On the Border with Crook

by John Gregory Bourke

The march from Fort Fetterman to old Fort Reno, a distance of ninety miles, led us through a country of which the less said the better; it is suited for grazing and may appeal to the eyes of a cow-boy, but for the ordinary observer, especially during the winter season, it presents nothing to charm any sense; the landscape is monotonous and uninviting, and the vision is bounded by swell after swell of rolling prairie, yellow with a thick growth of winter-killed buffalo or bunch grass, with a liberal sprinkling of that most uninteresting of all vegetation—the sage-brush. The water is uniformly and consistently bad—being both brackish and alkaline, and when it freezes into ice the ice is nearly always rotten and dangerous, for a passage at least by mounted troops or wagons. Wood is not to be had for the first fifty miles, and has to be carried along in wagons for commands of any size. Across this charming expanse the wind howled and did its best to freeze us all to death, but we were too well prepared.

The first night out from Fetterman the presence of hostile Indians was indicated by the wounding of our herder, shot in the lungs, and by the stampeding of our herd of cattle—forty-five head—which were not, however, run off by the attacking party, but headed for the post and could not be turned and brought back. There was very little to record of this part of the march: a night attack or two, the firing by our pickets at anything and everything which looked like a man, the killing of several buffaloes by the guides in front—old bulls which would pull all the teeth out of one’s head were they to be chewed; better success with antelope, whose meat was tender and palatable; the sight of a column of dust in the remote distance, occasioned, probably, by the movement of an Indian village, and the flashing of looking-glass signals by hostiles on our right flank, made the sum total of events worthy of insertion in the journals kept at the time. Lodge-pole trails and pony tracks increased in numbers, and a signal smoke curled upwards from one of the distant buttes in our front. On our left, the snow-clad masses of the “Big Horn” range rose slowly above the horizon, and on the right the sullen, inhospitable outline of the “Pumpkin Buttes.” General Crook ordered that the greatest care should be taken in the manner of posting sentinels, and in enjoining vigilance upon them; he directed that no attempt should be made to catch any of the small parties of the enemy’s videttes, which began to show themselves and to retreat when followed; he explained that all they wanted was to entice us into a pursuit which could have no effect beyond breaking down twenty or thirty of our horses each time.

We were out of camp, and following the old Montana road by daylight of the 5th of March, 1876, going down the “Dry Fork” of the Powder. There was no delay on any account, and affairs began to move like clock-work. The scenery was dreary; the weather bitter cold; the bluffs on either side bare and sombre prominences of yellow clay, slate, and sandstone. The leaden sky overhead promised no respite from the storm of cold snow and wind beating into our faces from the northwest. A stranger would not have suspected at first glance that the command passing along the defile of this miserable little sand-bed had any connection with the military organization of the United States; shrouded from head to foot in huge wrappings of wool and fur, what small amount of uniform officers or men wore was almost entirely concealed from sight; but a keener inspection would have convinced the observer that it was an expedition of soldiers, and good ones at that. The promptness, ease, and lack of noise with which all evolutions were performed, the compactness of the columns, the good condition of arms and horses, and the care displayed in looking after the trains, betokened the discipline of veteran soldiery.

That evening a party of picked scouts, under Frank Gruard, was sent to scour the country in our front and on our right flank; there was no need of examining the country on the left, as the Big Horn range was so close, and there was no likelihood of the savages going up on its cold flanks to live during winter while such better and more comfortable localities were at hand in the river and creek bottoms. The sun was just descending behind the summits of the Big Horn, having emerged from behind a bank of leaden clouds long enough to assure us that he was still in existence, and Major Coates was putting his pickets in position and giving them their final instructions, when a bold attack was made by a small detachment of the Sioux; their advance was detected as they were creeping upon us through a grove of cottonwoods close to camp, and although there was a brisk interchange of leaden compliments, no damage was done to our people beyond the wounding slightly of Corporal Slavey, of Coates’s company. Crook ordered a large force to march promptly to the other side of camp, thinking that the enemy was merely making a “bluff” on one extremity, but would select a few bold warriors to rush through at the other end, and, by waving blankets, shrieking, firing guns, and all other tricks of that sort, stampede our stock and set us afoot. The entire command kept under arms for half an hour and was then withdrawn. From this on we had the companies formed each morning at daybreak, ready for the attack which might come at any moment. The early hour set for breaking camp no doubt operated to frustrate plans of doing damage to the column entertained by wandering bodies of the Sioux and Cheyennes.

