The Awakening of the Desert

by Julius Charles Birge

The range near-by was also named the Caspar Mountains. The post lay near the southern bank of the North Platte River, 133 miles above Fort Laramie and less than a mile below the site of the monument. It consisted of fifteen or twenty structures built on the sides of an open quadrangle.

Sauntering along the river bank on our way to the post, we carefully surveyed the scene of the fight and its environment. Back of the fort, at no great distance from the stream, lay a high table-land, its abrupt and barren face, where it rose from the valley, being creased with wrinkled folds by erosion. Beyond this and further to the south the Caspar range of mountains stood out in jagged outlines against a cloudless Wyoming sky. Seen through the pure and wonderfully transparent air, and illuminated by the bright light of the setting sun, the distant deeply-wooded gorges and rocky peaks seemed hardly a mile away. Toward the north and embracing the battle-field the valley extends back a short distance to a steep ascent, beyond which is a rough, broken, elevated region that might afford concealment to a numerous enemy. Where it is crossed by the bridge, the river is about 100 yards in width. Crossing it, we soon found ourselves among officers and soldiers; and from those of them who had guarded that structure during the massacre we learned the story, parts of it from some and parts from others. It came in detached and thrilling fragments, for the incidents were still fresh in their memory, and the thrills they had experienced on the day of the fight were renewed in their vigorous narration. We were informed that the death of Lieutenant Collins and his men was but one, though doubtless the most dramatic, in a series of Indian massacres that ensanguined that fatal trail during the few preceding months. I have heard descriptions of several of these events from eyewitnesses.

Lieutenant Collins was born in Hillsboro, Ohio, and at the time of the fight was in appearance but a youth and in fact only twenty years of age. He was a son of Lieutenant-Colonel Collins, a brave Indian fighter, in honor of whom Fort Collins in Colorado was named. Young Collins had been in the Indian country for three years preceding his last fight, a portion of the time with James Bridger. As we stood looking across the river toward the plain where the battle was fought, one of the officers said: "Last July Indians in great numbers seemed to be gathering just north of the bridge somewhere in those hills on the other side of the river. They came in there from various directions. Many of them were supposed to have come over from the Bitter Creek country, where nearly every station on that route had been raided. It was impossible to form any definite idea of their number, except that we were certain there were many thousands of them near us. On July 25th, Lieutenant Collins came in from the East. On the same day several hundred savages crossed the river and stampeded the stock on the reservation. The garrison at the post was exceedingly small and although the loss of even a few men would be a serious matter, a small party of cavalry and infantry was sent out to recover the stock if possible. This effort simply resulted in the loss of a few men on each side. The Indians finally recrossed the river to their rendezvous in the hills. Just about day-break on the following morning a few men from the 11th Ohio cavalry came in from Fort Laramie and at once reported a train of wagons with a small guard from the 11th Kansas cavalry as coming from the west and, as they must pass along the trail at the foot of the hills among which the Indians were holding their vigils, they were sure to be attacked. And now came the critical moment. The men in the post were quickly called to headquarters. It was at once decided to send out a detachment of twenty-five men, in the feeble hope that they might accomplish a rescue. In casting about for a leader for this hazardous venture, one after another declined the service. Lieutenant Collins, although he had just arrived, offered himself at the first opportunity, saying, "I will undertake the task, if I can have a good, fresh horse, as mine is badly fagged from my ride." The Lieutenant appeared to be but a boy, but he had a known record for bravery and endurance. Major Howard accepted the volunteer, and although some of the older soldiers openly discouraged the undertaking, the young leader quickly mounted a fresh, spirited horse and in the early morning, at the head of his little body of mounted men, rapidly galloped over the bridge, followed more slowly by thirty infantry. Caspar's band had not proceeded more than three-fourths of a mile, when the hills on both sides of it were suddenly alive with savages, who in thousands rushed down the slopes and out from every ravine, closing in upon the detachment with hideous howls and yells, "as if all the devils of the infernal regions had been turned loose." At this point, the men who knew the story pointed dramatically now in one direction and now in another, to the actual places where these movements occurred. "A desperate but hopeless hand-to-hand fight was described as having taken place right over the river, in plain sight from the post. The infantry halted because they were already in the battle, pouring their bullets as rapidly as possible into the savages. The only big gun at the fort was quickly brought into action by the guard left at the post, and did good service, as its shells reached the enemy across the river. Some of our men detailed to guard the bridge held their positions and brought many Indians low. But the great Chief Red Cloud was over there, and could be seen rushing across the field as if to inspire his red warriors to annihilate our men, and, as far as the cavalry, which was at the front, was concerned, they practically did it."

