with something more than an accident, as they were aware of the fact that the Indians were on the rampage, but it would not be according to the ethics of their mode of life to abandon him unless they were positive that he had met death. For weeks they maintained the search, but with no success. Finally, in one of their excursions, they came across a skeleton, or what was left of it, as the bones had been disjointed and scattered in all directions. They were not yet positive that it was the remains of their friend. However, they were not long left in their uncertainty for they discovered La Force's six-shooter. Every chamber of it was empty, which went to show that he had not yielded tamely to his fate, but fought manfully against whatever odds he had encountered. How many there were opposed to him, the searching party had no idea of calculating, but there was no doubt in their minds that he had accounted for more than one of his foes. The condition of his remains was due to the fact that they had left his body where he had fallen, and the coyotes had gnawed every particle of flesh from the bones. They gathered up what bones they could find and bore them to the ranch and buried them with all the tributes of respect that could be shown to one who had been not only a friend, but who had held a very exalted place in their regard. They then notified his brother Perry La Force, of the untimely death of his brother, giving him what information they could of his tragic end. He came from the Panhandle where he was living at the time and had the remains exhumed and took them to Mobeetie, Texas, where he laid them in their last resting place.

Whilst these acts of thievery, murder, and other rascality were being perpetrated on the Cimmaron, and Big, and Little Sand creeks, a small contingent paid a visit to a personal friend of mine, named Charles Coe. He, at the time, was holding a herd of beef cattle in the southwestern part of Ford county, awaiting an opportunity to ship them from Dodge City. The herd was owned by Tuttle and Chapman. In his employment he had a negro who performed the duties of cook, as well as acting as chore boy around the outfit. This same Charlie Coe was afterwards book-keeper for the George S. Emerson Mercantile Co. in Dodge City, Kan. At the time I mention he was what was termed a tenderfoot, and along with being inexperienced in the ways of the west, had little or no knowledge of the Indians mode of existence, especially on the warpath. Anything he happened to know of them, he had gleaned from rumor and reading. His tent was located not far from Crooked Creek. When the Indians came upon him, decked out in their war regalia, he was in a quandry what to do. It would have been useless for him to endeavor to seek shelter behind the bank of the creek, as the distance was rather far just then, and his tent would offer no protection from the bullets of the enemy. Plainly he was confronting a proposition the like of which he had never encountered before. It did not take him long to realize the danger of the situation, and he saw at a glance that it was death or glory for him, no matter which horn of the dilemma he chose to take. Instead of seeking safety in flight, he preferred to break a long established precedent of running away, and faced the danger unflinchingly. He seized his gun and stepped outside and waited the coming of his foes. As soon as they came within range, he took careful aim and fired. His first shot brought to earth the horse of the leader of the band. Indications showed that he wrought some damage upon the rider also, as he had to be assisted by his comrades in rascality. They picked him off the ground where he lay, and placed him on a pony behind another redskin. The bold front shown by the white man had the effect of halting the marauders in their mad career, and at the same time had a stimulating effect upon young Coe. He continued to fire at them as long as they remained within range. The reception they had received was wholly unexpected by the Indians, and after firing several random shots at him, without inflicting any damage, turned their horses around and withdrew to the Sand Hills about a mile distant. As soon as they had departed the young tenderfoot entered his tent to take stock of his means of defense. A brief glance at his small supply of ammunition showed him that he was not in a position to stand much of the siege. In fact he had very few cartridges left, and considering prudence the better part of valor decided to make an improvement in his conditions by seeking safety in flight. He gave orders to his stable attendant to hitch up the horses and they would set out for Dodge, which was about thirty miles away. He told the negro the condition of affairs and showed him that they would likely lose their scalps and their lives if the Indians should make another descent upon their camp. To the proposal to abandon the place, the negro made reply, "No, sah, I ain't agwine to leave Marse Tuttle's mules heah for dem pestificatin red debils to get. Ise agwine to take dem along." Having delivered himself of this proclamation of loyalty, he started to hitch up. Coe could not persuade him that he was exposing himself to unnecessary danger, and while Mr. Tuttle would appreciate his feelings of loyalty to his interests, at the same time he was not cruel enough to wish to expose him to the danger of losing his life. This and all other arguments that Coe could urge, were of no avail. He had determined to follow his own course in the matter, and nothing could move him from that determination. He had a strong liking for that team of mules, and a very strong affection for Mr. Tuttle, and in less than an hour later he lost his life through his fidelity to his master's interests. Reluctantly Coe started off for Dodge City. Sharp eyes were watching every move he made. From the Sand Hills they had noticed the preparations made at the tent, and saw the paleface ride away in the direction of the city. They felt that it was useless to follow him, as they knew he was well armed, and they remembered too well the manner of reception he tendered them but an hour before, and knew that he would be prompt to repeat it if they offered him another opportunity. They had no desire to lose any members of their band, and they felt that it would be a certainty that they would suffer some loss if they pursued him, so they let him proceed on his way. Not so did they show any consideration for the negro. When they saw him set out they started in pursuit. They rode down from the Hills, gradually converging to a point in which the darky and the team of mules was the center of attraction. When the negro saw them coming with the evident intention of intercepting him, he put the mules to a gallop, but it was impossible for the team dragging the heavy wagon to outrun the war ponies of the Indians. When they were drawing down upon him they began to shout and shoot at the same time. The poor darkey was terrified. The mules were stampeded and ran away. They overturned the wagon in their flight. In their mad career, the driver had been shot in the back several times and was killed outright. They overtook the mules and unhitching them, led them back to the Sand Hills where Dull Knife had now established his temporary headquarters. They did not scalp the negro, nor burn the wagon as was their custom. Evidently they must have come to the conclusion that the team of mules and the plunder of the tent was sufficient for one day. The darkey was later found and buried by some cowmen, and his grave for a long time was used as a landmark for travelers along the Jones and Plummer trail. Mr. Tuttle was in Dodge City at the time his faithful attendant gave up his life for his interests. Naturally he felt the loss of his servant rather keenly. When the news was brought to him that his wagon was still out there along the trail where it had been upset, he hired Hoodoo Brown, an old scout, to go out and bring it into Dodge, for repairs. The old scout often told me of his experience upon that dangerous journey.

