Chapter IV: Part 4

It seems awful when we hear of the "Vigilance committees" in new countries. They are a body of men combining together, in a secret society, to rid the community of vile men, who rob, steal, and commit murder, just as easy as lying, and all for a few dollars. I say it seems awful to hear of their sentencing individuals to be hung by the neck to the telegraph-poles, often with only a single hour's notice, without a trial by jury. But it is done in new towns such as Julesburg was, where people would not be safe without some such action. California began it, and other places found it necessary.

At Cheyenne, when it was full of these horse-thieves and gamblers, I was called upon to bury "a gentleman" (as he was called), who had died suddenly, they said, at the "Beauvais House." I went down from the fort in February, and as the day was pleasant, crowds of young men were gathered in front of the house, and the street was full of carriages. It seems the dead man was the proprietor of the hotel, and it did not bear a very good reputation. Harris had formerly a partner named Martin, with whom he had a quarrel one evening, and Harris ordered his former partner to leave,--shutting the door upon him. Then Martin turned and shot three balls through the panel of the door, one of which hit Harris, and of which he died in about twelve hours. This produced a great excitement, and called out the crowd at the funeral. The person in charge asked me to step out on the balcony and address the people in the street. But I declined, and said I would speak to the young men, as I felt it my duty to do, in the parlor and hall. I remarked to them "that the deceased was past our praise or blame. But it was my duty to warn them at this time, when no man's life was safe, to think of the shortness and uncertainty of human life! Here, away from good examples you once had at home, you are in much danger. You and I think that we will die on a sick-bed, with dear friends around us; but you nor I will die just when or where we expect to. Some of you _have learned to say your prayers at your mother's knee_, but you forget, or are ashamed to do so now. Oh, be warned, my friends, to seek Christ and his favor, and He will take care of you, etc."

I could see many faces intent on what I had to say, and among them was a little dwarf belonging to the house, as an errand-boy. He covered up his face with his hands, sitting upon a low stool, and perhaps his mind wandered back to the humble cottage where he was born, and a mother's smile was his best beacon of goodness: he had not forgotten! For when I came back from the graveyard, he said, "Parson, I thought a good deal about what you said, indeed I did, _and it's true, every word of it, you bet_!"

Martin was tried by a court, and got clear. But he was fool enough to go round the saloons right away, boasting that he would serve out several more before breakfast. Then the vigilantes got hold of him that night, and hung him to the telegraph-poles near Cheyenne, till he was dead.

Sam Dugan was in our military prison at Fort Russell, for the crime of stealing horses. He was released upon a writ of _habeas corpus_ from Colorado and taken to Denver, where members of the vigilance committee took him from jail outside the city in an express-wagon, and fastening a rope around his neck, and throwing it over a limb of a large cottonwood-tree, they hung him up; leaving the body suspended for twenty-four hours.

He confessed to have stolen many horses, and to have murdered at least six men in his life on the plains.

Most of these hardened villains die as brave men; but Dugan they said whined like a child. He was really afraid to die, because of his great wickedness.

AN INDIAN FIGHT AT SWEETWATER MINES.

On the morning of the 4th May, 1870, there was a desperate fight with two companies of the 2d United States Cavalry, under Major D. S. Gordon and Lieutenant C. B. Stambaugh, a god-child of General Sherman. The Indians had committed some outrages, in return for which a party of miners killed a chief named Black Bear, his squaw, and eleven other Indians, Arapahoes.

When the principal chief of the Arapahoes heard of the fate of Black Bear and his party, he was very angry, and called together three hundred warriors (the tribe only numbering about fifteen hundred souls), and marched for Atlantic City, as it is called (a small town in the Wind River valley). Two companies of cavalry camped near the place just before the Arapahoe warriors appeared. A young man named Bennett saw them first, as he was driving his mules from the pasture. The Indians at once surrounded him and marched for the town, to kill him in sight of the village, where the troops were, but not known to the Indians. Bennett soon saw they were taking him towards a gulch close by the village where Gordon and Stambaugh were camped.

On coming up to the top of the hill, the camp was in full view, and only a few hundred yards away.

