The Indian War of 1864 - Chapters 16-18



CHAPTER XVI.
JULY 18, 1864.--RETURN FROM FORT KEARNEY.--INDIANS AT COTTONWOOD.--COUNCIL 
OVERDUE.--PREPARATION TO MARCH.--GENERAL MITCHELL ARRIVES.--PAWNEE 
BATTALION.--THE COUNCIL MEADOW, JULY 19, 1864.--THE COUNCIL.--THE FLIGHT 
OF THE INDIANS.--THE RETURN TO COTTONWOOD.--START FOR FORT LARAMIE.--CAMP 
AT JACK MORROW'S.--BEN GALLAGHER AND JOHN SMITH.--LINE OF MARCH.

   WHEN I got back to the post, July 18, 1864, as stated in the former 
chapter, I found camped two miles up the river a large number of Sioux 
Indians of various bands, all avowedly friendly, with some few Cheyennes, 
so it was stated, among them. The Sioux had come to bold the third and 
final council, adjourned to fifty days from the second. The council was 
three or four days overdue, General Mitchell being absent, and the Indians 
had waited and been fed in the mean time. The presence of this large body 
of Indians near the post practically blockaded the road at this point, 
hence the number of travelers at the post, and hence the dance of which I 
spoke. The Indians appeared quiet, but rumor had it that there were more 
"buck" Indians there than usual, and but few squaws and no small children. 
Nobody felt quite safe, and the post was carefully guarded and picketed, 
and the pilgrims and the travelers were organized for complete defense. 
"Hunter" and John Smith had been up to the camp and seen the Indians and 
tried to talk with them, but found them to be unsociable and non-
communicative, and reported their belief that the third council would be a 
failure. General Mitchell was reported as coming up the river with a 
battalion of Pawnee Indian scouts, said to be 200 in number, but in fact 
about 80. Trouble was feared, although we knew we could repulse any Indian 
attack.

   General Mitchell arrived early in the forenoon of July 19, 1864, with 
Company "D" of our regiment, as an escort, and Lieutenant John K. Rankin, 
a very brave and capable cavalry officer from Kansas, who had served down 
South, and from the very beginning of the war. He now resides at Lawrence, 
Kansas. General Mitchell left the Pawnee scouts back about three miles in 
camp, but came in with his escort, Company "D," an ambulance and two 
horses, one extra each for himself and Lieutenant Rankin.

   As both the Sioux and Cheyennes were now committing overt acts through 
the raiding parties of their young men, General Mitchell seemed to think 
that a council would be unproductive of results. Upon consultation he 
determined that he would not risk a failure, lest it might result in 
immediate trouble; but he thought that he would try his Pawnee Indian 
peace scheme and see how it would work. He had to try something, so that 
the Indians would not think they had come on a fool's errand. So he sent 
word to the Sioux to send their chiefs and head-men to an arroyo two miles 
east of the Post, and be there at two o'clock with the officer as a pilot 
and guard, who was sent with the message. This was Lieutenant Rankin, who 
had the interpreter "Snell" (Watts) with him. Then Mitchell caucussed with 
his officers and prepared his plans.

   There was a very wide grassy meadow three miles east of our Post and 
the arroyo was on the west side of it. The Sioux Indians began moving, and 
instead of a few going east to the place of rendezvous they all went, 
tepees, horses, dogs and all; and at two o'clock every Indian in the 
country round about, that we knew of, was there. They were all ready for 
traveling, and were racing their horses around and yelling, and evidently 
some of them had obtained some pilgrim whisky. A mile east of them was the 
"Pawnee Battalion," in a close group, with their horses all saddled and in 
hand. Between the two gangs of Indians was the escort of the General, 
already referred to, composed of Company "D" -- 65 men, of our regiment. 
The Pawnees and the Sioux had been engaged in exterminating each other for 
several years.

   Finally the Sioux party crossed the Arroyo, came east a little, and 
spread out towards the river, with everything in seeming readiness for a 
hasty movement, and they began shouting at the Pawnees, and the Pawnees, 
feeling safe, began shouting back. Up at the Post all of the soldiers were 
out under arms, and mounted, with Major O'Brien in command. All of the 
pilgrim trains were corralled and the men prepared and ready for trouble. 
General Mitchell left the Post before two o'clock and went down to the 
rendezvous, the grassy meadow, taking with him one hundred men from the 
Post of which fifty men were from our company, "F," and fifty from Company 
"C," the latter being under the command of its first sergeant. Captain 
O'Brien rode with General Mitchell and I took charge of the detail from 
our company, together with one of our brass howitzers. With General 
Mitchell rode all the interpreters he could get, about ten. General 
Mitchell was worried and angry.

   Captain North, of Columbus, Nebraska, of whom I have already spoken, 
was in command of the Pawnee Battalion, and said he preferred war to peace 
with the Sioux. He understood and spoke the Pawnee language well, and had 
with him two other men who could do the same.

   As General Mitchell came down with his troops and took a position on 
the side of the wagon-road, a little distance south of the meadow, the 
Indians on both sides seemed uneasy and began milling around on horseback 
and edging up nearer and nearer to one another, shouting and yelling at 
each other like a lot of demons.

