The Sioux uttered not a complaint, but endured all their sufferings with that stoicism for which the Indian is so justly celebrated, and which belongs to no other race in the world.
Sick at heart, I crept back to the ranch and went to bed, leaving the Indians engaged in a furious scalp-dance, and whirling the bloody scalps of the Sioux over their heads, with long poles to which they had them fastened.
Next morning, when I awoke, I found the Indians wrapped in their blankets, and lying asleep all around me. The excitement of the night had passed off, and brought its corresponding depression. They were very docile and stupid, and it was with some difficulty I could arouse them for the duties of the day. I asked several of them what had become of the Sioux prisoners, but could get no other answer than, “Guess him must have got away.”
I was sorely tempted to report the affair to the commanding officer at Fort McPherson, and have the Indians punished, but believing it would do more good in the end to be silent, I said nothing about it. After all, the Omahas and Winnebagoes had treated the Sioux just as the Sioux would have treated them, had they been captured, and so, it being a matter altogether among savages, I let it rest where it belonged.
I was for a time, in 1865, on duty at Fort Cottonwood, Nebraska, as adjutant of my regiment, the First Nebraska Volunteer Cavalry, when the scarcity of officers at the post made it necessary for the commanding officer to detail me, with thirty Indian soldiers, to proceed to, and garrison Jack Morrow's Ranch, twelve miles west of the fort, on the south side of the Platte River. The Sioux were very hostile then, and it was an ordinary occurrence for ranches to be burned and the owners killed.
Morrow's Ranch, unlike the little, low, adobe ranches everywhere seen, was a large three-story building, with out-buildings adjacent, and a fine large stable for stock, the whole being surrounded by a commodious stockade of cedar palisades, set deep in the ground, and projecting to the height of about ten or twelve feet above the surface.
Upon arriving at the ranch, late at night, my usually noisy Indians were quietly sleeping in the huge ox-wagons, which had been provided for transportation. I found the front of the ranch lit up by fires built between the stockade and the buildings on a narrow strip of ground, serving for a front yard. I had been informed by the commanding officer at Cottonwood, that Mr. Morrow was not living at his ranch, but was away East, and the object in sending me there was to prevent the Indians from burning so valuable a property. I was not prepared to find a party encamped at the ranch, and not knowing but that they might be Indians, waiting in so favourable a spot to waylay travellers or emigrants passing the road in front of the stockade, I told my drivers to halt their teams, and, quietly awakening my Indians, I bade them be in readiness to rush up if I should give them a signal by yelling, but to remain in the wagons until I called them, and to make no noise. I then quietly rode forward to reconnoitre, and as the stockade timbers were set very close together, I had to crawl up to the loop-holes cut in the timber to see what was going on inside. Standing on the ground, and holding my pony's nose with my hand to keep him quiet, I stood on my tiptoes, and could see, through one of the loop-holes, a curious sight, but one natural enough on the frontier.
Grouped around three small fires, built close to the front of the ranch, sat some ten or twelve weather-beaten men, whose hair hung to their shoulders, and each one of whom wore a slouched hat, a pair of revolvers, and a good stout knife, the inseparable companions of a western prairie man. All were intent on eating supper of fried bacon, slapjacks, and coffee.
They had no guard, doubtless feeling secure in their number and means of defence, against any Indian attack that might be made. “Hello!” I shouted, “have you got supper enough for one more?” “Yes, if you are white or red; but if black, no,” was answered back, with an invitation to “show” myself. I led the pony across the narrow trench which ran around the stockade, and, mounting him, rode into the yard. As I approached the party I overheard remarks, such as, “An army cuss”; “One of those little stuck-up officers.” But not appearing to have heard them, I got down, and asked what party they were. “Wood-haulers,” they replied; “taking building logs down the road”; followed by “Who are you, and where are you going this late at night?” I told them who I was, and that I had now finished my journey, as I intended to stop there. I was immediately informed in a curt manner that they guessed I was rather “mixed” about staying there, if I had any stock along, for the stables were full, and the ranch, too; and they had no room for any additional people or stock. I told them that I had two teams standing outside, and that it was my intention to put the mules and my pony in the stable; and if there was no room there, I should make room by turning out some of their animals. To this I was plainly told that I could neither turn a mule out nor put an animal in, nor could I remain at the ranch, which they had occupied for their own quarters, Jack Morrow having left and gone East, probably never to return. They said they were a little stronger in numbers than myself and my two drivers, and I must move on or they would make me. I told them that I was a United States officer, acting under orders, and that it would be an easy matter for me to ride back to Cottonwood and get men enough to enforce my orders unless they submitted. Several of the rough-looking fellows said that they each carried good revolvers, and that it was an easy matter to stop me if I attempted to return to Cottonwood, and swore they would do so. I remained quiet for a moment, and the leader of the party looking at me, asked: “What are you going to do about it?” “I am going to open the stables and put my animals in that shelter,” I replied, at the same time mounting my pony and riding out to the stables, a short distance in front of which stood my teams. Several of the frontiersmen got up, and, without saying a word, walked to the stables, and went up close to the doors. I ordered the teamsters to drive to the stables, unharness from the heavy ox-wagons, place their teams inside, and if they could not find vacant stalls enough, to untie and turn loose mules to empty the required number for my teams. The teamsters obeyed by driving up, and when they had dismounted and were about to unhitch from the wagons, one of the wood-haulers at the stable door said: “You can save yourself the trouble, mister, of unhitching them mules, for you ain't a going to put them in this stable; and the first man that attempts it I'll fix.”
“Suppose I wish to open that door and put up my teams,” said I, “without any trouble; wouldn't it be better for all concerned?” “You go to h——l!” he replied; and added, “You won't get in this stable; that's settled.” “I'll see about that!” and yelling “Turn out! Turn out!” in the Indian language, my soldiers jumped from the canvas-covered wagons, yelling like demons, and brandishing their carbines and revolvers in a threatening manner. Never were men so taken back as the wood-haulers. They were sure we were Sioux, and started to run, but I called them back. Not a word was then spoken while my Indians led the mules, that were now unhitched, into the stables.