Bennett shouted at once for help, and, putting out as hard as he could, soon got into camp safe and sound. The sight of the military astonished the Indians so that they did not try to recapture Bennett, but made good time in every direction to escape. The soldiers were just getting up for "_reveille_," when the guard saw Bennett coming with the Indians, they driving and whipping him with their bows. The shout rang out, "Indians! Indians!" and at once they opened fire, officers and soldiers tumbling out of their beds. Some had on their drawers only,--some in one stocking, and many without boots,--all seized their arms, and rushing to the picket lines, unhitched their horses, jumped on with no time to saddle, and without hats galloped over the hills in pursuit of the flying Indians. Learning that some cattle were run off near the town, some of the soldiers galloped through the streets and hallooing "Indians!"--a cry the most terrible of all alarms along the border,--soon brought every man to his feet, and gun in hand, rush out to meet the foe. Soon these half-naked warriors had cleared the hills of the red men, and strolling home as the sun rose over the bluffs, when a horseman came into Major Gordon's camp with the news that "Miner's Delight" camp was attacked, and the teams of Mr. Fleming, who was hauling hay for the government. Major Gordon taking Lieutenant Stambaugh, Sergeant Brown, and nine privates (all the soldiers in the camp), and leaving orders for the rest to follow as fast as they came in, they set off for the hay-field, distant about eight miles. There they saw none, as the Indians had left, but striking their trail, went on as fast as possible. A storm had been gathering all the morning, and soon as they had gone six miles, it burst upon them with terrible fury, completely covering up all traces of the enemy. The major thinking it useless to follow further, set out to return to the post; but he had not gone far before he encountered a lot of about sixty Indians. The snow and sleet was so blinding at the time, that he did not see them until he came close upon them. A charge at once was ordered, and the troops dashed forward, scattering the Indians in every direction. Unfortunately, however, in the attack Lieutenant Stambaugh received a ball from an Indian's pistol, and Sergeant Brown had his jaw broken by another shot. Lieutenant S----, though wounded, was held on to his horse by Major Gordon, until surrounded by an immense crowd of desperate warriors, when Gordon told Stambaugh, "For God's sake, hold on to the mane of your horse, as I have to shoot!"

Lieutenant S---- fell off soon after, valiantly fighting. He was shot through the head sideways,--from the throat up through his brain,--through the chest, arms, and hands. He was brave to a fault, and the Indians probably took him for a "brave" white chief of high rank.

Seeing these two men fall from their horses, and that few soldiers were there, the Indians rallied and charged them furiously. A severe fight followed over the body of Stambaugh, the savages trying to capture and scalp it, and the soldiers defending it nobly. Six Indians were killed and two soldiers wounded. Soon the Indians retreated, leaving their wounded and dead with the soldiers. The fight lasted about two hours. All then became quiet, and Major Gordon descended the ridge,--a strong position,--and carrying the body of Stambaugh a piece, hid it away in some bushes. Expecting the Indians would attack him on the way, he set out for camp, the Indians having gone that way. He saw no more of them, however. Late at night with his men he reached Atlantic City, they having eaten nothing since the day before.

Strange it was, the reinforcements he had ordered did not reach him, and none knew where they were. Of course all the miners there were greatly excited; the events of the day were talked over, rockets thrown up, and fires kept burning on the hills as beacons for a guide to the soldiers still out; but before daylight they all came in, after having lost their way in the storm while searching for Major Gordon and his party.

Early next morning, Lieutenant Dinwiddie took a strong detachment of troops and twenty citizens and went out to the scene of battle, and taking up the body of young Stambaugh, marched slowly back on their sad journey with the noble brave fellow to the camp, which should know him no more!

INDIAN ATTACK ON THE STAGE-COACH GOING TO DENVER--REV. MR. FULLER'S ACCOUNT OF TWO ATTEMPTS UPON HIS LIFE.

The following letter tells its own story. Moreover, it is a truthful narrative, and shows to the young that a Christian man is a bold man to meet danger, knowing that God helps us, while we use all proper means of safety to help ourselves.

PITTSBURG, May 30th, 1870.

REV. E. B. TUTTLE, Cheyenne, Wyoming Ter.

REV. AND DEAR SIR,--I will try to give you a brief account of my
adventure with the Indians, in answer to your request. It was on
the 1st day of June, 1867, the same year that the Right Reverend
Bishop Tuttle went out to his jurisdiction (whom I met a few days
after the adventure at the North Platte Station). The scene of the
adventure was Fairview Station, which was a deserted ranch about
ten miles east of "Fort Wicked," or Godfrey's ranch. The station
house had been burned, and the high adobe walls with an open front
entrance, facing the road, were left standing. About half-past two
P.M. we stopped at "Godfrey's" for a change of horses and
refreshments. I was the only passenger, and as we started on, the
company consisted of the driver, myself inside the coach, and two
horsemen, "stock leaders" (employed by the stage company to transfer
stock from one point to another), four in all. Unsuspectingly, we
went straight into the Indian's trap. It was about four P.M. I sat
on the front seat with my back to the driver, the windows being
down. The first thing that caught my attention was the discharge of
a number of rifles, some of the balls crashing through the sides of
the coach.

The Indians were well armed with rifles, bows and arrows, and were
all mounted. Instantly I seized my revolver (a small six-shooter),
and made ready to defend myself. I saw the two horsemen wheel their
horses and start back towards "Godfrey's" Station. They were just a
little behind the coach. The driver also yelled at his horses and
gave them a short turn, for the same purpose, no doubt. While we
were turning round, a tall Indian rode up close to the coach-window
and looked in, and as he did so I looked out; our faces met only
about six feet apart. He had a rifle in one hand; I saw him drop
his rein and grasp his gun with both hands. I heard the click of
the trigger. I could easily have shot him, having my revolver in my
hand, but I did not,--why I do not know. It was well that I did
not, as it proved. I dropped under the coach-window to avoid his
fire, if possible. He fired and rode on quickly ahead, his shot
being delivered either at the driver or myself, I know not which.
The horses and coach were now turned about and faced towards
"Godfrey's," and were running as only thoroughly frightened horses
will run. They were large, powerful animals, four in number. The
Indians had meantime divided themselves into two bodies. (There
were about thirty of them in all, of the Cheyenne tribe. I will
shortly state how they were numbered.) One party starting in
pursuit of the horsemen, and the other remaining with the coach to
take it.