   The first thing that General Mitchell did was to run a long thin line 
of cavalry from Company "C" between the Indians clear down through to the 
river. They were set about fifty yards apart from each other and were 
faced alternately east and west, with drawn sabres that flashed in the 
sun. Then General Mitchell ordered the howitzer to be unlimbered and 
loaded with shrapnel, with fuse cut two seconds. He then through the 
interpreters ordered the Indians on both sides to get back. Then he 
ordered a soldier to go forward to the center, take his sabre and stab it 
in the ground and leave it there to mark a talking-place; this the soldier 
did by sticking it in a big ant-hill that happened to be at about the 
right place. This sabre standing there stuck into the ground marked the 
talking-place. Then through the interpreters the General ordered each side 
to send their speakers dismounted and unarmed, not exceeding ten in 
number, to places on each side about one hundred feet from the center. He 
told them also that he would make a speech, as directed by the Great 
Father at Washington, and then he wanted to bear from them alternately, 
beginning with the Sioux. The stations on each side of the center for the 
oratorical delegates were marked out, and the delegates from each side 
took their respective places, coming from their tribes on foot with a 
slow, pompous step. When they had taken their stations, General Mitchell, 
in full uniform, in an imposing way, on his magnificent mahogany-bay 
horse, rode out to the center, which was about one hundred yards north. 
Close behind him was Captain O'Brien, all togged out, finely mounted and 
looking like a duke. With him was our company bugler. Behind them rode two 
interpreters for the Sioux language and two for the Pawnee. The General on 
arriving at the center halted, turned and saluted the Sioux, then turned 
and saluted the Pawnees; then he gave a signal to the bugler; he came 
forward and gave some loud bugle-calls to the Pawnees, then turned and 
gave the same thing to the Sioux. Then by command of the General, after 
about two minutes of dignified silence had elapsed the bugler passed to 
the rear and sounded, "Forward," at which signal I moved up with my 
detail, as did also the howitzer and about a dozen citizens and the escort 
Company "D" and the balance of Company "C." Altogether there were about 
one hundred and ninety white men, eighty Pawnees, and about four hundred 
Sioux and their associates. The white command was drawn up to within about 
fifty feet of the General, and by his order the howitzer was put in 
position, pointing at the Sioux and masked in between an open-order 
arrangement of the cavalry.

   The General had been advised to put as much pomp and ceremony into the 
proceedings as possible, and right well he did it. When all was arranged 
and in order, he directed the interpreters to come out in front of him, 
and then he, sitting on his horse, facing north, turning neither to the 
right nor left, nor towards the Indians, began his speech. He stopped at 
the end of each sentence, and the head interpreter shouted and translated 
the sentence to the Sioux. Then the other interpreter did the same thing, 
shouting the translation to the Pawnees. It was very deliberate, and 
plenty of time was given after each sentence for the Indians to get it 
straight among themselves. The general had told the interpreters what his 
speech was, and they had the translation all studied out. I was where I 
could hear it all, and it was easy for me to write it down, it went so 
slowly. His words were as follows.

   "Brothers: The Great Father in Washington sends me here to tell you 
that it makes his heart ache to see his red children fighting with each 
other. [Pause.]

   "He wants to see them all living in peace with each other, for they are 
all equally his children. [Pause.]

   "There is land enough and water enough and game enough and grass enough 
for all. [Pause.]

   "The Great Father wants his red children to live peaceably with his 
white children and with each other, because they are all brothers. [Pause.]

   "As long as the red children war with each other they cannot make 
progress, nor have so much to eat, nor as many horses, nor as many 
children. [Pause.]

   "The Great Father Wants to see his red children to become numerous, and 
have horses and cattle and children, and plenty to eat. [Pause.]

   "He wants you to pledge yourselves on each side not to interfere with 
each other's hunting parties, and not to cross the neutral strip on the 
north side of the Platte. [Pause.]

   "And he wants you both to promise not to steal each other's horses, and 
not to kill each other, and not to prowl around each other's villages. 
[Pause.]

   "Then, if you do this, the Great Father will be glad because you obey 
him, and he will help you, and if you suffer he will have rations issued 
to you so that you will not starve. [Pause.]

   "Now, speak out your minds on this subject, and talk straight and say 
what you will do, so that I may tell the Great Father what you think, and 
how you feel and what you will do. [Pause.]

   "If you do not agree, I will speak again."

   Here the General stopped, but he never got a chance to carry out the 
threat of his last sentence. Having finished and the last word having been 
interpreted and delivered, the General gave a signal to the trumpeter, and 
he came forward as before and gave a blast to each side. Then a very 
awkward silence set in, and for ten minutes not an Indian stirred. There 
was a decorum and deliberation to the actions of the Indians that 
impressed us all that the General had undertaken an embarrassing and 
difficult job. The waiting became oppressive, and the Indians were grouped 
together in a compact and motionless mass on each side. After the General 
spoke, then one Indian from each speaking station went back to tell his 
people what the General had said, but the Indians kept silent after 
receiving the messages.

   Finally, a Sioux dressed and decorated with eagle feathers and paint 
came forward to the center where the sabre was sticking in the ant-hill. 
He carried something that looked like a long buckskin bag with a cane in 
it. He began to talk slowly, and his words were first translated into 
English and then by another interpreter shouted to the Pawnees in their 
own language.

   This first speaker opened out in a conciliatory way which promised 
well. He said that he wanted to please the Great Father and wanted to 
please General Mitchell. He did not think that the Pawnees amounted to 
much, and was willing to leave them alone. Then he went into a swaggering 
talk of how great a nation the Sioux were, and how brave they were. It 
looked as if he were talking one word at the Pawnees and two at General 
Mitchell. The latter sat on his horse, looked disgusted and said nothing.

   The Sioux speaker went back to his station, and after a long, 
deliberate wait, out came a Pawnee, bareheaded and with a pair of blue 
army trousers on. He proceeded to say that the Pawnees in olden times had 
owned all of the land south of the Platte, even the country they were then 
standing on, but that smallpox had scourged them and they were now settled 
on land which they liked, and which the white man conceded them, and that 
they preferred peace, and would be willing to live at peace with the Sioux 
and Cheyennes if the latter would be peaceful.

   Then a Sioux came forward after a prolonged silence, and made a dreary 
and unemotional speech, most of it a boast as to who his ancestors were 
and what they had done, but he was willing to let the Pawnees alone if the 
Great Father wanted it done.

   Then a Pawnee replied in much the same strain, and to the effect that 
the Pawnees were not afraid of the Sioux, and never had been, but would 
live at peace with them or anybody else that the Great Father requested.

