Said he, "To think of that dog Chivington, and his hounds, up thar at Sand Creek! Whoever heerd of sich doings among Christians! The pore Injuns had our flag flyin over 'em, that same old stars and stripes thar we all love and honor, and they'd bin told down to Denver, that so long as they kept that flyin they'd be safe. Well, then, here come along that durned Chivington and his cusses. They'd bin out several days huntin hostile Injuns, and couldn't find none no whar, and if they had, they'd run from them, you bet! So they just pitched into these friendlies, and massa-creed them—yes, sir, literally massa-creed them—in cold blood, in spite of our flag thar—women and little children even! Why, Senator Foster told me with his own lips, (and him and his committee investigated this, you know), that that thar d——d miscreant and his men shot down squaws, and blew the brains out of little innocent children—even pistoled little babies in the arms of their dead mothers, and worse than this! And ye call these civilized men—Christians; and the Injuns savages, du ye?
"I tell ye what; I don't like a hostile Red Skin any better, than you du. And when they are hostile, I've fit 'em—fout 'em—as hard as any man. But I never yit drew a bead on a squaw or papoose, and I loathe and hate the man who would. 'Tain't nateral for brave men to kill women and little children, and no one but a coward or a dog would do it. Of course, when we white men du sich awful things, why these pore ignorant critters don't know no better, than to follow suit. Poor things! I've seen as much of 'em as any white man livin, and I can't help but pity 'em! They'll all soon be gone anyhow."
Poor Kit! He has already "gone" himself to his long home. But the Indians had no truer friend, and he would wish no prouder epitaph, than this. He and Sherman were great friends, and evidently had a genuine regard for each other. They had known each other in California in '49, when Sherman was a banker there, and Kit only an Indian guide. In '65, when Kit was at Leavenworth on a visit, Sherman sent for him to come down to St. Louis, and they spent some time together very pleasantly. Now Sherman returned his visit, by coming to Fort Garland, in the heart of the Rocky Mountains. It will be betraying no secret to say, that Sherman had but a poor opinion of the Plains country, especially of New Mexico and Arizona; for he did not hesitate to say so anywhere. While at Garland, he told the following good story one night, as we all sat smoking around the fire, and he will pardon me for repeating it here. He said the Quartermaster General during the summer had written him several letters, calling his attention to the enormous cost of our posts on the Plains, in New Mexico, etc., and begging him if possible to suggest some plan, that would reduce expenses, etc. "At first," said Sherman, "I paid no attention to these letters, because I could not help the matter. The Posts were there—established by order of the Hon. Secretary of War—and he knew it. Moreover, the people would have them there, and I could not help it, if they did cost a 'heap.' Above all, I was ordered to keep them up, and I always obey orders; so what could I do? So, at first, I did not answer his letters, but let him write away! But finally they got to coming so thick and long, that one day I sat down and replied, that the Posts were all there, and ordered there, as he knew, and we were bound to supply them, no matter what it cost. But that, in my judgment, of the whole vast region there, the greater portion was not worth a Confederate note to us, and never would be; and if he wished my opinion as to the best way of reducing expenses, I would respectfully recommend, that the United States sell New Mexico, and all the region round about, to Maximilian for $15,000,000, and lend him the greenbacks to pay with!
"I must say, the government don't seem to have considered my recommendation favorably yet. But neither have I received any more letters from the Q. M. Gen'l. So, I suppose, he is satisfied!"
He told this with infinite gusto, as if he enjoyed the joke hugely, and presently added:
"The idea, however, wasn't wholly my own, but was suggested by an old story we used to hear about Gen. Sumner. You knew Sumner, I suppose, in the East? We used to call him Bull Sumner, in old times, because he was so obstinate, and so thoroughly a soldier. Well, some years ago, he was sent out to command in New Mexico, and he certainly entered upon his duties with great alacrity and enthusiasm. He was going to explore the country, he said, make known its vast resources, pacify the Red Skins, induce immigration, settle up the country, and thus do away with our costly Posts, and all that. Of course, he was sincere in the matter—always was sincere—one of the honestest men I ever knew. So, he went to work, and for two or three years worked hard, summer and winter—did a vast amount of work. But, finally, he came to the same conclusion I have—viz. that the whole region was worthless—and reported to the Secretary of War, that in his judgment, the wisest thing we could do, would be to buy out the New Mexicans and pay them to emigrate—to old Mexico, if possible—and then throw the whole country open (and keep it open) to the buffalo and the Indians!
"Sumner, they say, recommended this seriously, and thought it a good thing. But I have never heard that the government agreed with him, any more than it will with me!"
These were the stories substantially; but it is impossible to give the twinkle of his eye, the jocular toss of his head, and the serio-comic twitch of his many-wrinkled features, as he got them off. Meanwhile he smoked furiously, and kept up that everlasting long stride of his up and down the floor, with his hands deep in his trowsers' pockets, as if he would never weary. Sherman is a great talker and smoker, and beyond doubt a great man and original thinker in many ways. At the Denver banquet, he made a better speech than his distinguished brother (the Senator from Ohio); and it is no wonder he outwitted Joe Johnston, and smashed Hood as he pleased, when "marching through Georgia." Neither is it any wonder, when you come to scan him closely, that he should sometimes err a little, as he did at Raleigh. Evidently, with all his great talents, now and then he needs a "governor" to steady him, as much as any other steam-engine does. Then, he is a hundred horsepower or more; and as General of the Army, long may he live!
The Treaty over, we returned to Denver through the heart of the Mountains, as related in the preceding chapter; and now for Salt Lake and beyond.