The situation was most critical. I soon saw that the horses did not
keep the road, but turned out of it towards the Platte River (the
river and the road run parallel about half a mile apart, as you
probably know), and I knew that the _driver was not guiding them_!
Putting my revolver in my side-pocket, I opened the door and,
taking hold of the railing above, looked first to see if the driver
was indeed gone. He was not there! I did not turn back; to stay
inside was sure death. If there was any chance of escape, it was
from the outside. I sprang out to the driver's seat above, but
judge of my dismay to find the _reins on the ground_! I intended to
get control of them. I knew not what to do, but had an idea at
first of jumping to the ground to get the reins. While standing
there thinking how to manage to get the reins, I was the only mark
for the Indians, and was fired at a number of times. Such was the
situation, standing alone on the coach-box,--the Indians before and
behind endeavoring to shoot me and to stop the coach,--and yet I
escaped. I have yet the coat, with a bullet-hole in the sleeve,
which I had on. My escape was in this wise: I saw that the reins
might be reached from the headstalls of the wheel-horses. I
therefore sprang down on to the tongue of the coach to get them,
but just then the horses had reached a slough about two rods wide
and as many feet deep, with a sharp bank on either side. They did
not stop, but plunged into and across it. I fell fortunately over
the nigh horse's back, just clearing the wheels. The horses and
coach went on and I was left in the slough. That fall to me at the
time appeared sure death. I expected to be killed instantly. But,
sooner than I can tell it, I was upon my feet upon the bank, my
revolver in my hand, determined not to be taken alive; for well
enough I knew what that would end in. To my astonishment, the
Indians did not stop to give me a shot even; being under a full
run, they barely glanced at me as they passed in pursuit of the
coach. I saw the reason of this. I was on foot, and between me and
"Godfrey's" was another body of Indians. They were all mounted and
armed; I could not run away; I was in a vice apparently.

I looked towards the river, and observing some islands in it, my
plan was instantly formed. If I could only reach the river, I would
swim out and get behind one of the islands. And the river being
high and turbid, with a quicksand bottom, I did not believe they
would venture to come after me. (I had learned to swim when a boy,
and that now was my means of salvation.) I started for the river as
soon as the last Indian had passed me, "double quick," but as I
started, I glanced towards the west, and, to my dismay, saw the
other party coming back at a distance of four or five hundred rods
from me, and I had at least two hundred rods to make to reach the
river. They had got through with their chase of the two men. They
had killed one of them and also his horse (I buried his body the
next day). The other man being mounted on a trained racer, as I
afterwards learned, managed by hard running to escape and reach the
station.

At a certain angle bearing back towards "Godfrey's," I started for
the river, and the Indians turned to run in between me and the
river. But providence interposed again. Within one minute from the
time of my fall, the Indians stopped the coach, shooting one of the
horses to do it; and this drew the attention of the other party
away from me to the coach, being drawn (I suppose) by motives of
plunder on seeing the coach stopped. I have since learned that they
do not divide the plunder in any civilized way, but what an Indian
gets his hands on is his. But for this circumstance, they must have
got between me and the river. Finding that I had actually gained
the river-bank, I determined not to go in at once, but the rather
to get as far away as possible, while the Indians were engaged in
plundering the coach, knowing it would take them some minutes to do
that. I had no hope of running away, but slipping off my boots, I
began a rapid walk up the river-bank, all the while glancing back
at the Indians, expecting momentarily that they would start for me.
Thus I got nearly a mile away, when I noticed two men in the road,
a little ahead of me. I stopped as soon as I saw them, feeling sure
that they were Indians who had been sent to that point to prevent
my escape. As I stopped, they made signs for me to come to them;
but this I took to be a decoy, under a pretense of friendship, to
get me away from the river. Instantly divesting myself of my outer
clothing, I plunged in, seeing them start for me as I did so, at a
full run. There were no islands there, and to get away, I must make
the other side. The water was very cold, the current strong, and I
soon became chilled. I found my strength going fast, and gave up my
last hope of escape. I would have gone under but for another
interposition of Providence. I drifted on to a _sand bar_, and
stopping there, I expected to die. I did not wait long. In a brief
time the two men had reached the river-bank opposite me, and judge
of my joy, dear sir, to see the uniform of United States cavalry
soldiers!

They had been sent out (from Fort Morgan) two days previous to
search for some deserters. They happened to come upon the ground
just then, else I should not be writing you this account to-day.
They saw the whole affray from the outset, but did not dare to
attack. They counted the Indians and said there were about thirty
of them. Now, when I started for the river, after the fall, they
agreed to assist me if they could. Fortunately I did not go in
immediately on reaching the river, but went towards them without
knowing of their presence. When I went into the river finally, they
understood that I mistook them for Indians, and made a dash to save
me. God bless them! In doing that they put themselves in danger. I
saw this and spoke of it, but they said they intended to give the
"red devils" to understand thus that they were supported by others.
Their strategy had precisely that effect. I looked towards the
Indians, and they were making off in the other direction towards
"the bluffs," as fast as they could go. We went safely back to
"Godfrey's," one of the soldiers kindly giving me his horse to
ride. I wish it were in my power to reward in some substantial way
these noble young men. After saluting me from the river-bank, I
swam and waded back to the shore. It was with difficulty that I
could stand when I reached it. My coat was stained with patches of
blood. The soldiers at first were sure that I was wounded, but
strange to say, I was not hurt. The blood was from the driver, and
got upon my coat from the coach-box.