Colonel Stanton was accompanied by a colored cook, Mr. Jefferson Clark, a faithful henchman who had followed the fortunes of his chief for many years. Jeff wasn’t a bad cook, and he was, according to his own story, one of the most bloodthirsty enemies the Sioux ever had; it was a matter of difficulty to restrain him from leaving the command and wandering out alone in quest of aboriginal blood. This night-attack seemed to freeze all the fight out of Jeff, and he never again expressed the remotest desire to shoot anything, not even a jack-rabbit. But the soldiers had no end of fun with him, and many and many a trick was played, and many and many a lie told, to make his hair stiffen, and his eyes to glaze in terror.

When we reached the “Crazy Woman’s Fork” of the Powder River, camp was established, with an abundance of excellent water and any amount of dry cottonwood fuel; but grass was not very plentiful, although there had been a steady improvement in that respect ever since leaving the South Cheyenne. We had that day passed through the ruins of old Fort Reno, one of the military cantonments abandoned by the Government at the demand of the Sioux in 1867. Nothing remained except a few chimneys, a part of the bake-house, and some fragments of the adobe walls of the quarters or offices. The grave-yard had a half dozen or a dozen of broken, dilapidated head-boards to mark the last resting-places of brave soldiers who had fallen in desperate wars with savage tribes that civilization might extend her boundaries. Our wagon-train was sent back under escort of the infantry to Fort Reno, there to await our return.

All the officers were summoned to hear from General Crook’s own lips what he wanted them to do. He said that we should now leave our wagons behind and strike out with the pack-trains; all superfluous baggage must be left in camp; every officer and every soldier should be allowed the clothes on his back and no more; for bedding each soldier could carry along one buffalo robe or two blankets; to economize transportation, company officers should mess with their men, and staff officers or those “unattached” with the pack-trains; officers to have the same amount of bedding as the men; each man could take one piece of shelter tent, and each officer one piece of canvas, or every two officers one tent fly. We were to start out on a trip to last fifteen days unless the enemy should be sooner found, and were to take along half rations of bacon, hard tack, coffee, and sugar.

About seven o’clock on the night of March 7, 1876, the light of a three-quarters moon, we began our march to the north and west, and made thirty-five miles. At first the country had the undulating contour of that near old Fort Reno, but the prairie “swells” were soon superseded by bluffs of bolder and bolder outline until, as we approached the summit of the “divide” where “Clear Fork” heads, we found ourselves in a region deserving the title mountainous. In the bright light of the moon and stars, our column of cavalry wound up the steep hill-sides like an enormous snake, whose scales were glittering revolvers and carbines. The view was certainly very exhilarating, backed as it was by the majestic landscape of moonlight on the Big Horn Mountains. Cynthia’s silvery beams never lit up a mass of mountain crests more worthy of delineation upon an artist’s canvas. Above the frozen apex of “Cloud Peak” the evening star cast its declining rays. Other prominences rivalling this one in altitude thrust themselves out against the midnight sky. Exclamations of admiration and surprise were extorted from the most stolid as the horses rapidly passed from bluff to bluff, pausing at times to give every one an opportunity to study some of Nature’s noble handiwork.