It was late in the afternoon when he had the wagon fixed up in such a fashion that he could haul it into the city. He made the return trip the same night as he did not care to expose himself to the danger of meeting the same or worse fate than the negro. He said that he imagined he could see an Indian hiding behind every sage brush, or cactus in the country. But as it proved to be nothing more real than a fancy of the imagination, he had no difficulty in making the journey, for which Mr. Tuttle paid him handsomely.

This band that had just perpetrated the deviltry, had returned to Sand Creek just in time to avoid a possee of cowboys who were in pursuit of them. They had but recently run the rest of the Dull Knife band into the canyon which they had fortified, and it would have gone hard with the battle contingent that had just come from murdering the negro if the cowboys had a chance to meet them before they sought shelter in the rifle pits the squaws had recently dug.

By this time, the whole country was well aware that Captain Gunther and Dull Knife had been playing a game of "hide and seek" for the past ten days. The cowmen became weary of such dilatory tactics, and determined to go into the canyon and fight it out with the Indians. At this time Captain Gunther had arrived on the scene with the 4th Cavalry, and demanded that the cowmen withdraw from the sight as he was going to take that matter into his own hands. He said that the Indians were well fortified and that he would have considerable trouble in dislodging them. He stated that he intended to place sentinels around the canyon so that none of them could escape, and intended to hold a conference with Dull Knife in the morning. He assured the cowmen that he was well acquainted with the old warrior and felt certain that he would have no difficulty in persuading him to return to the reservation with all his followers.