In the tumult of this unequal combat young Caspar was seen surrounded by savages. His spirited steed, seemingly conscious of defeat and panic-stricken by the hideous din of Indian yells and war-whoops, became unmanageable, both horse and rider fell fighting, precisely where the gravestone stands. The greater number of his men were already slaughtered. The bridge held by the infantry afforded retreat for a few men. And thus ran the story into many other details.

The day after the fight a detachment of cavalry crossed the bridge and recovered the body of the brave hero. An effort was made by the Indians to cut off these riders, but our men succeeded in reaching the guarded bridge. The next day the beleagured garrison saw the little train, the arrival of which was anticipated, coming over a distant hill from the west. Suddenly and within full view of the fort, Red Cloud and about five hundred warriors made a dash upon them. Three of the soldiers escaped by swimming the river but the remaining men fought bravely until the last man fell. A messenger had previously been dispatched from the fort to General Connor to send assistance at once. Several companies of the 6th Michigan cavalry responded, making forced marches. The Indians had withdrawn before the arrival of these reinforcements. The bitter war continued, however, until the winter set in, when, through the vacillating policy of the War Department, General Connor was withdrawn from Wyoming.

Before we separated from the officers at the post they advised us that it would be imprudent for us to leave Caspar except with a strong party. The regular order was still in force providing for the minimum number of armed men that would be permitted to go out from a post. Accordingly we settled down in our camp and remained four days, awaiting the arrival of reinforcements. There were very few travelers on that road.

During our sojourn in that valley the experience of one particular night led us to comprehend at least one of the reasons why the Indians so earnestly desired to retain undisturbed possession of this territory. Their wealth was the wild game, but the only means by which we could learn the extent of this wealth was for each wild beast living along that range to come out from its lair and speak so as to be easily heard and counted. An opportunity for an approximate enumeration was offered by a festive gathering of those wild inhabitants of the hills. It occurred on the second night at Caspar. Paul had been standing guard until midnight. At about that hour he quietly awakened me and asked me to come outside the tent. Taking my rifle, which as usual was lying at my side, I stepped out into the bright moonlight. "I wished you to hear this wonderful concert," said Paul in explanation. My ears instantly caught the multitude of wild, weird sounds that came from far and near and from every point of the compass. Although those voices were legion, yet, since the greater number of them came from miles away, they were so softened by distance that they did not jar upon the ear. It was a wonderfully still, calm night; hardly a zephyr stirred the air; and distance both to the eye and ear seemed to be eliminated. The moon shone from the cloudless Wyoming sky with extraordinary brilliancy and apparent nearness. The outlines of the well-wooded Caspar range were sharply defined against the blue expanse beyond. Their dark shadows by contrast emphasized the undulations of the intervening valley and the glittering waters of the river that flowed through it, all of which were flooded by the soft, resplendent moonlight. Was it that big, bright moon that had brought out the myriad denizens of the hills to howl their wild refrains?

Paul and I stood for a time spellbound as this vision, seemingly unreal, came to our eyes. To our ears a chorus of unblended sounds came down from the mountain from points far removed one from another, as if here and there a concourse of wild beasts had by prearrangement assembled in various places to engage in a nocturnal carousal. Every creature native to the hills, that had a voice, seemed to take some part in the orgies; and though dissonant, yet those wild voices of the night were in harmony with the rugged setting of the gorges from which they came, and were wonderfully fascinating. The mountain lions entered into the convivialities with tremendous earnestness. Their vicious screams at times were intense and fierce as if the animals were in deadly strife, but when their fervent notes softened down to a low, attenuated, sympathetic purring we recognized in them a marked similarity to the midnight duets of their congener, the domestic cat. It was not the mountains alone that furnished the stage for this midnight serenade to the moon. From other quarters came other yelpings and roars and growls impossible to classify. The wolves in the valley near-by howled ceaseless responses in this remarkable antiphonal chorus. Coyotes without number joined in the Saturnalia of nocturnal revelry, and barked incessantly from every direction; while the bloodhounds at the distant fort bayed deep-toned warning of their guardianship. Even the bull frogs from the pool near the river bank, serene in their watery home, peacefully croaked in plaintive monotone. These numberless, inarticulate voices, so varied in quality, were evidence that along that range there was a remarkable abundance of wild animal life, which in the daytime lurked unseen in unfrequented places; but these sounds did not reveal the presence of the hosts of antelope, elk, deer, and other timid animals with which the country also abounded.