   The first three or four speeches on each side looked as if they might 
get down to business and accomplish something at last, or agree to 
something. The speeches were not made by the warriors or leaders, but by 
the talkers. They were probably a cheap lot who represented the tribe only 
in a slight way and were put forward just to say nothing and commit their 
sides to nothing. The interpreters said that the speakers were a snide 
lot, and that the real fighters and leaders were not heard. The substance 
of the speeches was mostly brag, and under the circumstances seemed 
childish and inappropriate. The speakers did not seem to want to grasp the 
situation. Perhaps they did not dare to commit their sides to a policy for 
which they might be killed in a week. At any rate, the talking grew 
tiresome, and nothing to the point.

   Then a Sioux speaker came in on turn after several had spoken; he said 
that he did not see any particular reason for changing present 
conditions -- that the Sioux nation was getting along all right, That if 
the Great Father could not stop his white children from fighting how could 
he expect to stop the red. This was a palpable hit -- a good one -- the 
Civil War was then being strenuously fought every day. The General sat on 
his mahogany bay listening to every word, and now he smiled a faint and 
sickly smile.

   The Pawnee speakers seemed to favor peace and raise no impediments to 
an agreement, but the Sioux began to grow worse and worse, until they 
began to abuse the Pawnees roundly. One after another spoke, and still the 
Pawnees held their temper, and when they spoke generally consented to a 
trial of peaceful relations.

   About sundown a Pawnee speaker closed his speech by saying that the 
Pawnees were listening to the advice of their Government agents and the 
army officers whom the Great Father had sent among them, and had not done 
anything lately of which the Sioux could complain.

   Just as the sun was setting the last Sioux speaker took the center and 
gave a violent harangue with much gesticulation, working in much of the 
sign language which the Pawnees could understand but we could not. "Liar, 
liar," said the Sioux orator as he thrust forward from his chin his right 
hand closed with the two front fingers spread and extended, signifying 
forked tongue, -- "Liar; they all are forked tongues; while these few are 
up here talking peace to us, the moccasin-tracks of their young men can be 
seen all around our villages, trying to steal our horses and scalp our 
children. Besides all this, what are they doing up here now, and whom are 
they going after to fight?"

   The speaker spoke with such rapidity and vehemence that he soon outran 
the interpreters and they quit, but the Pawnees knew from the signs that 
were made what was being said, and they began to murmur and shout back. 
But the Sioux speaker was wound up and set going and he had to run on 
until he ran down. He was talking to himself and the universe, and did not 
heed and could not wait for an interpreter.

   Finally General Mitchell rode up and called a halt; the bugler blew a 
call; the sun had set; the convention was a failure. He ordered the 
Pawnees back; he ordered me to deploy my men down the center. Then he 
ordered the Sioux to cross the river, go north, keep out of the Platte 
valley, and not stop for three days. The Sioux Indians began howling and 
shouting; in a body they plunged into the river and soon were across; but 
they kept on yelling as they went north, and we heard them for a couple of 
miles until their yells died out in the distance. We hurried back to the 
Post, followed by the Pawnees and Company "D."

   We waited at the Post but a few minutes, and all started off on the 
march toward the west, except Company "C"; it remained back to guard the 
Post. We took our two pieces of artillery and our wagons. We were now 
headed for Fort Laramie, a distance of about three hundred miles. The 
Pawnee Indians were taken along.

   Our line of march was as follows:

   First, an advance guard of ten cavalrymen of my company, in my charge. 
Next, General Mitchell, Major Wood, Lieutenant Rankin, and John Smith, the 
guide, on horseback. Next, the General's ambulance, and the two horses of 
the General and Lieutenant Rankin. Next, came about a dozen civilians, 
guides and interpreters on horseback. Next, six wagons, each drawn by six 
mules, being one for headquarters and the civilians, two for each company, 
and one for the Pawnees. Next, our Company "F," in command of Captain 
O'Brien, seventy men. Next, Company "D," in command of Captain Fouts, with 
sixty-five men. Next, the Pawnees. Including drivers all we numbered about 
160 white men and eighty Indians. Major Woods was in charge of the escort, 
and no better man could have been found. Captain Fouts was an old man, 
brave but inefficient; he was shortly afterwards killed in battle with the 
Indians. We got into Jack Morrow's late, and found there about forty 
citizens, all under arms. We had two days' cooked rations with us, and 
when we got into camp we got some cedar wood from Morrow and cooked a 
little coffee. It was hot, and we posted our guards and pickets and lay 
down on the prairie, to sleep.

   I had forgotten to say, that along with General Mitchell there had come 
up from Fort Kearney with him Major Armstrong, who was Chief of Cavalry 
and inspector of the District. He was making a careful inspection of all 
the posts and troops in the command, He was very strict and put in his 
time faithfully and very industriously. He examined our stables, barracks, 
horses, and supplies. He watched us march; he looked us over, and into 
everything. We never knew what conclusion be came to or what was the 
result of it all until when, nearly two months afterwards, the Captain got 
the following letter:

"HEADQUARTERS, DEPARTMENT OF KANSAS,
OFFICE OF CHIEF OF CAVALRY,
FORT LEAVENWORTH, August 1, 1864.

"Captain N. J. O'Brien,
Commanding Co. 'F,' Seventh Iowa Cavalry,
Cottonwood Springs.

   "CAPTAIN: The Cavalry Inspection report of Chief of Cavalry, District 
of Nebraska, shows eight enlisted men of your company as "present sick,' 
and it is properly explained in remarks of Chief of Cavalry.
   "On close examination, I find that in every particular the report is 
very satisfactory, and shows a company that you should feel proud of, and 
which is an honor to the regiment of which you are a part. The District 
Chief of Cavalry in his remarks adds:
   "COTTONWOOD SPRINGS, July 19, 1864. -- Company "F," Seventh Iowa 
Cavalry, inspected this day, and Company marched same day after 
inspection. Clothing, camp, and garrison equipage in good order.'
   "Respectfully forwarded through Hd. Irs. Dist. of Nebraska.