After the captain had arranged his guards around the canyon in such a manner as he thought would preclude the possibility of the Indians making their escape, he busied himself with preparations for encamping down the creek. While he was thus engaged, he was approached by Ben Jackson, the noted scout and buffalo hunter, who saluted him in military fashion, as far as his knowledge of that accomplishment would permit, and proposed that he, the captain, give him a despatch to be delivered to the commander at Fort Dodge requesting him to send more troops to aid in capturing the Indians. This despatch he promised to deliver within a few hours. The captain, not knowing the resourcefulness of the man making the request, replied that he could not spare an escort for the undertaking. To which the scout replied that he did not need an escort as he was well acquainted with the country and did not have any fears about the prompt delivery of the message. The captain answered that such a course of proceedings was unnecessary, as he was well acquainted with Dull Knife personally. He said that he intended to hold the conference with him the next morning, and that when matters were set before him in the proper light, there would be no further trouble in the case, as he was positive the Indians would be perfectly satisfied and return to the agency without any further difficulty. When this short interview had been completed, the captain proceeded down the creek and went into camp. In the meantime the pickets were on duty around the canyon, or rather were supposed to be, but, in some manner or other, Dull Knife's medicine hypnotized them as it did on the former occasion when he escaped from the North Canadian. I am not going to make any remarks about the private soldiers of this campaign, as they were ever ready and willing to do their duty if they had a proper officer to lead them; nor am I going to make any comments, nor pretend to fix the blame where it belongs, but will state the facts and let the reader judge for himself who was culpable in the matter; but it seems incredible that 250 Indians could come out of that canyon, supposedly well guarded, and pass through a cordon of pickets without a gun being fired. Incredible it is, but, nevertheless, that is the unvarnished truth of the matter. When dawn appeared the following morning, the Indians had vanished, as if they had been swallowed up by the earth. Their trail indicated that they had gone northward. They pursued their line of flight to Crooked Creek, in Meade County, Kansas, and after crossing that stream near what is called the "Three Bends," they came to a hay camp that was conducted by G. S. Emerson. Here they did not give themselves up to their usual depredations, but contented themselves with taking some provisions and cutting up a pair of calf skin boots belonging to the proprietor. That they did not commit any murders, was due to the fact that the men of the outfit were absent. From there they proceeded to what was intended to be the county seat of Meade county, which development did not extend further than the erection of a story-and-a-half frame building, with an unfinished well nearby, at which the city fathers were working when the Indians arrived. They immediately set out to explore the contents of the house and surroundings. Their efforts were not rewarded very highly, but one thing attracted their attention, a grindstone standing near at hand. The sole occupant of the dwelling, Captain French, was compelled to perform the task of turning the grindstone while they were sharpening their knives. To test the acuteness of the finish they had put on their weapons, they contented themselves with drawing them across the captain's throat. To show him further that they were not at all unselfish in their attentions to him, the squaws lent a hand in pulling and hauling him around and inflicting all manners of abuse upon him, but they did not attempt to kill him. I asked the captain shortly afterwards why they did not take his life, and he replied that they knew better than try that. He stated that he had a picture of George Washington hanging on the wall of his dwelling, and they knew that if they killed him the government would soon be in pursuit of them. Poor old Cap! He did not know that the government was on their trail at the time.

Although there were four or five men working at the well at the time the Indians devoted their attention to the captain. They did not molest them but continued on their way northward. On their route they encountered a man, Wash Connors, who had been to Dodge City to do some trading. He had spent the previous night with a friend of mine, C. M. Rice, and set out early in the morning so as to reach his destination in good time, as he had some material for those who were digging the well at the new town-site. Mr. Rice urged him to remain and have breakfast with him, but he said that he was in a hurry and would attend to that duly when he reached his destination. With a good team of mules hitched to his lumber wagon, he started off in good spirits, little thinking he would never reach the end of his journey. He was proceeding on his way in a brisk fashion and had come in sight of the town-site when the members of Dull Knife's band met him. They stopped him without any ceremony and attacked him before he could get out of his wagon. They cut his throat, tore the harness off his mules and went their way taking his team. The well-diggers saw the whole proceedings, but were unable to render assistance as they were not in a position to do so.

