On the Border with Crook

by John Gregory Bourke

Colonel Mason was not only a good soldier, he was a man of most excellent education, broad views and humane impulses; he had gained a great influence over “Spotted Tail,” which he used to the best advantage. He explained to his red-skinned friends that the force soon to be put in the field would embrace hundreds of the Sioux at the agencies, who were desirous of providing themselves with ponies from the herds of their relations, the Minneconjous; that every warrior of the Cheyennes had declared his intention of enlisting to fight “Crazy Horse”; that there would be, if needed, two hundred and fifty men, or even more, from the Utes, Bannocks, and Shoshones; that over one hundred Pawnees were determined to accompany any expedition setting out; that one hundred Winnebagoes had offered their services; that all the able-bodied Arapahoes were enrolled, and that the Crows had sent word that two hundred of their best warriors would take part. In the early part of the winter the Crows had sent two hundred and fifty of their warriors under Major George M. Randall and the interpreter, Fox, to find and join Crook’s expedition. After being subjected to indescribable privations and almost frozen to death in a fierce wind and snow storm upon the summits of the Big Horn range—from the fury of which Randall and his companions were saved by the accident of discovering a herd of buffaloes hiding from the blast in a little sag, which animals they attacked, killing a number and eating the flesh raw, as no fire could live in such a blast, and putting their feet inside the carcasses to keep from freezing stiff—the brave detachment of Crows succeeded in uniting with us on Christmas morning, 1876, in one of the most disagreeable blizzards of that trip.

Their number had been reduced below one hundred, but they were still able to aid us greatly, had not Crook deemed it best for them to return home and apprise their tribe of the complete downfall of the Cheyennes and the breaking of the backbone of hostility. There might be other fights and skirmishes in the future, but organized antagonism to the whites was shattered when the Cheyenne camp was laid low, and future military operations would be minimized into the pursuit of straggling detachments or conflicts with desperate bands which had no hope of success, but would wish to sell their lives at the highest rate possible. The best thing for the Crows and Utes and Shoshones to do would be to move into, or at least close to, the Big Horn Mountains, and from there raid upon the petty villages of the Sioux who might try to live in the seclusion of the rocks and forests. “Spotted Tail” said that “Crazy Horse” was his nephew, and he thought he could make him see the absolute inutility of further resistance by going out to have a talk with him.

Mason telegraphed all the foregoing facts to General Crook, who had been summoned to Cheyenne as a witness before a general court-martial; Crook replied that there was no objection to the proposed mission, but that “Spotted Tail” must let “Crazy Horse” understand that he was not sent out with any overtures, and that all “Crazy Horse” could count upon was safety in his passage across the country, by setting out at once before another movement should begin. “Spotted Tail” found “Crazy Horse” encamped near the head of the Little Powder, about midway between Cantonment Reno and the southwestern corner of the Black Hills. He made known his errand, and had no great difficulty in making his nephew see that he had better begin his movement towards the agency without a moment’s delay. Several of “Crazy Horse’s” young men came in with “Spotted Tail,” who was back at Camp Robinson by the last week in January, 1877. General Crook’s headquarters had been transferred to that point, and there was little to do beyond waiting for the arrival of “Crazy Horse” and other chiefs.

Of our mess and its members, as well as the people who dined or supped with us, I am sure that my readers will pardon me for saying a word.

CHAPTER XXIII.

STRANGE MESS-MATES—THE JOURNEY TO THE AGENCIES—GENERAL SHERIDAN’S VISIT—“SPOTTED TAIL”—THE STORY OF HIS DEAD DAUGHTER’S BONES—“WHITE THUNDER”—“RED CLOUD”—“DULL KNIFE”—“BIG WOLF”—THE NECKLACE OF HUMAN FINGERS—THE MEDICINE MAN AND THE ELECTRIC BATTERY—“WASHINGTON”—“FRIDAY”—INDIAN BROTHERS—“SORREL HORSE”—“THREE BEARS”—“YOUNG MAN AFRAID OF HIS HORSES”—“ROCKY BEAR”—“RED CLOUD’S” LETTER—INDIAN DANCES—THE BAD LANDS—HOW THE CHEYENNES FIRST GOT HORSES.