Very respectfully,
Your Obt. Servant,
B. S. Henning,
Major and Chief of Cavalry, Department of Kansas."


   This letter when received, long afterwards, was read at the head of the 
company for at least a week at evening roll-call, after which the Captain 
gave it to me to preserve.

   It was so flattering that to preserve my reputation for truth and 
veracity I feel that I ought to append a photograph copy, which I do.

[image caption: The chief of Cavalry's compliments to Co. "F," 7th Iowa 
Cavalry.]

   Returning now to our camp, at Jack Morrow's that night, I will add that 
Ben Gallagher, our post sutler, together with "John Smith," the guide, 
came with us. That evening, when our horses had all been tied to the 
picket-rope between our two company wagons, we all lay down on the prairie 
with our heads in our saddles to go to sleep. General Mitchell was in his 
ambulance and the companies were off one side. What took place that night 
I will leave for another chapter. It was ten miles from Cottonwood Spring 
to Jack Morrow's ranch. We had had a busy day of it. It was a beautiful, 
bright moonlight night.



CHAPTER XVII.
THE CAMP AT JACK MORROW'S.--JOHN SMITH'S STORY.--THE SOLDIERS' SUGGESTION

   I WAS lying on the prairie at midnight, all alone, with my head in the 
saddle, about midway between General Mitchell's ambulance and my company, 
each about fifty yards distant, thinking of the strange events of the day, 
and wondering what the Indians would do next. Captain O'Brien was about 
one hundred feet from me, going to sleep with Lieutenant Rankin. I had 
taken a final look at the bright, beautiful moon, and had about got into a 
doze when along came Ben Gallagher and "John Smith," leading their horses. 
Ben Gallagher went to his saddle-pockets and pulled out a yellow earthen 
bottle made in the form of a book, and labeled on the back "History of the 
War." It had an aperture and cork at the top, and held about a quart. He 
handed it to me; I examined it and read a page or two. John Smith said, 
"Let's camp with Lieutenant Ware." So they both took their saddles off, 
spread their blankets near me, took their horses to the picket-rope, tied 
them, and came back. Gallagher and Smith began alternately taking little 
chapters from the "History of the War," and finally they lay down on the 
ground near me, and we looked up at the moon and were about to go to 
sleep. The whisky had loosened up the tongue of "John Smith," and as we 
lay there on the wild flat prairie, out in that wild flat country, with 
our heads near together in our saddles, and while the wolves out in the 
hills were howling, Smith told the following story, of which I made full 
notes at the time, and which I can remember now as well as if it were told 
yesterday, so profound was the impression it made.

   I will repeat practically what John Smith said, in his own talk, as I 
put it down afterwards:

   "After I graduated at Yale College I thought that literature was what I 
wanted to follow, and I tried my hand on a newspaper in Iowa, but finally 
determined to go West and as everybody was striking out for Pike's Peak -- 
it was 'Pike's Peak or Bust' -- I concluded to try Pike's Peak, and if I 
didn't like it I would go on through to California. I got to Omaha, and 
finally got in with a train; I had some horses, and I went along with the 
train, paying my bills for myself and my horses. I got right awful sick, 
and they thought I was going to die, I didn't know what I was about; 
thought so too; didn't much care what happened, and they left me at a 
ranch not far from Gilmans'. And I surprised them all by finally getting 
well, but I had been sick a long time, lost everything, and I didn't get 
well very fast. There were Indians around all the time. I heard them talk, 
and sort of picked up the language. I had studied Latin and Greek and 
French, and knew something of the other languages, and I found it wasn't 
difficult for me to pick up the Cheyenne language, and the Sioux. I 
finally got well so I could ride a horse, but I didn't have a cent left. 
Somebody got my horses, and I got cared for. Don't know exactly how it was 
arranged, but I was very much scared about myself. I didn't get my 
strength back very fast, and I was afraid to do anything much. I went up 
to Gilmans' one day, and Gilman asked me if I didn't want to go over on 
Red Willow Creek and trade with the Indians some for him. After 
negotiations, finding out that Gilman would furnish me a half-breed 
interpreter, and give me a good show on the profits, I went over there, 
and I picked up their language right off, both the verbal and the sign, 
and made myself agreeable to all the chiefs, and did pretty well. Gilman 
was pleased, and I kept going backwards and forwards, and I made Gilman a 
whole lot of money, and made something for myself. After I had been with 
the Indians for a while I got a big disgust on with civilized life, 
concluded there wasn't much to it, and that I would rather live like an 
Indian than a white man. I had a talk with Gilman, and Gilman was so 
satisfied with my work that he offered to back me right along as a sort of 
partner. Well, I got sort of stuck on Indian life, thought I would rather 
be an Indian, and I married the daughter of the chief in the band there on 
the Red Willow. He wasn't the head of the Cheyennes, but he was the head 
of that band. And I got a nice teepee (tent), and some horses and dogs and 
two children, one of them a boy and the oldest a girl, and I was 
considered one of the band. When there was anything to come up, they asked 
me what I thought about it, and I never tried to become chief, nor 
anything of that kind, and consequently I didn't have any trouble with any 
ambitious Indian; I was living there all right until they tried to get the 
Cheyennes into this war. I saw there was going to be a whole lot of 
trouble. Indians from the south came up there, and things got distracted. 
They called a large meeting down near the mouth of Red Willow where our 
camp then was, and there came in Cheyennes from down below. The meeting 
was a big meeting. We had a big bonfire, and the young bucks were all 
talking war, and I didn't know exactly what to do. My wife told me that 
there was going to be trouble, and that if I wasn't careful some of them 
would shoot me. One evening at a big camp-fire there was an Indian who 
said he was a Kioway. I don't know whether he was or not. He was an Indian 
that spoke a different dialect from any that I knew of, but he could talk 
Cheyenne as plain as anybody, and he talked long and loud. He had set up a 
post near the fire, like a fence-post, and he had put a soldier's hat on 
it, that had the brass cross-sabers and trimmings of a cavalry soldier's 
hat. He would talk and get excited, and with his tomahawk he would chop 
into this hat on the post. I tilted up the corner of the tent and listened 
to all of it, and my wife went out to listen better. I saw the uproar 
getting greater and greater, and some of the young bucks got excited, and 
went to shooting their guns into the air. My wife went and got a pony as 
if leading it out to grass, and took it outside of camp up in the brush, 
and put a saddle and bridle on it and told me to find it. Then she told me 
to slip out, and get on it and skip, while she went and sat down near the 
scene, and watched what was going on. I thought things might cool down, 
but the spasm grew worse, and they got to howling and yelling and singing 
war-songs, and everybody was around the camp-fire. I kissed my two 
children good-by, little half-breeds, but mighty pretty for Indians; I 
slid out and got onto that horse and rode. I struck for Cottonwood Canyon. 
It is a pretty long trip, but I rode pretty fast, and I got up to the head 
breaks about dawn, when right up out of the grass in front of me rose two 
Cheyenne Indians, both of them with bows and arrows, and I didn't have a 
gun. I was a refugee. I didn't dare have a gun. They took me prisoner; I 
said to myself, 'Now my time has come.' They asked me where I was going, 
and I told them that I was going down to Cottonwood Canyon to get some 
ammunition, supplies and whisky. My pony was plumb used up, and they made 
me get off, and one of them said, 'Come with us,' and I said, 'No,' I 
wanted to go down and get my staff. Then the Cheyenne drew an arrow up to 
its head, and punched it up against me, and I, of course, knew if he let 
go of the bow-string the arrow would go right through me. I supposed they 
would take me down to the canyon, tie me up to a tree, build a fire around 
me, and have some fun. I had to go, but I kept thinking, and watching for 
something to do in the way of an escape, when all at once they stopped, 
and one of them went into some bushes and pulled out a little keg of 
Indian whisky. Then I saw that they both had been drinking, and that their 
actions were due to drink. The whisky was awful stuff, made out of 
alcohol, water, red pepper and molasses, and these two Indians had got 
this keg hidden up in the breaks at the head of Cottonwood Canyon, and 
were having a great time. One of them had a big tin cup, and he filled it 
plum full, and handed it to me to drink. I said to him that it would kill 
me, that I couldn't drink it; and they told me that I must drink it, and I 
took a sip. Then they told me to go on drinking; then they would draw 
arrows each one up to its head, and with the bow thus drawn, punch me with 
the sharp point of the arrow. They would punch me in the ribs with it, 
they would punch me in the neck with it. I knew if they would relax just a 
little and the arrow was released I was a dead man. I said to myself, 
they're going to get me drunk and then roast me. I would take a sip and 
they would laugh in a diabolical manner, and draw the arrow up again to 
the full, and punch me with it and say, 'Drink.' Well, I kept sipping, and 
expostulating, but it wouldn't do. I concluded I would rather be roasted 
drunk than sober. One of them would laugh and howl as he watched the other 
one punch me with drawn arrow, and they would take turns at this, and take 
turns at laughing. Well, I don't know, but I guess I drank it all up. I 
bade myself good-by, and farewell, and did it more than once. I know I 
kept sipping and they kept prodding me with drawn arrows. I remember 
falling to the ground, and trying to get up, and I remember those fellows 
dancing around, shouting and having fun, while I was thinking my end had 
come.

   "Well, sir, I wasn't hurt. I woke up with hardly any clothes on. They 
took my moccasins and my coat, but when I woke up the sun was shining down 
on me, hot and blistering, and I didn't know where I was, and I didn't 
know whether I was dead or alive, and such a raging thirst and fever I 
never had. My head was bursting wide open, and my mouth all dry and crisp. 
My tongue was rough like shark-skin. I tried to get up, but fell over, and 
it sort of began to dawn on me that I was alive. There was nobody around, 
and I couldn't tell where I was, and I finally saw the depressions of the 
ground, and I made up my mind that I must find water. I went stumbling 
down the grade, and every once in a while I would fall over, and lie 
there, and after a while I would get up, and I thought I would choke to 
death, and never find any water. From time to time I went on down and 
would fail, and have a momentary lapse of memory, and finally I struck a 
little muddy pool, and I went into it, and drank and vomited, and drank 
and rolled over in the water and mud, and lay there. Then I got out, and 
went farther down, but I went mighty slow, and every once in a while I 
would strike another little pool full of alkali and trash, and I would go 
into it, and roll in the mud and rub my hair with the water and mud, 
trying to ease my headache, and finally I got down to where there was some 
water that was drinkable, and then I began to revive. Finally I struck a 
place where I just lay down in the water and went to sleep, and I kept 
waking up; and that's the way I went down to Cottonwood Canyon. I got up 
from one of those mud-holes where I had rolled and slept all night, and 
then went down to the camp where you first saw me, which accounts for the 
horrible appearance that I made. I had, I guess, drank a quart of that 
whisky; it was a wonder it did not kill me. ("John Smith's" first 
appearance at our camp will be found in Chapter 13.)

   "Now, in fact, I wasn't in the danger I thought I was in. These 
Cheyennes had been out on an expedition to get some whisky, and didn't 
know what was going on in the village. I thought they bad been sent ahead 
to intercept me, but as a matter of fact they didn't know anything about 
what was going on. They were having some private fun with me. That was an 
Indian way of having some fun. But I never expected to get through without 
being tied up to a tree and burned. I have not been back, couldn't get 
back, but I would like to see those two children, and have no doubt that I 
will. My Indian wife is all right, first-class for an Indian, but I got 
about through with my wanting to live the life of an Indian."

