The Indian scouts were not the faithful Osages or Kaws. They were Arikaras; a war-like tribe of smaller numbers than the southern Indians; their head scout was Bloody Knife. They hated the Sioux, and so did the Crows of Montana. The Sioux long had fought the Arikaras, and nowadays were constantly invading the country of the Crows, for scalps and horses.
With the Seventh were Dr. James Honzinger, the fat, bald-headed old veterinary surgeon of the regiment, and Mr. Baliran who was the post sutler. They were not enlisted men but were civilian employees, and accompanied the expedition as an outing. The general took Mary the black cook, for his mess.
It required a month of marching before, July 19, the Yellowstone River in Montana was reached. It had seemed much like old times, with the general leading on Dandy or Vic, in his fringed buckskins, his fringed gauntlets, his broad-brimmed hat, his blue shirt and crimson tie, and high, red-topped boots; the hounds galloping right and left, and plenty of hunting.
The engineer party, and the scientists who were along, must move slowly, taking many notes. Dr. Honzinger and Mr. Baliran insisted upon straggling and riding apart from the column, picking up specimens. They were warned that this was dangerous practice, but they did not heed, and refused even to carry any weapons.
Near where the Powder River empties into the Yellowstone the general took Captain Moylan’s company and Lieutenant Tom’s company, and Bloody Knife the Arikara scout, to explore the route ahead. No Indians had yet been sighted; but now, after a mile or two, Bloody Knife, stopping short, examining the ground, signed: “Indians have passed here.”
So they had: nineteen Sioux, by the fresh sign. They must have been reconnoitering the camp, and had traveled on to inform the main company of warriors.
Nevertheless, on rode the little squadron, until from the bluffs along the Yellowstone, green before them lay the beautiful valley of the Tongue River flowing up from the south. The general gave orders to make camp in a clump of cottonwood trees, and to wait for the column. With horses unsaddled and unbitted and staked out, and pickets posted, the command stretched out upon the ground for a rest. Most of the officers loosened their clothing and prepared to nap.
Ned was nodding, half asleep, when breaking the perfect calm, starting everybody with a jump, spoke the “Bang! Bang!” of the pickets’ carbines.
“Indians!” were shouting the pickets’ voices.
The camp was on its feet, peering and blinking. The pickets were kneeling and aiming; and beyond them, across the open valley were riding for the tethered horses a short line of painted horsemen.