Camp Robinson was situated in the extreme northwestern corner of the State of Nebraska, close to the line of Dakota and that of Wyoming; aside from being the focus of military activity, there was little in the way of attraction; the scenery in the vicinity is picturesque, without any special features. There were great numbers of Indians of the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapahoe tribes, to whose ranks accessions were made daily by those surrendering, but reference to them will be postponed for the present. The white members of our mess were General Crook, General Mackenzie, Colonel J. W. Mason, Lieutenant William P. Clarke, Lieutenant Hayden Delaney, Lieutenant Walter S. Schuyler, Major George M. Randall, and myself. Neither Mackenzie nor Mason could, strictly speaking, be called a member of the mess, but as they generally “dropped in,” and as a plate was regularly placed for each, there is no direct violation of the unities in including them. Randall was still full of his recent perilous adventure with the Crows, and we often were successful in drawing him out about his experiences in the Civil War, in which he had borne a most gallant part and of which he could, when disposed, relate many interesting episodes. Schuyler had made a tour through Russia and Finland, and observed not a little of the usages and peculiarities of the people of those countries. Mr. Strahorn, who was often with us, had wandered about in many curious spots of our own territory, and was brimful of anecdote of quaint types of human nature encountered far away from the centres of civilization. Crook and Mackenzie and Mason would sometimes indulge in reminiscences to which all eagerly listened, and it is easy to see that such a mess would of itself have been a place of no ordinary interest; but for me the greatest attraction was to be found in the constant presence of distinguished Indian chiefs whose names had become part and parcel of the history of our border. General Sheridan had paid one hurried visit and remained a day, but being better known to American readers, there is no use in speaking of him and his work during the war.

There were two cooks, Phillips and Boswell, the former of whom had shared the trials and tribulations of the terrible march down from the head of Heart River, and seemed resolved to make hay while the sun shone; he could make anything but pie—in that he failed miserably. I think it was Oliver Wendell Holmes who once wrote an essay to demonstrate that the isothermal line of perpetual pumpkin pie was the line of highest civilization and culture. The converse of the proposition would seem to be equally true: pie, of any kind, cannot be made except under the most æsthetic surroundings; amid the chilling restraints of savagery and barbarism, pie is simply an impossibility. It did not make much difference what he prepared, Boswell was sure of an appreciative discussion of its merits by a mess which was always hungry, and which always had guests who were still hungrier and still more appreciative.

Taking our aboriginal guests in order of rank, the chief, of course, was “Spotted Tail.” This is, unfortunately, not the age of monument-building in America; if ever the day shall come when loyal and intelligent friendship for the American people shall receive due recognition, the strong, melancholy features of “Siutiega-leska,” or “Spotted Tail,” cast in enduring bronze, will overlook the broad area of Dakota and Nebraska, which his genius did so much to save to civilization. In youth a warrior of distinction, in middle age a leader among his people, he became, ere time had sprinkled his locks with snow, the benefactor of two races. A diplomatist able to hold his own with the astutest agents the Great Father could depute to confer with him, “Spotted Tail” recognized the inevitable destruction of his kinsmen if they persisted in war and turned their backs upon overtures of peace. He exerted himself, and generally with success, to obtain the best terms possible from the Government in all conferences held with its representatives, but he was equally earnest in his determination to restrain the members of his own band, and all others whom he could control, from going out upon the war-path. If any persisted in going, they went to stay; he would not allow them to return.

There was a story current in army circles that years and years ago a young daughter of “Spotted Tail” had fallen in love with an officer just out of West Point, and had died of a broken heart. In her last hours she asked of her father the pledge that he would always remain the friend of the Americans—a pledge given with affectionate earnestness, and observed with all the fidelity of a noble nature. I have often seen the grave of this young maiden at Fort Laramie—a long pine box, resting high in air upon a scaffold adorned with the tails of the ponies upon which her gentle soul had made the lonesome journey to the Land of the Great Hereafter. I may as well tell here a romance about her poor bones, which insatiate Science did not permit to rest in peace. Long after her obsequies, when “Spotted Tail’s” people had been moved eastward to the White Earth country, and while the conflict with the hostiles was at its bitterest, the garrison of Fort Laramie was sent into the field, new troops taking their places. There was a new commanding officer, a new surgeon, and a new hospital steward; the last was young, bright, ambitious, and desirous of becoming an expert in anatomy. The Devil saw his opportunity for doing mischief; he whispered in the young man’s ear: “If you want an articulated skeleton, what’s the matter with those bones? Make your own articulated skeleton.” Turn where he would, the Devil followed him; the word “bones” sounded constantly in his ears, and, close his eyes or open them, there stood the scaffold upon which, wrapped in costly painted buffalo robes and all the gorgeous decoration of bead-work, porcupine quill, and wampum that savage affection could supply, reposed the mortal remains of the Dakota maiden.... A dark night, a ladder, a rope, and a bag—the bones were lying upon the steward’s table, cleaned, polished, and almost adjusted, and if there was one happy man in the United States Army it was the hospital steward of Fort Laramie.