One day at sunset, Lieutenant Creede rode out from Ogallala, where the scouts were stationed, guarding the railway builders. It was customary for some one to take a look about at the close of day, to see if any stray Sioux were prowling around. About six miles from camp, he came to a clump of trees covering a half dozen acres of ground. Through this grove the scout rode, thinking perhaps an elk or deer might be seen; but nothing worth shooting was sighted, till suddenly he found himself at the farther edge of the wood and on the banks of the Platte. Looking across the stream, he saw a small band of hostile Sioux riding in the direction of the river, and not more than a mile away. His field-glasses showed him that there were seven of the Sioux, and without the aid of that instrument, he could see that they had a majority of six over his party. They were riding slowly in the direction of the camp. Creede concluded that they intended to cross over, kill the guards, and capture the Government horses. His first thought was to ride back to camp, keeping the clump of trees between him and the Indians, and arrange a reception for the Sioux.
The river was half a mile wide and three feet deep. Horses can’t travel very rapidly in three feet of water.
In a short time they had reached the water’s edge and the scout could hardly resist the temptation to await their approach, dash out, take a shot at them, and then return to camp. That was dangerous, he thought; for, if he got one, there would still be a half a dozen bullets to dodge. A better plan would be to leave his horse in the grove, crawl out to the bank, lie concealed in the grass until the enemy was within sixty yards of him, then stand up and work his Winchester. The first shot would surprise them. They would all look at their falling friend; the second would show them where he was, and the third shot would leave but four Indians. By the time they swung their rifles up another would have passed to the Happy Land, and one man on shore, with his rifle working, was as good as three frightened Indians in the middle of the river.
Thus reasoned the scout, and he crept to the shore of the stream. He had no time to lose, as the Indian ponies had finished drinking and were already on the move.
As the sound of the sinking feet of the horses grew louder, the hunter was obliged to own a feeling of regret. If he could have gotten back to his horse without them seeing him, he thought it would be as well to return to camp and receive the visitors there. Just once he lifted his head above the grass, and then he saw how useless it would be to attempt to fly, for the Indians were but a little more than a hundred yards away. Realizing that he was in for it, he made up his mind to remain in the grass until the Sioux were so near that it would be impossible to miss them. Nearer and nearer sounded the plunkety-plunk of the unshod feet of the little horses in the shallow stream, till at last they seemed to be in short-rifle range, and the trained hunter sprang to his feet. He had reckoned well, for the Indians were not over sixty yards away, riding tandem. Creede’s rifle echoed in the little grove; the lead leaped out and the head Indian pitched forward into the river. The riderless horse stopped short. The rifle cracked again, and the second Red Man rolled slowly from the saddle; so slowly that he barely got out of the way in time to permit the next brave, who was almost directly behind him, to get killed when it was his turn. The remaining four Indians, instead of returning the fire, sat still and stone-like, so terrified were they that they never raised a hand. Two more seconds; two more shots from the trusty rifle of the scout and two more Indians went down, head first, into the stream. Panic-stricken, the other two dropped into the river and began to swim down stream with all their might. They kept an eye on the scout and at the flash of his gun they ducked their heads and the ball bounded away over the still water. Soon they were beyond the reach of the rifle. Returning to their own side of the river, they crept away in the twilight, and the ever sad and thoughtful scout stood still by the silent stream, watching the little red pools of blood on the broad bosom of the slowly running river.
Three of the abandoned bronchos turned back. Four crossed over to Creede and were taken to camp.
The two sad and lonely Sioux had gone but a short distance from the river, when one of them fell fainting and soon bled to death. He had been wounded by a bullet which had passed through one of his companions who was killed in the stream. The remaining Indian was afterwards captured in battle and he told this story to his captors, just as it was told to the writer by the man who risked his life so fearlessly in the service of Uncle Sam.
CHAPTER IX.
SIT-TA-RE-KIT SCALPED ALIVE—AN INDIAN NEVER CARES TO LIVE AFTER HE HAS LOST HIS SCALP.
DURING the month of May, 1865, the scouts were given permission to go with the Pawnees on their annual buffalo hunt. The Pawnees were greatly pleased, for where there are buffaloes there are Indians; and the Sioux were ever on the lookout for an opportunity to drop in on the Pawnees when they were least expected. Late one afternoon a party, eight in number, of the scouts became separated from the main force during the excitement incident to a chase after buffaloes; and, before they had the slightest hint of danger, were completely surrounded by a band of at least two hundred Sioux. The hunters were in a small basin in the sand-hills while the low bluffs fairly bristled with feathers. The Sioux would dash forward, shoot, and then retreat. Lieutenant Creede, two other white men and five Pawnees composed the party of scouts. This little band formed a circle of their horses, but at the first charge of the savage Sioux, the poor animals sank to the sand and died. The scouts now crouched by the dead horses, and half a dozen Sioux fell during the next charge. One savage who appeared to be more fearless than the rest, dashed forward, evidently intending to ride over the little band of scouts. Alas for him! there were besides the Lieutenant, three sure shots in that little circle, and before this daring brave had gotten within fifty yards of the horse-works, a bullet pierced his brain. Instead of dropping to the ground and dying as most men do, this Indian began to leap and bound about, exactly like a chicken with its head cut off, never stopping until he rolled down within fifteen feet of the scouts.