I lost my baggage, several hundred dollars of goods and money
captured by the Indians. Stopping two days at "Godfrey's," with a
force of eighteen men well armed, in three coaches bound east, we
started on again. Godfrey, who has a mortal hatred of Indians,
treated me with great kindness. This, dear sir, was my marvelous
escape. Bishop Randall writing me afterwards about it, said that it
seemed to him but little short of a miracle. Bishop Tuttle also
expressed the same view. The fall from the tongue of the coach, the
stopping of the coach just in time to call off the party that were
getting between me and the river, the sand bar in the river, on
which I rested in the last extreme, and finally, the singular
appearance of the soldiers to deliver me, are plain indications
that it was the will of God that I should be spared.

Truly yours,

WM. A. FULLER.

CHAPLAIN WHITE SAYS THERE'S A TIME TO PRAY AND A TIME TO FIGHT.

In July of the same year as the massacre at Phil. Kearney, that is to say on the 20th July, while Chaplain White was traveling on Powder River with Captain Templeton, Lieutenant Daniels, Lieutenant Wanns, and J. H. Bradley, in company with five white women and two colored also, going to join their command, and while quietly traveling along, about fifty to sixty wild Indians came suddenly upon them just as they approached "Crazy Woman's Fork River." At once there was a panic, and one of the officers suddenly put on a woman's bonnet and rode off. One woman had a babe. The chaplain, seeing all was confusion, and each one for himself, exclaimed, "For God's sake, don't leave these women to be murdered!" This seemed to call them to their senses, and they began to rally, though, all told, there were but thirteen armed men. One soldier, a German, got terribly frightened, and said, "_Isn't there some one to pray?_" The chaplain seized him by the collar and bid him hold his gun, saying, "_There is a time to pray and a time to fight!_" By nightfall they had all disappeared. Lieutenant Bradley was very courageous; for when the Indians shot their arrows, he would stoop down and pick them up in derision.

Chaplains may be sometimes of little account, but if their record could be written up, a large number would be found to have done noble service during the war of the rebellion.

Chaplain John McNamara, of the 1st Wisconsin Regiment, was one of them. I learned the following anecdote from a soldier who died in Camp Douglas:

Private Auchmuty said, "We had marched for a whole year, and had never a battle. Like all soldiers, we grumbled a good deal, and found fault with our rations. Our chaplain preached a sermon about our being discontented, saying we 'had done nothing at all for the government, only to soldier a little, and eat our rations.' This made us a little angry, and so we took it out in calling as he passed, '_There goes the chaplain that eats his rations_!'

"But by-and-by we had a sharp and bloody fight at Stone River. Colonel B. J. Sweet was badly wounded in his right arm, and our captain was killed. This made us waver and fall back. But the chaplain rushed forward to lead us, exclaiming, 'Boys, come on! The enemy is wavering; we are sure of a victory!' On we rushed after him, and drove the foe off the field. After that we called him the 'Bully chaplain.' He lost his wig, but he gained the victory."

LEGEND OF "CRAZY WOMAN'S FORK."

The Absarakas, or Crow nation, have the reputation of being good friends to the whites, and it is also said they have never warred with them.

Iron Bull, a renowned chief of the Crows, relates the following legend.

In the journey through that most delightful region of Montana from Fort Phil. Kearney to Fort C. F. Smith (in the Powder River country), one of the most favored camping-grounds is the one called "Crazy Woman's Fork," the name of a pretty little stream of water that rises in the Big Horn Mountains, and emptying into the Little Horn River. About three miles from the mountains this stream crosses the trail between the two military posts mentioned.

This camp on the Fork is noted for its danger from Indian attacks, as an abundant supply of game being found in the valley, brings the Indian there to replenish his larder of wild meat. Notwithstanding the dangers attending a journey through this region, it has its attractions in the beautiful and diversified views of lovely scenery, which hasten the parties traveling that region to encamp, for a night at least, on the banks of a limpid stream that refreshes man and beast from an unfailing source in the mountains. The banks are skirted with cottonwood-trees, and to the west, one sees the tall spurs of the Rocky Mountains rising up, as it were, from your feet, their dizzy heights covered with snow; while the haze that surrounds them gives to them a halo of glory and weirdlike appearance, that the imaginative might compare to _the garments that mantle the spirits of the blessed in Paradise_!

Iron Bull said that about two hundred years ago, when the moon shone brighter, and there were more stars, his nation was a great people, and they roamed over all that country from the Missouri River to the west of the Yellowstone, and no dog of a Sioux dare show himself there. But the people had been wicked, and the Great Spirit had darkened the heavens and made the sun to shine with such heat that the streams were dried up, and the snow disappeared from the highest peaks of the mountains. The buffalo, the elk, the mountain sheep, the deer, and the rabbit, all disappeared and died away, bringing a great famine upon his tribe, and the spirit of the air breathed death into the lodges, so that the warrior saw his squaw and papooses die for want of the food he could not find on all the plain, or on the mountain-sides; so that the whole nation grieved and mourned in sorrow of heart.