   The next day one of the men of my company, as I was riding alongside of 
him, said to me: "I believe I know that John Smith. I used to live in 
Ottumwa, Iowa, and there was a fellow came on there from Yale College, and 
cut a good deal of a swell, and edited a newspaper, and got in a woman 
scrape, and skipped the town. I have forgotten his name. It was several 
years ago, but it wasn't John Smith, and I believe he is the same fellow." 
To this I made no reply, except to say: "You are so liable to be mistaken 
that you hadn't better say anything about it; you may have a controversy 
and this man will call you out, and you will have to shoot him or he will 
shoot you. I don't care about losing any of my men, and I guess you hadn't 
better say anything about it at the present." He did not know John Smith's 
story, as told to me in the moonlight. I never found out Smith's true name.



CHAPTER XVIII.
JULY 20, 1864.--TRAINS CORRALLED.--THE INDIAN PEACE PROPOSITION.--GENERAL 
MITCHELL'S DISAPPOINTMENT.--O'FALLON'S BLUFF.--THE PINCHBECK WATCH.--SMOKE 
SIGNALS.--HOWLING OF WOLVES.--THE PLATEAUS.--THE ASH HOLLOW ROUTE.--JULES' 
RANCH.--FLOUR-AND-WHISKY MORTAR.--THE CALIFORNIA CROSSING.--THE MORMON 
CROSSING.--THE STROKE OF LIGHTNING.--JULY 22ND.--MAJOR WOOD.--THE 
CROSSING.--THE LAST WAGON.  

   THE NEXT DAY, July 20, 1864, Major Woods, of our regiment, in command, 
we marched west. The weather was hot, and the wind from the south came 
over the baked plains dry and lifeless. A cloud of dust floated to the 
north. The trains, what few there were, were all corralled at stations, 
waiting for escorts. They were waiting to fall in with any escorted train 
going their way. General Mitchell was urging his men forward, and we were 
going west at a pretty rapid rate, so fast that no train could long keep 
in sight of us. There were rumors of herders being killed, and of Indians 
being in the hills along our route. Wherever we saw a train corralled, the 
pilgrims had stories of seeing Indians in the hills and of seeing Indians 
crossing the river stealthily. But no Indians were yet visible to us. 
During the day Lieutenant Rankin came and rode with me, and we talked over 
the Indian council. Rankin said the General was angry and mortified over 
it; that if it had been successful it would have been a great achievement 
and much to his reputation and credit; that it was not Mitchell's idea, 
but that a lot of preachers had got at President Lincoln and insisted that 
the preachers should have the control of the Indian situation, and that 
the various sects should divide the control among themselves -- that is to 
say, the Methodists should have so much jurisdiction, the Catholics so 
much, the Baptists so much, and so on, and that they were worrying Lincoln 
a good deal, and that they wanted him to take immediate steps to have an 
universal Indian peace between all the Indians. Lincoln yielded to much of 
it and had sent for Mitchell and told him to take up the matter and see 
what he could do. Mitchell did his best, but failed, and was now studying 
up, as he rode along, what his report and recommendations should be. He 
was telling Rankin from time to time how to prepare the report and what to 
put in it, and was adding here and there an occasional malediction on the 
preachers.

   On the evening of July 20, 1864, we reached O'Fallon's, where there had 
been a ranch kept by Bob Williams. O'Fallon's Bluffs was about 50 miles 
west of Cottonwood Springs, and was another of the great crossing-places 
for the Indians going north and south, and General Mitchell afterwards 
ordered it to be fortified and guarded by a company of cavalry. At this 
point I made a discovery of a mistake, which I think I ought to record 
here. The evening before I left Fort Kearney, a young man came to me and 
said he wanted to have a little private talk. We went off to one side, and 
he said he was in a train that was camped near there that evening, and was 
going back to the States. He said his father was a wealthy man, and had 
made him a present on his birthday of a very fine gold watch which cost 
$200; that as a pilgrim he had been out west, and had had bad luck, and 
was now trying to get home. That he had run out of money entirely, and had 
nothing left but his father's present to get him back home to 
Indianapolis. He said he hated to part with the watch very greatly; that 
it was endeared to him by many associations, but that he had to have 
something to eat, and he had to get back home, and that his health was not 
very good anyway, and he wanted me to let him have money enough to get 
home, and I hold the watch. I asked him how much he wanted, and he said 
$50. He said that he had inquired about me, and found that I was all 
right, and that he wanted the privilege of sending me by express the money 
for the watch, and getting it back again as soon as he could get home. 
That as I was in the army he could always find me, while these other 
people were so light-footed that they were here today and somewhere else 
tomorrow. He told me that the watch was an elegant timekeeper, and he 
hoped that I would take good care of it until he sent for it. In the light 
of a solitary candle the watch was very beautiful and polished, and I 
handed the man $50, and he grasped my hand with emotion, and bade me an 
affectionate good-by. The latter part of the transaction was in the 
presence of two or three others, and while they did not know the facts, 
they knew that I had got the watch. I had not given the watch any 
examination until I got up the morning at Jack Morrow's, and it somehow or 
other had tarnished considerably since I got it, three or four days 
before, and I gave a good look at it, and saw that I had been fooled. I 
showed it to Lieutenant Rankin, and he said it was a "pinchbeck" watch. 
"Pinchbeck" was a compound metal made to resemble gold, and in those days 
was the synonym for bogus gold. I saw in a moment that I had been badly 
fooled, and fearing that it might get out, and be a good joke on me, I 
called up the First Sergeant of my company and told him that I had had 
opportunity of buying a cheap watch for him it which I desired to make him 
a present of, and I succeeded in escaping the ridicule which otherwise 
might have followed me for quite a while. I told nobody anything, but I 
afterwards heard of several similar circumstances. The watches were worth 
$48 a dozen, and this man or a body of men had scattered them along the 
road to ranches and pilgrims, from Denver to Omaha. It was in those days a 
new industry, and the right kind of man could make $1,000 a month at it in 
the Western country, until discovered.