But at last even the gorgeous vista failed to alleviate the cold and pain in benumbed limbs, or to dispel the drowsiness which Morpheus was placing upon exhausted eyelids. With no small degree of satisfaction we noticed the signal which at five o’clock in the morning of March 8th bade us make camp on the Clear Fork of the Powder. The site was dreary enough; scarcely any timber in sight, plenty of water, but frozen solid, and only a bare picking of grass for our tired animals. However, what we most needed was sleep, and that we sought as soon as horses had been unsaddled and mules unpacked. Wrapped up in our heavy overcoats and furs we threw ourselves on the bleak and frozen ground, and were soon deep in slumber. After lying down in the bright, calm, and cheerful moonlight, we were awakened about eight o’clock by a bitter, pelting storm of snow which blew in our teeth whichever way we turned, and almost extinguished the petty fires near which the cooks were trying to arrange breakfast, if we may dignify by such a lofty title the frozen bacon, frozen beans, and frozen coffee which constituted the repast. It is no part of a soldier’s business to repine, but if there are circumstances to justify complaint they are the absence of warmth and good food after a wearisome night march and during the prevalence of a cold winter storm. After coffee had been swallowed General Crook moved the command down the “Clear Fork” five miles, to a pleasant cove where we remained all the rest of that day. Our situation was not enviable. It is true we experienced nothing we could call privation or hardship, but we had to endure much positive discomfort. The storm continued all day, the wind blowing with keenness and at intervals with much power. Being without tents, there was nothing to do but grin and bear it. Some of our people stretched blankets to the branches of trees, others found a questionable shelter under the bluffs, one or two constructed nondescript habitations of twigs and grass, while General Crook and Colonel Stanton seized upon the abandoned den of a family of beavers which a sudden change in the bed of the stream had deprived of their home. To obtain water for men and animals holes were cut in the ice, which was by actual measurement eighteen inches thick, clear in color and vitreous in texture. We hugged the fires as closely as we dared, ashes and cinders being cast into our faces with every turn in the hurricane. The narrow thread of the stream, with its opaque and glassy surface of ice, covered with snow, here drifted into petty hillocks, here again carried away before the gale, looked the picture of all that could be imagined cheerless and drear. We tried hard to find pleasure in watching the trouble of our fellow-soldiers obliged for any reason to attempt a crossing of the treacherous surface. Commencing with an air of boldness and confidence—with some, even of indifference—a few steps forward would serve to intimidate the unfortunate wight, doubly timid now that he saw himself the butt of all gibes and jeers. Now one foot slips, now another, but still he struggles manfully on, and has almost gained the opposite bank, when—slap! bang! both feet go from under him, and a dint in the solid ice commemorates his inglorious fall. In watching such episodes we tried to dispel the wearisomeness of the day. Every one welcomed the advent of night, which enabled us to seek such rest as could be found, and, clad as we were last night, in the garments of the day, officers and men huddled close together to keep from freezing to death. Each officer and man had placed one of his blankets upon his horse, and, seeing that there was a grave necessity of doing something to prevent loss of life, General Crook ordered that as many blankets as could be spared from the pack-trains should be spread over the sleepers.

It snowed fiercely all night, and was still snowing and blustering savagely when we were aroused in the morning; but we pushed out over a high ridge which we took to be part of the chain laid down on the map as the “Wolf” or “Panther” mountains. The storm continued all day, and the fierce north wind still blew in our teeth, making us imagine old Boreas to be in league with the Indians to prevent our occupancy of the country. Mustaches and beards coated with pendent icicles several inches long and bodies swathed in raiment of furs and hides made this expedition of cavalry resemble a long column of Santa Clauses on their way to the polar regions to lay in a new supply of Christmas gifts. We saw some very fresh buffalo manure and also some new Indian sign. Scouts were pushed ahead to scour the country while the command went into bivouac in a secluded ravine which afforded a sufficiency of water, cottonwood fuel, and good grass, and sheltered us from the observation of roving Indians, although the prevailing inclement weather rendered it highly improbable that many hunters or spies would be far away from their villages. The temperature became lower and lower, and the regular indications upon our thermometer after sundown were -6° and -10° of the Fahrenheit scale. Men and animals had not yet suffered owing to the good fortune in always finding ravines in which to bivouac, and where the vertical clay banks screened from the howling winds. The snow continued all through the night of the 9th and the day of the 10th of March, but we succeeded in making pretty good marches, following down the course of Prairie Dog Creek for twenty-two miles in the teeth of a blast which was laden with minute crystals of snow frozen to the sharpness of razors and cutting the skin wherever it touched. Prairie Dog Creek at first flows through a narrow gorge, but this widens into a flat valley filled with the burrows of the dainty little animals which give the stream its name and which could be seen in numbers during every lull in the storm running around in the snow to and from their holes and making tracks in every direction. Before seeing this I had been under the impression that the prairie dog hibernated.