Still, they kept up their wars with the Sioux, and fought many a bloody battle with them when they suffered most, and the game had entirely disappeared. Their great medicine-man called a council, and when the head-men had assembled, he told them of a wonderful dream that he had had, when he was bidden by the Great Spirit to gather the chiefs of the tribe at the fork of the stream where they lived.

Their ponies had all been eaten for food, so the proud Indians were compelled to make the journey on foot to the place of meeting.

But when they had arrived at the bluffs, on the edge of the valley, they were surprised to see a bountiful supper spread on the bank of the stream, close by the Forks, and a white woman close by, standing up and making signs to them to descend from the bluffs.

Having never before seen a "white squaw," they were greatly astonished. The medicine-man descended to the valley. The white woman told him that the Great Spirit would talk to the council through her. She told him that the wars of the tribe were displeasing to the Great Spirit, and they must make peace with the Sioux nation. When that was done, the great chief, "The-Bear-that-grabs," must return to her.

They sent out runners to the Sioux, and peace was declared between the tribes for the first time in one hundred years.

She then told the great chief to follow the mountain in a westerly course, until he came to the Big Horn River, and where the rock was perpendicular, _he was to shoot three arrows, hitting the rock each time_.

The chief departed on his mission, and as he gained the bluffs from the stream, he looked back at the white squaw, but what was his surprise when he saw her rising in the air and floating towards the mountains! He watched her until she disappeared over the highest peak towards the sky.

The chief pursued his journey, and, arriving at the place told him by the white squaw, he discharged his arrows. The first one struck in rock. The second flew over the mountain. The third was discharged, and a terrible noise followed: the heavens were aglow with lightning; the thunder shook the mountains. The earth trembled, and the rocks were rent asunder, and out of the fissure countless herds of buffalo came, filling the valleys and the hills. The hearts of the Indians were glad, and they ate and were merry, and returned thanks to the Great Spirit and to the good white woman.

The great fissure in the rocks is the cañon of the Big Horn River.

Iron Bull avers that when anything of note is about to befall the tribe, the image of the white woman can be seen hovering over the peak of the mountain at "Crazy Woman's Fork." He says the Crows have never killed any of the whites, and his people say and believe "that they are treated by the government agents worse than the tribes who give us all the trouble."

In other words, because they are peaceable, we need not, as with others, to buy them off with presents. And they say we have taken some of their lands and given them to the Sioux, who were fighting and destroying the whites as often as they could.

PHIL. KEARNEY MASSACRE.

One of the most fearful and fatal massacres on the plains that is known, occurred in the forenoon of December 21st, 1866, at Fort Phil. Kearney, Dakota.

About nine o'clock, some Indians, a few only (as usual), were seen on the bluffs. Brevet General Carrington, Colonel of the 18th United States Infantry, in command of the post, sent out eighty-one men, one company of infantry, and one of 2d Cavalry, Company C, under command of Colonel Fetterman. The instructions, it is said, were not to go over the hills. However that may be, they pursued the hostile Indians beyond sight of the post, crossing the river near the fort to do so. At ten o'clock the fight began, the firing being heard plainly at the post. There were from fifteen hundred to twenty-five hundred Sioux, under chief Red Leaf.

The soldiers were led into an ambuscade, and having shot away all their ammunition in a panic, were surrounded and massacred before two o'clock in the afternoon. Sixteen Indians were killed, and chief Spider among them. The bodies of the soldiers were horribly mutilated and scalped. Why reinforcements were not sent out to help them out of their perilous condition does not appear. Colonel Fetterman was killed, a noble, brave man, and the fort next above "Laramie" was named after him. This is an eyesore to Red Cloud, and he requested the President to have it removed, as of no use, he said, and costing the government a great deal of money. His wish was not gratified.

MAUVAISES TERRES, OR BAD LANDS, DAKOTA.

Up in the Indian country, in Dakota, near White River, as one travels over a prairie country, one comes suddenly upon a valley, down between one and two hundred feet, which is at least thirty miles wide, by ninety in length. It looks as though it had sunk down below all the country round; while standing like sentinels all around, one sees pillars of immense height, of irregular prismatic columns of masses of stone, stretching up to the height of from one to two hundred feet or more. It reminds one of the ruins of Pompeii (described by Bulwer) as the traveler wends his way through deep passages, amidst petrified snakes, turtles, and mammoth animals, which must have been larger than elephants. Turtles weighing a thousand pounds, petrified, lie around, and all over is strewn the remains of extinct animals in this vast charnel-house.