   On July 21, 1864, we went about twenty-five miles, and camped at an 
abandoned ranch which had belonged to a man named Jereux. Ben Gallagher 
remained at O'Fallon's Bluffs, but our scout "John Smith" went with us. On 
the march up the river we met several large caravans of wagons, all armed. 
None of them bad less than one hundred armed men, together with a squad of 
cavalry and from three to half a dozen stages loaded with passengers.

   All day long on both sides of the river we saw smoke signals. In the 
evening at Jereux ranch the wolves howled around us in great numbers. We 
generally got up early, went into camp early in the afternoon, and grazed 
our horses until sundown. The grazing of horses was very hazardous. we 
took our horses and hobbled them by the left fetlock with the halter-
strap, tying their left hoof within eighteen inches of their heads, so 
that when the horse lifted up his head he pulled his foot up from the 
ground. They were hobbled in that manner successfully, and then the whole 
company was detailed out between them and the hills on foot, armed, 
remaining on guard until sundown, when the horses were brought in and tied 
half-and-half on each side of the picket-rope; then each of the horses was 
fed a quart of corn, and a guard was stationed out to prevent a run or a 
stampede.

   During the howling of the wolves at night, every once in a while John 
Smith would say, "Do you hear that wolf?" pointing in a certain direction, 
and would say, "That isn't a wolf -- that is a Cheyenne," and he told us 
that the Cheyennes by their wolf-calls had a method of signaling or 
communicating to those far back or in the distance, and communicating many 
things, such as the number of soldiers which they saw, and whether it was 
dangerous to attempt an attack or not, and so forth. He said he did not 
understand the signals, because they were agreed upon for the occasion 
only, and differed with the occasion.

   We noticed while marching that the ground rose in sort of steps on the 
plateaus and that we were getting up to a higher altitude. These steps 
were many miles apart, and the surface was getting, if possible, more dry, 
and desolate than it had been.

   The Salt Lake trail went by Fort Laramie. The old route crossed the 
South Platte a considerable distance east of Julesburg, and went over the 
dividing ridge to Ash Hollow, and down Ash Hollow to the North Platte. But 
the hills of Ash Hollow were very steep, and another road had been laid 
out.

   On the south side of the South Platte, perhaps about a mile east of the 
mouth of "Lodgepole Creek," a Frenchman by the name of Jules had started a 
trading-post. The place was a great Cheyenne crossing-ground going north 
and south, and a frequent place of Cheyenne rendezvous. It was also much 
used by the Sioux. The Cheyennes had a great liking for the country on the 
South Platte at the mouth of Lodgepole, and had had camps there for many 
years. Jules was said to be a half-breed French-and-Indian trader, and to 
have established this post for the purpose of trading with the Cheyenne 
Indians. It was said his name was Jules Beni but everybody called him 
"Jules." He was a man of keen native shrewdness, an exceedingly dangerous 
man, with a peppery, fierce disposition. He had killed several persons, 
and had become a great deal of a character in the country. A man who had 
known him several years told me that Jules once killed two persons of 
local celebrity, cut off their ears, dried them, and carried these four 
ears in his pockets. That every once in a while he would take them out and 
show them to somebody. They were great trophies, as he thought. He kept 
supplies for the pilgrims, and at one time had a large stock. An old 
pioneer told me that one time Jules got half drunk, and brought out 
several sacks of flour which he was selling for a dollar a pound, made a 
mortar-bed out of it in front of his store, knocked in the bead of a 
barrel of whisky which he was selling for $10 a quart, got a hoe, poured 
in the whisky, and got to making mortar in a manner as, he said, he had 
just seen a fellow doing down at Omaha, where he had been getting a stock 
of goods. This drunken freak represented the waste of several hundred 
dollars' worth of his stock. He got to be so bad and dangerous that Slade, 
the superintendent of the stage company, had to kill him.

   At the time of which I write, nothing was left of the Jules ranch; it 
was gone, but the stage company had a large stable there, and a large 
boarding-house a blacksmith shop, a telegraph station, a large sod corral, 
a wareroom built of cedar logs, and about eighty tons of shelled corn in 
sacks stored therein. There were quite a number of men there -- 
blacksmiths, relays of telegraph operators, perhaps a dozen stage-drivers, 
and men who were taking care of horses. I would say there were fifty men 
there, all armed to the teeth, and with everything arranged so they could 
fight behind sod walls, and make a desperate resistance.

   Ben Holladay claimed to be the owner and proprietor of all of this 
stage line and property, clear through to the Pacific Coast. He was a 
great celebrity. He was reputed to be very rich, and yet he had a 
reputation for great daring and a love for wild and dangerous life. His 
organization of this stage line across the continent in its then unsafe 
and lawless condition was a wonderful achievement. I saw him twice, 
passing on the road -- once at Fort Kearney and once at Julesburg, and he 
impressed me as a man of restless and untiring vigor.

   "Julesburg Station," as it was then called, was situated well down on 
the flats near where the course of the river then turned, and the main 
wagon-road ran alongside of the houses. There is a present town Julesburg, 
but it is on the other side of the river, and several miles farther down. 
The wood that was used was most of it cedar, hauled from Jack Morrow's 
canyon, and the balance of the building material was sod.

   Near this place, which I will call Old Julesburg, the river-crossing 
started in a little east of the station, not very far down the river, and 
went around in a curve, coming out say a quarter or half a mile farther up 
the river. There was another crossing farther up the river, that crossed 
over west of the mouth of Lodgepole; the two trails went up Lodgepole 
Creek on opposite sides, until they joined several miles farther up. Those 
present at that time were in the habit of calling the lower one the 
"California crossing," and the west one the "Mormon crossing," because it 
appears that the Mormon trains crossed there and went quite a distance up 
the west side of Lodgepole.

