On the Border with Crook

by John Gregory Bourke

One of the biggest liars among Stanton’s scouts—I do not recall whether it was “Slap-jack Billy, the Pride of the Pan-Handle,” or “Pisen-weed Patsey, the Terror of the Bresh”—was devoting a half-hour of his valuable time to “gettin’ in his work” on the victim, and was riding one pony and leading another, which he had tied to the tail of the first by a rope or halter. This plan worked admirably, and would have been a success to the end had not the led pony started at some Indian clothing in the trail, and jumped, and pulled the tail of the leader nearly out by the roots. The front horse wasn’t going to stand any such nonsense as that; he squealed and kicked and plunged in rage, sending his rider over his head like a rocket, and then, still attached to the other, something after the style of a Siamese twin, charged through the column of scouts, scattering them in every direction. But this paroxysm of hilarity was soon over, and the correspondent subsided into his normal condition of deep-settled melancholy. He left us when we reached the Yellowstone, and I have never blamed him.

One of the facts brought out in the telegrams received by General Crook was that eight warriors, who had left the hostiles and surrendered at Red Cloud Agency, had reported that the main body of the hostiles would turn south. Lieutenant E. B. Robertson, Ninth Infantry, found a soapstone dish on the line of march, which could have come from the Mandans only, either by trade or theft; or, possibly, some band of Mandans, in search of buffalo, had penetrated thus far into the interior and had lost it.

In a telegram sent in to Sheridan about this date Crook said: “On the 25th or 26th, all the hostile Indians left the foot of the Big Horn Mountains, and moved back in the direction of the Rosebud Mountains, so that it is now impracticable to communicate with General Terry by courier. I am fearful that they will scatter, as there is not sufficient grass in that country to support them in such large numbers. If we meet the Indians in too strong force, I will swing around and unite with General Terry. Your management of the agencies will be a great benefit to us here.”

We had one busy day; saddles had to be exchanged or repaired, horses shod, ammunition issued, provisions packed, and all stores in excess turned into the wagon-train. The allowance of baggage was cut down to the minimum: every officer and soldier was to have the clothes on his back and no more; one overcoat, one blanket (to be carried by the cavalry over the saddle blanket), and one India-rubber poncho or one-half of a shelter tent, was the allowance carried by General Crook, the members of his staff, and all the officers, soldiers, and packers. We had rations for fifteen days—half of bacon, sugar, coffee, and salt, and full of hard bread; none of vinegar, soap, pepper, etc. There were two hundred and fifty rounds of ammunition to the man; one hundred to be carried on the person, and the rest on the pack-mules, of which there were just three hundred and ninety-nine. The pack-train was in five divisions, each led by a bell-mare; no tents allowed, excepting one for the use of the surgeons attending to critical cases. “Travois” poles were hauled along to drag wounded in case it should become necessary.

Our mess, which now numbered eleven, was, beyond dispute, the most remarkable mess the army has ever known. I challenge comparison with it from anything that has ever been seen among our officers outside of Libby or Andersonville prisons. General Crook did not allow us either knife, fork, spoon, or plate. Each member carried strapped to the pommel of his saddle a tin cup, from which at balmy morn or dewy eve, as the poets would say, he might quaff the decoction called coffee. Our kitchen utensils comprised one frying-pan, one carving-knife, one carving-fork, one large coffee pot, one large tin platter, one large and two small tin ladles or spoons, and the necessary bags for carrying sugar, coffee, bacon, and hard bread. I forgot to say that we had also one sheet-iron mess pan. General Crook had determined to make his column as mobile as a column of Indians, and he knew that example was more potent than a score of general orders.