Professor Leidy, of Philadelphia, has detected about thirty remains of species of extinct mammalia. Many of these belonged to animals such as the hippopotamus, rhinoceros, tapir, etc. One extinct animal, called the Oreodon, had grinding teeth like lions, cats, etc., and must have belonged to a race that lived on vegetables and flesh, and yet chewed the cud like a cow. Another called the Machairodus, was wholly carnivorous, and combined the size and weight of the grizzly bear with the jaws and teeth of the Bengal tiger. Most of the bones are yet in good preservation and highly mineralized. Dr. Owen says he saw all the bones of a skeleton eighteen feet long and nine in height; also a jaw of a similar animal, which measured five feet along the range of its teeth. At one place there is a valley which has the appearance of a floor of an ancient lake, where turtles lie imbedded by hundreds, and some weighing a ton. This wonderful place looks like the city of the dead; and as nothing grows there, and there is no water for animals, no living thing is found there, not even a bird. General Sully made a forced march through it with cavalry a few years ago, and had to carry water for the men and horses. The Indians never go there, unless driven in by some tribe attacking in superior numbers. The fossils which have been brought from the Mauvaises Terres belong to a species that became extinct before the period when the Mastodon inhabited this country. The strata in which these animals are imbedded indicate that the water was fresh or brackish. It is the most desolate and barren prospect one could lay his eyes on; and if the place for bad people is like this, when they come to die, may no boy have to go there and be frightened all his life-long for his wicked and cruel deeds to others, or to animals either; for the sight of these skeletons is enough to make any boy afraid of disobeying his mother, or to go to sleep any night without being sorry for his sins.

Gold is said to be deposited there, and may yet be found in large quantities, if the Indians can be induced to let the whites prospect there. A while since, an Indian brought into a fort some gold-dust and a large nugget. The post-trader looked at it and pretended it was iron, saying to the Indian, "No good." He threw it out of the window and gave the Indian a glass of whisky. When he went out, the trader picked it up, and it was worth thirty dollars. The Indian having refused to tell where he got it, was made quite drunk, and then he said it came from the Bad Lands; but if the chief found out he had told of it, he would kill him.

NATURAL HISTORY--ANIMALS ON THE PLAINS.

The animals which are found west of the Missouri River, especially in the Rocky Mountains, and far beyond them, are the buffalo, elk, deer, cimarron bear, mountain sheep, antelope, coyote, prairie-dog, etc.

The buffalo, which affords good beef to the Indian hunters, and has fed many thousand toilers over the plains to Salt Lake and California, is mainly known to boys in the comfortable buffalo robes, which every one knows the use of in sleigh-riding. But to us officers and soldiers on the plains they are life-preservers almost, in our sleeping out nights on the ground, far away from home and good beds and blankets.

The buffalo meat is tough, unless from a young cow; and the Indians make little difference in drying it for winter use, as they have good teeth and always a first-rate appetite. The skins are dried and tanned by the squaws, who lay them on the grass; and I saw an old gray-haired squaw toiling away with a sharp instrument, made of the end of a gun-barrel, something like a carpenter's gouge, and this had a bone handle, with which she kept scraping off the inside of the skin of its fibres, so as to make it soft and pliable. She had a stone to sharpen the tool with, and as she leaned over, tugging away, the perspiration rolled off her face in streams. Poor old creature, I felt sorry for her, as the work might have been done by several big, lazy, half-grown Indian boys I saw romping around and shooting their arrows at a mark. But it is disgraceful for the _lords of creation to labor_, so they only kill the game, and leave the squaws to cure and prepare it for eating.

It is astonishing how poorly Indians are compensated for their robes and furs. In Colorado, some Indians had been very successful in killing buffaloes, had plenty of meat, and purchased with their robes flour, sugar, coffee, dry-goods, and trinkets from the white and Mexican traders; but they did not realize one-fourth their value. They were worth eight or nine dollars by the bale at wholesale. The traders paid seventy-five cents in brass wire or other trinkets for a robe; two dollars in groceries, and less in goods. Six tribes, in 1864, furnished at least fifteen thousand robes, which, at eight dollars, would amount to one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. The traders literally swindled the poor Indians. _They will give the robe off their backs for a bottle of whisky on the coldest day._

The cimarron bear is avoided by the soldiers, if possible, when met by them. Up in the Wind River country, a soldier was mauled terribly by one which he had wounded, but failed to kill on the first fire. The fight was desperate, for the bear, said to have been six or seven feet long, and weighing nine hundred pounds, had clinched the soldier, and both rolled down the ravine together, the other soldiers afraid to fire lest they should hit the poor comrade, almost in the jaws of death. They did rescue him, however, by lunging a knife into bruin's side, compelling him to release his hold, after lacerating the soldier's arm and side.

The coyote is a kind of wolf that preys on the antelope. It is a mean, sneaking thief, too mean to attack a herd of antelopes, but follows them up, and while one strays off, grazing, watches the opportunity to spring upon his victim, run him down, and snap the hamstring of poor antelope, and then eats him.

One night I was woke up at Fort Sedgwick, thinking I heard wild geese flying over. But I learned it was a drove of coyotes, which came over the bluffs, into and through the fort nightly, to eat the refuse meat outside, where beef was slaughtered. They prowl about, and sometimes make a noise like a lot of school-children hallooing at play. They never bite, unless attacked. An old lady got lost about a mile outside the post, at Russell, in the winter. She started out of Cheyenne, one Monday afternoon, to search for an emigrant train which might be going to Montana, where she had a son living.