Leaving the victim of their murderous assault dying in his wagon, they set out toward the north again. Between the scene of their latest crime and the Arkansas they committed no further depredation. They crossed the river west of Dodge City, not far from where the present station of Cimmaron is located on the Santa Fe railroad. Their depredations after crossing the river were few, as there was little to attract their attention, excepting some wild cattle and the accompanying cowboys. They did not molest the latter as they had a wholesome respect for that individual by reason of the fact that he was generally armed with a brace of six-shooters and a Winchester rifle, and was an expert in the use of both. Meeting a cow-puncher under such conditions was a hazardous thing, as the Indian knew the cowboy would not trade even. They had no doubt about their ability to eventually kill him, but the price to be paid was too great, as he usually sent three or four of the wily redskins across the Great Divide before succumbing to their prowess, and they did not usually care to pay the price.

By this time the whole country was aroused. The news was heralded abroad on the wings of the wind. The newspapers, as is their custom, in glaring headlines, magnified the extent of the depredations, and gave alarming accounts of the atrocities committed by the Indians. Everybody was on the lookout, those in the neighborhood fearing a visitation of the marauders, and those far away living in expectation of the next savage depredation. The excitement reached such a high degree of intensity that the department ordered Lieutenant-Colonel Lewis to take charge of the field of action, which for some time had been a field of inaction as the gentleman who was supposed to be at the head of the movement against the Indians was but a poor apology for a successful military commander. It may be well to remark that this man was soon relegated to the military scrap-heap in disgrace.

When Lieut-Col. Lewis was notified of the appointment, he responded with alacrity. He set out at once from Dodge City with his command. He soon was on the trail of the Indians. A short journey westward brought him to the point where the band had crossed the Arkansas on their way northward.

In the meantime the Indians were pursuing their way with considerable speed. They may have realized that another expedition would be organized to follow on their trail, or another commander would be put in charge of the one they had left so unceremoniously on the night of their escape, but whatever their conclusions were, they did not stop to commit any more outrages until they reached the North Beaver, or Sand Creek. On their arrival there, they saw they were about to have a fight on their hands, as the lieutenant-colonel had followed their trail with such speed that he was almost upon them. Escape for the time being was out of the question, and they resolved to fight. Lewis did not want to kill them, but preferred to have them surrender and return to the reservation. Such idea did not enter into Dull Knife's calculations, and he decided to fight rather than return to the place of his recent abode.

