Old Times in the Black Hills.
In the spring of '75 I found myself one of a party of six occupying a rude but strongly fortified stockade on French Creek, in the Black Hills, almost under the shadow of Calamity Peak, and not far from where Custer City was afterward built.
I had left Denver the previous fall, quite a tenderfoot, and, like Lord Lovel of milk-white steed fame, wanting "strange countries for to see," I determined to join a party that I heard was outfitting at Cheyenne to go into the Black Hills upon a hunting and prospecting tour, under the guidance of old California Joe, one of the most noted scouts and hunters in the West. At this time the presence of gold in the Black Hills was hardly known, and the country; being an Indian reservation, had not even been explored by white men, or surveyed by the government. The plans of the party in question suited my ideas exactly, and I soon found myself on the back of a "cayuse," followed by a good stout packhorse, equipped for a journey of several months, en route to Cheyenne, probably one hundred miles due north. After two days of hard riding I reached Cheyenne, and found that the party had started two days before, intending to cross the Platte River at Fort Laramie, another hundred miles north. Undaunted, I pushed on without delay, not even stopping to take a shot at any of the numerous bands of antelope that continually crossed my path. I reached the post the second day, only to learn from a "bull-whacker"—I dared not disclose my purpose to the officers—that the party I was looking for had been turned back by the troops as trespassers on Indian territory, and were supposed to have gone in the direction of Fort Fetterman. Though somewhat disheartened, I lost no time in following them, and soon rode into their camp, after dark, in a blinding snow-storm.
My welcome was anything but cordial. They regarded my story that I, a tenderfoot, had ridden through from Denver in four days to join them as suspicious, and believed, as I afterward ascertained, that I had been sent out from the post to spy upon their movements. As I rode into camp I noticed they were just finishing supper. During the argument that followed my arrival and proposition to join them, I observed a large, powerfully built man, dressed in buckskin, seated apart from the rest. He was eating the meat from a section of ribs he had scraped out from among the coals and ashes. He took no part in the conversation until, in answer to a question, I stated that I was a Kentuckian. At this he rose and settled the matter by saying that if I was a Kentuckian he would vouch for my honesty of purpose, and that I would stand fire in the scrimmages that we were certain to have with the Sioux. This was California Joe, who for years had been chief of scouts with General Custer. He afterward informed me that he was from near Danville, Kentucky, that his name was Mose Milner, and that he had gone West in the forties. I mention this from the fact that I have since read an account referring to him as one of the most noted characters in the West, whose life was surrounded by mystery, as he always refused to tell his real name or whence he came.
After waiting a couple of days for the river to fall, we forded just above the junction of the Laramie and the Platte. I came very near losing my packhorse and entire outfit, one horse being drowned in the treacherous quicksands in spite of our strenuous efforts to rescue him. At the end of a two weeks' journey through the best game country I ever hunted in, we entered the Black Hills proper, through Red Cañon, the place where the Metz party and many prospectors en route to the new Eldorado were afterward killed by the Indians. Old Joe had several opportunities to verify his good opinion of my ability to stand fire, as we were attacked by roving bands of Sioux at Alkali Springs, Hat Creek, and Red Cañon. Our first action was to erect a couple of log cabins and surround them with a strong stockade, with a bastion at each corner. We spent the entire winter here, feeling secure of our ability to stand off any bands of Indians that might attempt to dislodge us. We were utterly oblivious of the fact that the Indians had reported our presence, and that the government had sent out troops from both Red Cloud and Spotted Tail agencies to bring us in; one command, under Lieutenant Mix, returning after several weeks' unsuccessful search with a large percentage of the men suffering from frozen extremities.
In the early part of the winter game was plentiful; it was a perfect hunter's paradise, it being necessary only to sit in the stockade gate and shoot deer coming down to water. We frequently had eight or ten carcasses swung to our corner-poles, and did not deign to eat other than the choice pieces, throwing the remainder over the stockade walls to attract wolves at night. These we shot for their pelts. In the early spring the Indians coming in for "tepee" poles burned the country for miles around us, and quite a little jaunt became necessary to find game. We generally took turn about at supplying the table with meat, and it eventually proved anything but a sinecure.
On one such hunt I met with a rather curious misadventure. It being my turn to replenish the larder, which, by the way, had for several weeks contained absolutely nothing but meat,—not even coffee,—I placed a rawhide hackamore and a pack on "Coffee," an extra bronco I had bought, filled my pouch with a good supply of jerked bear-meat, and calling two of the dogs,—Kentuck, a greyhound, and Maida, a deerhound,—I struck out just as the sun was peeping over the hills. I decided to go to the foot-hills in the direction of Buffalo Gap, in the hope of finding antelope in some of the valleys. Noon found me near Point of Rocks and still tramping, "Coffee" trailing leisurely along, at times dropping entirely out of sight while looking for unburned grass, then whinnying and scampering after me full tilt, like a boy just out from school. I had seen several deer and a couple of sheep, but none within range.
Here I came upon some cottontail rabbits, the first and only ones I ever saw in that part of the country. They were not frightened by my presence, evidently never having been disturbed by man. I tried a shot at one very near me, and as I was using 107 grains of powder, entirely overshot him. Although the smoke of the gun reached him, he did not budge an inch; a second shot literally scattered him to the winds. The dogs, returning at this point, quickly despatched several.