She strayed away and was found in a snow-bank, by some soldiers going out to dig a grave. She was glad to see the faces of white men, for it was on Friday, and she had thus been out, wandering around since Monday, four days! She was brought into the hospital and given a warm cup of tea. "Dear me," she exclaimed, "give me a quart,--I'm almost famished!" She said she was only frightened by the coyotes coming round nights and barking at her. Her feet were partly frozen, but in a few weeks she went on to Montana.

The black-tailed deer are fine eating; the grass on which they feed in the mountains is said to make the meat tender and sweet.

The mountain sheep are large and very strong; they will throw themselves from a rocky cliff and strike on their head many feet below unharmed, being protected by horns and stout necks. They are larger than our domestic sheep.

The antelope is a pretty, gazelle-like creature, fleet and agile in springing up and running. Having passed over the Union Pacific Railroad many times, it has been my pleasure to see them running away from the train in droves of a dozen or more, in file one after the other, till out of sight, far away over the bluffs. By-and-by they will disappear as the buffalo have, driven away by approaching civilization. The young are easily caught and tamed, and make nice pets for children. The cost of one here is usually five dollars. They are hunted a good deal for their meat, as antelopes are tender and sweet to the palate. One method in hunting them is to raise a white or red flag, and the silly creatures, full of curiosity, will turn and walk towards it till shot down by the marksman.

The prairie-dog is an animal peculiar to the plains. He is found in what is called a "dog-town;" being a plot of a few acres, as seen alongside the railroad, after a day and night's ride, dotted over with mounds a foot or so high. Sometimes a thousand or more congregate in the town, and their holes are a few rods apart. When approaching these towns, or the cars pass along, you see them scamper off to the top of the mound, stand up on their hind-legs and bark, shaking their little short tails at each bark, and presently plunge head first into their holes. They are of a brown color, size of a squirrel, but with tails an inch long. I tried to drown out some, and poured several barrels of water into a hole without bringing any out. These holes ramify into others, generally, so it was impossible, in my experience, though others do get hold of a single hole, and drown them out. Rattlesnakes and small owls make their homes with them. These are interlopers, as the prairie-dogs dig the holes down about three to four feet. They can be tamed, as I know by experience, having carried several east to Chicago, to my Sunday-school children.

One night in Colorado, on the Cache le Poudre River, while camping out there (having gone with a detective in search of horse-thieves), I heard a terrible clatter among the prairie-dogs late in the night. It was explained to me by the ranchman, who said they were in the habit of changing their domiciles once a year, and it was only effected after a great struggle and fight among themselves. By sunrise, four o'clock in the morning, all was still; and the little fellows were running about in search of roots, upon which they live all winter, down in their dark, deep holes. They belong to the species marmot, and are said to be good eating. I have never tried them. Friday, Arapahoe chief, told me that the Indians make use of their oil to cure rheumatism.

A NIGHT SCENE.

The Bishop of Nebraska visited the Pawnee reservation, near Columbus, and the head chief had just before lost his only son by death. He was feeling very unhappy about it, and he told the interpreter to say to "The little medicine-man-in-the-big-heap-sleeves," "That he had lost his son, and was feeling very heavy here" (laying his hand upon his heart); adding, "All is dark, and I want him to tell me what the Great Spirit has got to say to me in my sorrow."

The bishop said, "Tell him that we have a prayer in the book, we always say, 'for persons in affliction;' we will all kneel down and repeat it sentence by sentence, and remain in silent prayer." There in the shadows of the evening, a few whites mingling among the dusky faces, as the lights shone upon their bent forms, prayer was offered for consolation and healing of the poor old man's heart. It was a solemn scene, and many sobs were heard from the Indian women. After a little while, all rose up from their knees, and the tall chief, standing erect, said, with beaming eye, "Say to the Father, say to him, it's all gone! all gone!" He added, "We are glad to hear such words from the Great Spirit. We have been told many words from our fathers many moons since; they have told us good words; that when we do wrong the Great Spirit is angry with us. Sometimes we forget what they told us, and do wrong, killing one another. Now, we are told you have a good book that tells you all you ought to do; and if we had it and could read it in our tents, maybe we would be better. But we are too old to learn it now. Teach it to our children,--teach it to our little ones!" What an answer to prayer!

THE MISSION HOUSE.

The chapel and the mission-house, which is the home of the Santee Sioux, were mainly built by the Indians. A hospital is to be built soon for them, mainly through the Christian efforts of William Welsh, Esq., of Philadelphia.

INDIAN LANGUAGE, COUNTING, ETC.

Wah-ge-la, one. Cow or ox, dib-lish.
Numpa, two. Candle, pal-a-za-zar.
Zomina, three. Cat, how-i-win-go-lar.
Do-be, four. Boy, ox-i-la.
Yap-ta, five. Girl, wi-tin-chil-a.
Sha-ko-pe, six. Small, chu-chil-la.
Shoko, seven. Hat, por-ta.
Sho-go-lo-ra, eight. Snow, of-hene.
Nim-chalk, nine. Pot or kettle, mushta.
Wieh-grin-ina, ten. Good, wash-ta.
Dog, sumka. Don't know, so-lo-wash-ta.
Horse, tu-gon-ka. To-morrow, umpa.