It was now getting late in the afternoon. Considerable sharp-shooting had been done on both sides for some time, and then a skirmish took place. Each party was doing what execution it could without exposing itself to any more danger than was necessary. The Indians endeavored to make every shot count as their ammunition was getting scarce, and the soldiers were employing the same mode of warfare as their opponents, though it was not the scarcity of powder, but rather the desire to preserve their anatomy from the missiles of the enemy that induced them to seek shelter behind every bush and hillock. The lieutenant-colonel was a busy man, directing the operations of his troops, and looking after things in general. The battle lagged along until evening, without much evidence of success for either party. Towards evening Lewis rode out to the firing line to get a closer view of things and to lend his men the encouragement of his presence. When he reached the zone of fire, one of the Indian scouts approached him and advised him to dismount from his horse as he would very probably be shot if he remained exposed in such a manner to the fire of the enemy. The lieutenant-colonel did not heed the advice so freely given by his scout, and in less than ten minutes he received a bullet in the thigh. The missile struck an artery, and as a result, the lieutenant-colonel died a few hours later from loss of blood, (My authority for the above statement is G. W. Brown, who was lying not twenty feet away when the scout gave the warning of danger. This gentleman, is now living at Cushion Oil Field). He piloted the ambulance bearing the lieutenant colonel under the command of Lieutenant Gardner and escort to Fort Wallace that same night, as he was familiar with that part of the country owing to the fact that he had hunted buffalo all through that section of the country in the early days. After the escort had proceeded on its journey for about six miles, a rider returned to the lieutenant and told him that the lieutenant-colonel had died. This sad news was a shock to the company, as he was a man of the highest type of bravery, and his demise was regretted by every man in the command. When the news was first broken to the troops a look of grim determination settled upon the countenance of every man, which meant that at the first opportunity they would avenge the death of him who they loved so well. The fortunes of war averted the blow for the present, for, during the night, Dull Knife and his followers fled, leaving nothing behind but the embers of his camp fires to show where he had taken his stand. The soldiers started in hot pursuit, as they did not want their enemies to go unpunished. They had not followed the trail very far when they learned that the Indians had divided their forces and gone in different directions. Wild Hog, the chief adviser of Dull Knife went towards the north-east, over to Sappa Creek, where he and his followers murdered over forty persons, pillaged their stock and burned what they could not conveniently carry off. Dull Knife with the rest of the band headed due north. This division of the Indians compelled the soldiers to adopt the same method of procedure. They were accordingly organized into two divisions and set off in hot pursuit of their wily foes. From this time onward the expedition assumed the character of a running fight. This system of pillage, and plunder, on the part of the Indians, with the pursuit on the part of the soldiers, was maintained until the 7th Cavalry, under General Samuel D. Sturgis succeeded in capturing both bands on the Niobrara River in the vicinity of the place in which Camp Niobrara was built, and about 15 miles east of Camp Sheridan. This event occured in the month of October, 1878, but I cannot give the exact date of the occurrence. The captives were then taken as prisoners of war to Fort Robinson, Neb., or, as it was then called, Camp Robinson. They were placed in the guard house and held there until New Year's night, 1879, when they broke out, killed the guards and made their escape through the sand hills until they had almost reached the Wyoming line.

When the news was brought that Dull Knife had killed his guards and made his escape, everything was in a flutter of excitement. Preparations were immediately made for pursuit. At dawn, as soon as it was possible to observe the direction of the trail, the bugle sounded and the Third Cavalry mounted their horses and set out in pursuit of the wily old villain who had so often eluded them. They followed hastily all forenoon and the further they advanced, the clearer the signs manifested to them the fact that they were close upon the fleeing Indians. In the afternoon they overtook the band in the said hills close to the border line of Wyoming. When Captain Wessels rode up to them, he immediately ordered them to surrender. Dull Knife's reply to this was a rifle shot that killed an Indian scout belonging to the cavalry. He repeated with another shot at Captain Wessels. The bullet struck the captain but did not inflict a mortal wound. The action of Dull Knife was a sufficient guarantee that he did not intend to surrender, and immediately the troops poured a succession of volleys into the foe. When the smoke of battle cleared away, and the few who remained alive surrendered, it was discovered that Dull Knife himself, his daughter who was present, and about two thirds of his followers had all gone to the Happy Hunting Grounds together. After giving the proper attention to the wounded, and burying the dead, the troops with the prisoners returned to Camp Robinson. Among the number returning to the fort were Wild Hog and many other leading spirits of the movement. They were held there until the spring of 1879, when the leaders were sent to Dodge City, Ford county, Kansas to be tried for murder and other crimes.

I called upon those notable characters while they were supposed to be in durance vile, and found them the most conspicuous and best entertained men in prison. The representatives of different illustrated newspapers were there, sketching their pictures, and treating them to cigars. It was certainly a very novel sight to me, and I thought it strange that the citizens of Dodge City had not formed a necktie party for the entertainment of the whole party of savages, for they were well aware of the characters of their guests and well acquainted with the amount of crime and rascality they had perpetrated almost within view of the town itself. However, everything seemed to be following along the even tenor of its way, and I came to the conclusion that Dodge City was a very law abiding city, and was a good town to live in (especially when one is acquainted with the early history of the place). I cannot refrain from remarking that, if a white man, or a body of white men, had been guilty of one-tenth of the crimes perpetrated by the Indians who were then sojourning in their town, they would have been hanged as high as they could be raised on a lariat rope, or shot to pieces in the streets. Strange are the dealings of man with man.