The situation was so interesting and fascinating that I finally aroused Ben and Fred, and together we wandered down toward the river and up its bank, listening to the concert as we proceeded. Observing upon a little bluff a man's form with a rifle upon his shoulder silhouetted against the clear sky beyond we called "hello" as a friendly announcement, assuming that he also was on guard. He responded with a similar salutation and invited us to come up. He proved to be the father of the young ladies with whom we had returned from the "cut off," who had now camped with his party some distance beyond. We will refer to him as Mr. Warne, a name similar to his true name. We asked him if he was standing guard. "Yes," he replied, "it is a beautiful night, and as we cannot travel tomorrow I decided to give one of our men a rest. The girls are down below on the rocks. I brought them out to hear the music from the hills. They are sitting there wrapped in blankets." Sure enough, there they were, quite out of sight. As we approached, one of the young ladies lifted a rifle into view and with a laugh demanded the pass word. Fred responded immediately, "Peach pie," for he was addressing the young lady who had sent the pie with her compliments when we were on the Montana road. The pass word was accepted as satisfactory. The girls remarked that they were not out ordinarily at that unseemly hour, but they had been invited by their father to listen to the animals. As each fresh squall came from the mountain lions over the river, a subdued exclamation of some sort, generally bordering on both admiration and apprehension, came from their lips. While there, our attention was attracted by two or three long-legged wolves that skulked near-by within easy rifle range—but a shot at that hour would bring out the camp, and wolf meat was not a desirable diet. Not wishing to protract our midnight call we said "Good-morning" and sauntered back toward our tents, being confident with regard to the concert, that we had listened to the star artists from over the river.

During the following day no travelers arrived to make up the regulation number and enable us to proceed. On the following night, there being some change in the weather, Ben, Fred, and I occupied one mattress in Ben's tent, and all were soon asleep. Some time in the night I became half conscious of two or three claps of thunder and the roaring of a terrific fall of rain upon the roof of the tent, which came in as a mist through the canvas. Lying near the edge of the mattress upon which we had for that night crowded ourselves, I accidentally put my hand outside the blanket and into a running stream of water which was flowing into the tent. Conscious that trouble was ahead of us I took up my rifle, which had been lying at my side, and stepped out and into the water, to find that the tent was being rapidly flooded. I spoke to the Deacon through the darkness. He promptly responded and informed me that he had just discovered the flood and was rolling his mattress into a bundle upon a small box. "Boys, wake up!" we shouted, for Ben and Fred were as yet wholly unconscious of the impending deluge. "What do you want?" said Ben sleepily, but before I had time to explain he shouted, "I'm all afloat, get out of here, Fred, quick!" Fred responded with alacrity, for the water was rising and had begun to come through the mattress. We soon found ourselves camped in a newly-formed pond. Our previous experience had taught us that tents should not be pitched in a depression, but the ground was so dry when we camped and the sky had been cloudless for so long a time, that we were careless. The lesson now was better learned. We protected our rifles and other valuable articles as thoroughly as possible and waded out from the pond, through the rain, to our wagons to await the coming of the morning. The sun rose in a fairly clear sky, although showers seemed to be lingering up in the mountains. On the following day Pete negotiated with the post sutler for some supplies, on the basis of 15 cents per pound for corn and 40 cents for bacon, which were regarded as reasonable prices. The day, however, was devoted chiefly to drying out blankets and clothing and to long trips in search of fuel, which in the valley was exceedingly scarce. A call at the Warne camp resulted in the information that the campers there had suffered but little from the severe storm, as their tents were on higher ground, although they reported the pelting of the rain as being terrific and having a sound like hail. Toward noon of the fourth day Kreighton's freight train of forty wagons with mules arrived from the east, having succeeded after great hardships in crossing the Platte. After noon we all joined the caravan and threaded our way westward along very rough roads up and down many steep hills until we reached the vicinity of Red Buttes, eleven miles beyond Fort Caspar, where we camped for the night. We had bid goodbye to our interesting Caspar Camp ground and to the Platte River, which for 500 miles had been almost constantly near us. For this stream every traveler on these plains must be thankful, stretching as it does through arid wastes. Without it we should have found it difficult to exist. Since that day the tributaries of the turbulent Platte have been diverted to irrigation purposes, leaving it at times little else than an extinct river.