Major Van Voost, at Fort Kearney, always told the Indians who begged, "Yes, call to-morrow." So they kept calling, and finally gave him the name "Umpa."

INDIANS ATTACK LIEUT. W. DOUGHERTY--FIGHT BETWEEN FORTS FETTERMAN AND RENO.

Lieutenant D---- started down from Fort Reno in the month of March, 1868, and when within seventeen miles of Reno, he was attacked by a band of Indians while he and his escort of a sergeant, eight men, four citizens, two teamsters, and servant, were eating supper at Camp Dry Fork, on Powder River. The distance between the two posts is ninety-five miles. Springing to their feet, the soldiers fought off the Indians till they could harness the teams and start for Fort Reno. The fight was very severe, the Indians having every advantage of position, as they skulk over the bluffs and come in upon soldiers and others when least expected. By a bold dash at them, Lieutenant D---- succeeded in driving them off. They had shot an arrow into the shoulder of a dog belonging to one of the soldiers. The dog ran towards Reno, _carrying the arrow all the way_ (seventeen miles), _sticking into the poor creature's hide_, causing him immense pain. And when he came in, his appearance apprised the commanding officer of the condition Lieutenant D---- and his handful of men were in, and he at once sent a reinforcement of two companies to rescue the besieged. This was the only way they had of knowing that the party were attacked, and no wonder it was regarded as a providential circumstance.

All reached Fetterman in safety the next evening, and the dog is still a hero among the boys of Company D, 18th United States Infantry.

SPEECH OF "WHITE SHIELD," HEAD CHIEF OF THE ARICKAREES.

FORT BERTHOLD, D. T., July 2d, 1864.

I speak for my brothers, the Arickarees, Gros Ventres, and
Mandaris. We all live in peace in the same village, as you see us.
We have a long time been the friends of the white man, and we will
still be. Our grandfathers, the Black Bear of the Arickarees, and
the Four Bears of the Gros Ventres, were at the treaty with our
white brothers on the Platte a long time ago. They told us to be
the friends of our white brothers, and not go to war with our
neighbors, the Dakota Sioux, Chippewas, Crees, Assinaboines, Crows,
or Blackfeet.

We listened to their words as long as they were heard in council.
They have both been killed by the Dakotas; we have none left among
us who heard the talk at the treaty on the Platte.

We want a new treaty with our Great Father. We want him to tell us
where we must live. We own the country from Heart River to the
Black Hills, from there to the Yellowstone River, and north to
Moose River.

We are afraid of the Dakotas; they will kill us, our squaws and
children, and steal our horses. We must stay in our village for
fear of them. Our Great Father has promised us soldiers to help us
keep the Dakotas out of our country. No help has come yet; we must
wait. Has our Great Father forgotten his children? We want to live
in our country, or have pay for it, as our Great Father is used to
do with his other red children. We, the Arickarees, have been
driven from our country on the other side of the Missouri River by
the Dakotas. We came to our brothers, the Gros Ventres and Mandans;
they received us as brothers, and we all live together in their
village. We thank our brothers very much. We want our Father to
bring us guns to hunt with, and we want dresses, coats, pants,
shirts, and hats for our soldiers, and a different dress for our
chiefs. We want a school for our children. Our hearts are good. We
do not speak with two tongues. We like to see our white brothers
come among us very much. We hear bad talk, but have no ears. When
we hear good talk, we have ears.

his
WHITE x SHIELD.
mark

To our Great Father in Washington.

INDIAN TRADING.

A bargain is never concluded so long as anything more can be obtained by an Indian from a white man. This feature of Indian character is very old indeed. I remember, when a child, that when one gave his brother a ball, or anything, and took it back again, he was called "an Indian giver." Mr. Hinman gives this experience: "If an Indian (not a Christian) gives, he expects soon to ask more in return. This is the selfish habit of all heathen, and when they have power, they often accompany their demands for gifts with threats of killing one's horse, etc., if their demands are not complied with. They seem to know nothing of disinterestedness, except among persons nearly related. An Indian will press you with his pipe one day, and the next, with a polite speech about not intending to ask pay for his pipe, which he treasured highly, intimates that he needs a blanket!

"One will offer to assist you to work for a day, and the next ask to borrow two dollars. They try to get you so indebted to them for favors, that you cannot decently refuse their requests. In all their speeches they try to prove to you that you are indebted to them." So one will ask as few favors of them as possible. He says, "I was surprised at the Yankton agency, to have some young men offer, without any pay, to cut all the timber and do all the work on a building for the council-room for the Mission. The change came sooner under their limited instruction than I had expected, and almost immediately the chief, 'Swan,' offered to cut logs and build a house for a chapel-school at his camp, opposite Fort Randall. The chief, Mad Bull, offered the same for the other end of the reservation, near Choctaw Creek.

"Among those heathens that have borne Christian fruits with the Santees, is 'Little Pheasant,' chief of the wild Brule Sioux, who came down to restore to the Yankton reservation some stolen horses, and promised Paul Mazakuta to take a list of his men desiring instruction. God is moving the hearts of these wild Indians in a wondrous way.