We marched down “Prairie Dog” Creek, to its junction with Tongue River, passing through a village of prairie dogs, which village was six miles long. The mental alienation of our unfortunate friend—Captain Cain—became more and more apparent. By preference, I rode with Colonel Stanton’s scouts; they called themselves the “Montana Volunteers,” but why they did so I never could understand, unless it was that every other State and Territory had repudiated them and set a price upon their heads. There was a rumor widely circulated in camp to the effect that one or two of these scouts had never been indicted for murder; it was generally suspected that Stanton himself was at the bottom of this, in his anxiety to secure a better name for his corps. There were very few of them who couldn’t claim the shelter of the jails of Cheyenne, Denver, and Omaha by merely presenting themselves, and confessing certain circumstances known to the police and detectives of those thriving boroughs. Many a night Joe Wasson, Strahorn, and I sat upon our saddles, to be sure that we should have them with us at sunrise. One of the most important of these volunteers was “Ute John,” a member of the tribe of the same name, who claimed to have been thoroughly civilized and Christianized, because he had once, for six months, been “dlivin’ team fo’ Mo’mon” in Salt Lake. “Ute John” was credited by most people with having murdered his own grandmother and drunk her blood, but, in my opinion, the reports to his detriment were somewhat exaggerated, and he was harmless except when sober, which wasn’t often, provided whiskey was handy. “John’s” proudest boast was that he was a “Klischun,” and he assured me that he had been three times baptized in one year by the “Mo’mon,” who had made him “heap wash,” and gave him “heap biled shirt,” by which we understood that he had been baptized and clad in the garments of righteousness, which he sorely needed. “Ute John” had one peculiarity: he would never speak to any one but Crook himself in regard to the issues of the campaign. “Hello, Cluke,” he would say, “how you gittin’ on? Where you tink dem Clazy Hoss en Settin’ Bull is now, Cluke?”

We had a difficult time marching down the Tongue, which had to be forded thirteen times in one day, the foot-soldiers disdaining the aid which the cavalry was ordered to extend by carrying across all who so desired. The country was found to be one gloomy desolation. We crossed the Rosebud Mountains and descended into the Rosebud Creek, where trails were found as broad and distinct as wagon-roads; the grass was picked clean, and the valley, of which I wrote so enthusiastically in the spring, was now a desert. We discovered the trap which “Crazy Horse” had set for us at the Rosebud fight on the 17th of June, and confidence in Crook was increased tenfold by the knowledge that he had outwitted the enemy on that occasion. The Sioux and Cheyennes had encamped in seven circles, covering four miles in length of the valley. The trail was from ten to twelve days old, and, in the opinion of Frank and the other guides, had been made by from ten to twenty thousand ponies.

The hills bordering the Rosebud were vertical bluffs presenting beautiful alternations of color in their stratification; there were bands of red, pink, cream, black, and purple; the different tints blending by easy gradations into a general effect pleasing to the eye. There were quantities of lignite which would be of incalculable benefit to the white settlers who might in the future flock into this region. In riding along with our Indian scouts we learned much of the secret societies among the aboriginal tribes: the “Brave Night Hearts,” the “Owl Feathers,” and the “Wolves and Foxes.” These control the tribe, fight its battles, and determine its policy. Initiation into some one of them is essential to the young warrior’s advancement. The cañon of the Rosebud would seem to have been the burying-ground of the Western Dakotas; there were dozens of graves affixed to the branches of the trees, some of them of great age, and all raided by our ruthless Shoshones and Utes, who with their lances tumbled the bones to the ground and ransacked the coverings for mementos of value, sometimes getting fine bows, at others, nickel-plated revolvers. There was one which the Shoshones were afraid to touch, and which they said was full of bad “medicine;” but “Ute John,” fortified, no doubt, by the grace of his numerous Mormon baptisms, was not restrained by vain fears, and tumbled it to the ground, letting loose sixteen field mice which in some way had made their home in those sepulchral cerements.

Captain “Jack Crawford, the Poet Scout,” rode into camp on the 8th of August attended by a few companions. The weather became rainy, and the trail muddy and heavy. August 11th our scouts sent in the information that a line of Indians was coming up the valley, and our men advanced as skirmishers. Soon word was received that behind the supposed enemy could be seen the white canvas coders of a long column of wagons, and we then knew that we were about to meet Terry’s command. Our cavalry were ordered to halt and unsaddle to await the approach of the infantry. The Indian scouts were directed to proceed to the front and determine exactly who the strangers were. They decked themselves in all the barbaric splendors of which they were capable: war-bonnets streamed to the ground; lances and rifles gleamed in the sun; ponies and riders, daubed with mud, pranced out to meet our friends, as we were assured they must be.

When our Indians raised their yells and chants, the scouts at the head of the other column took fright and ran in upon the solid masses of horsemen following the main trail. These immediately deployed into line of skirmishers, behind which we saw, or thought we saw, several pieces of artillery. “Buffalo Bill,” who was riding at the head of our column, waved his hat, and, putting spurs to his horse, galloped up alongside of Major Reno, of the Seventh Cavalry, who was leading Terry’s advance. When the news passed down from man to man, cheers arose from the two columns; as fast as the cheers of Terry’s advance guard reached the ears of our men, they responded with heart and soul. General Crook sent Lieutenant Schuyler to extend a welcome to General Terry, and proffer to him and his officers such hospitalities as we could furnish.