Chapter XIV: Part 14

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 towering snow 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 the Indians 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 overwhelming mass 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 fiercest kind 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 not cowards, 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 rifles aloft, 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, three civilians 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 mixed together 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 to pieces, 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 wooden barrier, 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. The herders, 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."

SITTING BULL AND CRAZY HORSE:
GENERAL AND ABLE LIEUTENANT OF THE GREAT SIOUX REBELLION

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 of the 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 of the 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 of his 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 fighting over 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 the _crack, crack_ of 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 Indians escaped 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 an advance 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.

Mills promptly dispatched a courier to Crook, on the fleetest horse in his command, to ask for reinforcements at once. Then he vigorously assaulted the cave. The little band inside sold their lives dearly, and even the women used guns with good effect. But no one could have stood up against the rain of bullets that was showered into the cavern. American Horse surrendered, and when Crazy Horse--with some six hundred warriors--came galloping up to the ridge, where some of his followers had hidden, he was too late. Crook had joined with Mills. Imagining that only a few men were there before him, Crazy Horse charged upon the troopers, yelling his war song with all the fervor that had rung at the battles of the Rosebud and Little Big Horn. He was greatly astonished at the numbers of his antagonists, and, realizing his mistake, retired to the tops of some tall buttes with the soldiers after him.

Now occurred one of the most picturesque battles of the West. The Sioux were all around upon the buttes and were silhouetted against the sky. Steadily the soldiers advanced against them up the sides of the cliff. They scaled it under fire and reached the level plateau upon which Crazy Horse and his men were scattered. With a loud cheer they charged the redskins upon the run. The Sioux divided; fled; and left the field and camp to the troopers. In their camp were found many letters belonging to Custer's men which had been sealed, ready for mailing, when they had been annihilated at the Little Big Horn. There were also books, saddles and equipment of the "Fighting Seventh." Thus, that which had been lost came back to the men of the army and brought many tearful recollections of the gallant men who had been killed with Custer.

Sitting Bull was in Montana and still unfriendly. Troops were put in motion to bring him to terms, under General Nelson A. Miles. It was the winter of 1876-7 and a severe one, but the soldiers had fur boots, fur caps and clothing of the thickest texture. With such provision they could easily move and fight in the zero temperature of that northern land.

On October 18th., a wagon load of supplies from Glendive, Montana, was attacked by the Sioux, and, after the hostiles had been driven off, the troops who escorted the train moved to a place called Clear Creek. The Indians followed, and, during a lull in the hostilities, a messenger rode out from their lines, waving a paper, which he left upon a hill, stuck between two forks of a stick. When it was picked up, it read:

"YELLOWSTONE.

I want to know what you are doing travelling on this road. You scare
all the buffalo away. I want to hunt in this place. I want you to
turn back from here. If you don't, I'll fight you again. I want you
to leave what you have got here, and turn back from here.
I am your friend,
SITTING BULL.

I mean all the rations you have got and some powder. Wish you would
write me as soon as you can."

Several days later General Miles, with nearly four hundred troopers, overtook Sitting Bull on Clear Creek. There were one thousand warriors with him of the Miniconjous, San Arcs, Brulés and Unkpapas, together with their wives and children. A meeting was arranged with the old chief, but the wily Sioux refused to come into the Reservation. He became engaged, as he talked, and his manner seemed more that of a wild beast than a human being. "He finally gave an exhibition of wild frenzy. His face assumed a furious expression. His jaws were tightly closed, his lips were compressed, and you could see his eyes glisten with the fire of savage hatred."

A young warrior stole out of the Indian lines, as the conversation progressed, and slipped a carbine beneath his blanket. Several others followed him, and gathered around Sitting Bull as if they meant treachery. Miles, who had only a revolver, ordered these savages to retire, and, obeying reluctantly, they withdrew. Sitting Bull argued like a conqueror; he would not come into the reservation; he wanted the troops to leave the country. He spoke this way in two conferences, and, seeing that nothing could be accomplished by further parley, Miles told the chief to prepare for fighting, for he intended to attack immediately--in five minutes. Taking his watch in his hand, he counted off the time; while the savages, shouting defiance, galloped back to their own lines.

Suddenly, smoke ascended from the Indian camp. The Sioux had fired the prairie grass. In the midst of clouds of flame and smoke the troops pressed home the attack upon the hostiles. Although Sitting Bull's warriors far outnumbered the whites, they were driven away from their camp. Under the leadership of Gall and other warriors, they charged wildly upon the Government troops. Sitting Bull--as at the Custer massacre--did not appear upon the firing line, but remained in the rear, giving directions. He was a better talker than fighter and believed in allowing the young bloods to do the actual campaigning. They fought hard, too, and at one time pressed the whites so closely that--like Wellington's men at Waterloo--they were forced to form in hollow squares. The Indians were driven for forty miles.

Seeing that they could do nothing with the troops, many of the Sioux broke into small bands and scattered. Two thousand of them, however, came in on the third day and surrendered. Sitting Bull refused to think of such a measure, and, making for the Canadian boundary line, rode off into British territory. His depleted and starving camp was subsequently attacked, in mid-winter, by a detachment under Lieutenant Baldwin, and was still further crippled. Game to the last, he threw himself upon the protection of England, crossed the Canadian line, and lived for some years in peaceful security.