   The fact that General Mitchell was coming up the Platte to make an 
inspection, and organize military protection, and visit Fort Laramie, was 
noised around in advance, a great deal, and before we got to Julesburg 
wagons for the Salt Lake route had congregated in great numbers at 
Julesburg, and wanted to go up the road behind General Mitchell. As we 
approached near Julesburg, we came to a place where the river had at one 
time flowed close to the bank. There was a long stretch of dry sandy 
arroyo about eight feet below the sharp edge of the perpendicular bank. 
Along this bank ran the telegraph line.

   Before we reached the place a heavy storm was lowering. The air swirled 
around, and a cool wave descended. All at once a terrific storm broke in 
upon us from the southwest. We could hear it coming with continual 
resounding peals of thunder. Crash was following crash so loud, heavily 
and quickly that, fearful the horses would become terrified and break 
away, General Mitchell ordered the horses all to be taken down on the sand 
under the bank. Finally the General's horse, and the mules from the 
ambulance, and all were taken down under the bank. The storm at first went 
over our heads without rain, and furnished us a grand electrical display. 
The noise finally ceased for a little while, and there came a calm, and 
the boys got up on the edge of the bank above the horses, sitting down and 
holding their horses below them in the arroyo by the bridle-rein. We all 
thought the matter was about over, and were congratulating ourselves that 
we had not been soaked with a rain. We watched the electric storm roll 
over on the North Platte bills, when all at once came a flash of lightning 
and shock of thunder that knocked almost the entire company over. Several 
were stunned, several fell over the bank, and the balance jumped down. The 
lightning had struck one of the telegraph poles not far from us, and 
splintered the poles or damaged them for a great distance on each side. It 
was such an astonishing peal that it was a little while before anybody 
spoke. As we saw the wire lying on the ground, and the neighboring poles 
shattered, General Mitchell ordered two of the soldiers to go each way, 
and see how many poles were affected by that blow of lightning. The men 
reported that, taking the poles that were shattered or to some extent 
visibly damaged, there were thirty-three in number, which was nearly a 
half-mile on each side of us.

   In a little while it began a drizzling rain, and after it had rained 
enough to wet us all through, we arrived, July 22, 1864, at Julesburg, and 
found nearly three miles of wagons there. They wanted to go through on the 
Salt Lake Trail. They were camped along the line of the river; the grass 
had been pretty well eaten out; everybody in the pilgrim trains was mad, 
and most of them quarreling. Having no organized head, they did not intend 
to go across the river until they knew that General Mitchell had crossed 
the river with his soldiers, and had started up. They wanted to feel safe. 
Major Woods of the Seventh Iowa Cavalry was with us; he was a most active, 
daring and capable man. I have spoken of him herein before.

   The crossing of Platte River in those days with a train was a matter of 
very serious moment; but we had got used to the theory, and knew how to do 
it. It was to find a route that was the most firm, and then puddling it by 
marching one horse back of another until the quicksand became settled; 
then the road became firmer. The horses sometimes floundered greatly, but 
that served to settle the road. They were ridden across about ten feet 
apart.

   So the first thing to be done on this occasion was to pick out a road 
for the crossing of the present train. The action of the water in the 
river was such that a good crossing today might be a poor one next week if 
untraveled, and so each crossing was a matter of its own. There was at 
this time plenty of water in the river at Julesburg.

   On this occasion Major Woods started out with his horse to pick out a 
road across the river. He laid it out in a general way, so that he knew 
where he had been, and could see his own tracks. Then he came back, and 
the line of soldiers went over again right after him, and back, and made 
the road. In the mean time the wagons were ready, and the Major at the 
head of the wagon train, each wagon about one hundred feet behind the 
other, started across, with men of the train along the line standing in 
the water on both sides with whips to keep the horses stepping fast. If a 
horse should stop he would in course of time sink down in the quicksand, 
and the object was to have each wagon, one right behind the other, go as 
fast as the horses could pull it. The wagons started, and it was a roar of 
yelling from the time the first one went in, during all the afternoon, and 
well up into the night. The travelers had lanterns, and at night men with 
lanterns stood in the water on both sides of the track; and the Major kept 
bossing the job, hour after hour, riding backwards and forwards between 
the wagons, and once in a while changing his horse.

   Along about midnight one of the mule teams got balky, and the mules 
turned out of the road, and in the effort to get them back the wagon was 
halted until the mules could be backed again into line, and the result was 
that the wagon began sinking. The mules were taken out, and succeeding 
wagons went around the wreck, which was soon down to the bed in the mud. 
There was no way to stop a wagon alongside of the wreck, and take off its 
cargo, and Major Woods with some assistance struggled in vain to keep the 
wagon from sinking faster on one side than the other. In the work, and 
heroic tugging, which Major Woods did, he strained himself so that he 
himself had to be taken out of the river and carried over to his tent. The 
wagon slowly sank until it disappeared from sight in the fathomless sand 
below. Some of the natives around managed to save and confiscate some few 
things of the load, such as the bows and cover, meat, the driver's 
bedding, etc., but the wagon and almost its entire cargo disappeared -- 
went down where it was never recovered or could be found afterwards. In 
the morning the train was almost all across, with a reported loss of the 
wagon and two mules which were being led or driven, and which got where 
they could not be relieved, and sank out of sight. The lost wagon was 
reported to have been loaded with nails.

   Major Woods was put into an ambulance, and I saw no more of him until 
after we got to Laramie some days afterwards.

   When the train was all across, General Mitchell called the drivers 
together, and the different separate wagon-bosses, and told them that they 
had got to keep together, stay together, help each other, and fight for 
each other; that otherwise they were liable to be disbanded, murdered and 
plundered. He picked out what he thought were the best three wagon-bosses 
in the lot, and told these people that they must select one of them to be 
the boss during the trip, and that he would see that the one selected did 
the right thing, and if not he would put him in the guard-house at Fort 
Laramie when they passed. This arrangement proved very satisfactory, as 
the train went on through, presumably in good order, for it never reported 
any trouble after that. At the mouth of Lodgepole was a great area of 
flat, grassy land. It was a beautiful place for camp.