At last, realizing that he would be better off in his old hunting grounds, he returned to the United States and surrendered to the army. A large territory was assigned to the Sioux as a reservation, and an Indian agency established at Pine Ridge, in South Dakota. This place became the rallying point for the scattered bands of Sioux who still looked to Sitting Bull for counsel. Supported in idleness by the Government, and occasionally exhibiting himself with Buffalo Bill's "Wild West Show," the noted chief lived for some time in great contentment. But within him slumbered a deep dislike and distrust of the whites. He was one of the prime movers of the Ghost Dance uprising in 1890, and, while resisting arrest, was killed by an Indian policeman. Peace to the aged counsellor and sachem of the Sioux!

Crazy Horse had still one more fight in him before he, too, was forced to capitulate.

Late in December of 1876, Miles started after this gallant fighter, who was supposed to be in the valley of the Tongue River, south of the Yellowstone. He found his village not far from the place where Crook had battled on the Rosebud. There were between eight and nine hundred warriors posted on the cliffs surrounding a valley of the Wolf Mountains,--a spur of the Big Horn Range. The position was a good one, because the soldiers had to scale some bristling heights to get at the savages, but they were equal to the emergency.

"You have had your last breakfast," shouted the red warriors as the soldiers began to climb up to their position. "You will not eat again." But they did not know with whom they were dealing. Undaunted by the superior position of the red men, and unfrightened by their jeers, the soldiers crept up the face of the cliffs, as the shells from their artillery exploded among the followers of the gallant Crazy Horse. The bluffs were icy and snow-covered. It was rough work to scale them; it was only accomplished after slow, dogged, determined crawling, with a halt every moment or so to fire at some Indian above. The plunging shots of the savages did little damage, for their aim was unsteady. The red men clung to their post tenaciously, but they were routed--driven off--and forced back upon the plateau in the rear. Snow was now falling, and the combatants fired at each other in a blinding blizzard.

This was the last stand of Crazy Horse and his band, for their ammunition was about gone, and, not possessing the knowledge necessary to manufacture more, they were unable to prolong their resistance. Their confederates were nearly all captured. Sitting Bull was miles away and could not be reached. The Brulé Sioux and Unkpapas had surrendered. Their supplies were in the hands of General Miles and his men. Their fate was sealed.

In the early spring Crazy Horse surrendered, with the remnant of his once formidable band of frontier fighters. He was placed in a reservation of the Brulé Sioux at the Red Cloud Agency. "He did not surrender with the humility of a defeated, broken-spirited chief," Major-General Jesse W. Lee has written me. "He was an unsubdued warrior; a great soldier chief; and had come in to make such terms as would bring peace and rest to his people, who had scarcely known defeat under his valiant leadership. To his mind there was no _unconditional surrender_ about it. He was willing, for a time, to give up the uncertain buffalo for the certain Agency beef; to exchange the old, worn-out skin lodges for new and handsome army duck."

But Crazy Horse chafed under the restraints of the agency. He was restless, uneasy and unsatisfied with the tame conditions which he found. He was watched by detectives and was closely guarded, but one day escaped and came to Spotted Tail: another rendezvous of the Sioux, forty miles away. Trouble was feared from him, and what subsequently occurred is best told in the language of General Lee, who was there at the time, in charge of the Brulé Sioux at Spotted Tail Agency in Northwestern Nebraska. He says:

"We soon called the chiefs together and told them that probably some trouble might occur at Red Cloud, but it must not affect them, and for all to remain perfectly quiet and have no fear. We then had only to wait! Imagine, if you please, being compelled to sit down over a powder magazine, with sparks flying around, and wondering how long it would be until the blow-up comes. We felt certain an explosion _would_ occur, but uncertain as to the hurt it might do. Well, we had not long to wait! About 4 P.M. _an Indian courier arrived in the Northern camp_--_not to us!_--his quivering horse all white with foam,--with the startling news that their friends were fighting at Red Cloud, and that the troops were coming to Spotted Tail Agency.

"The old scout, Joe Merivale, well known and respected by the Northern Indians, had been sent to their camp with some reliable Agency chiefs, to meet just this contingency and allay excitement. By dint of hard effort they were succeeding fairly well, when Black Crow came to us and said, "_Crazy Horse is in the Northern camp!_" This came like a clap of thunder from a clear sky. Could it be possible, after all the precautions, spies, detectives, and the large force of troops and Indian allies, that the one man of all others they wished to secure _had made good his escape and had come to our Agency_?

"The arrival of the Indian courier from the Indians had produced intense excitement, but when he was soon followed by Crazy Horse, there was a wild scene, beggaring description. The bold warrior, the venerated hero of his band, who had ever led them to victory, was in the midst of devoted friends, and to them a hunted victim of rank injustice and cruel persecution.

"All the tepees in that camp came down with magic swiftness, and had it not been for White Thunder, and other loyal Brulés, a stampede would have resulted at once; merciless slaughter of unsuspecting whites on the line of flight would probably have followed, and another Indian war inaugurated.

"The 'reliables' surrounded and harangued the camp and restored some degree of quiet. Word was sent to the Indians under Touch the Clouds, to bring Crazy Horse to the Post. Major Burke, Dr. Koerper and myself, with an interpreter, started for the Northern camp, about three miles from the Post. When over half way out, we met over three hundred armed Indians in good line of battle, not so much _guarding_ as _escorting_ Crazy Horse, in the direction of the Post. There were war bonnets and war shirts in profusion, and had it not been for a score or more of 'reliables,' intermingled with the three hundred, we might have had serious trouble. Touch the Clouds was on one side of the great warrior and the brave, handsome White Thunder on the other, with the austere and desperate Black Crow just in the rear. Just here I would add that White Thunder and Black Crow had determined to shoot Crazy Horse, should he make a break.