FORT COBB, INDIAN TERRITORY, December 19th.
Here we are, after twelve days' marching through snow, mud, rain, and over an almost impassable country, where sometimes we made only eight miles a day. We have been following an Indian trail, and three days ago we overtook the Kiowas; but in order to get the whole tribe together, as well as not to frighten the Apaches and Comanches, who were also with the Kiowas, we refrained from attacking, but permitted Satanta and Lone Wolf, and many other chiefs and warriors, to come into our lines. We find it almost impossible to hurry the Indians much, they have so many powwows and ceremonies before determining upon any important action.
A few moments ago one of the chiefs, Kicking Bird, came in with the news that the entire Kiowa village was hastening in to give themselves up. The Cheyennes and Arapahoes are sick of war since the battle of the Washita. Five miles below the battle-ground, in a deserted Indian village, the bodies of a young and beautiful white woman and her babe were found, and I brought them away for burial at Arbuckle. The woman was captured by Indians—I think, near Fort Lyon, as she was recognized by several of our command.
FORT COBB, January 2d.
The last remaining tribes of hostile Indians have sent in their head chiefs to beg pity from us.
Yesterday a grand council was held near my tent. All the head chiefs of the Apaches, Kiowas, Comanches, Cheyennes, and Arapahoes were assembled. I was alone with them, except one officer, who took stenographic notes of the speeches. A line of sentinels had to be thrown around the council to keep back the observers, as there were crowds of officers, soldiers, and employés of the quartermaster's department.
The council lasted for hours. The arrogance and pride is whipped out of the Indians; they no longer presume to make demands of us; on the contrary, they have surrendered themselves into our keeping. We are left to fix the terms upon which they may resume peaceful relations with the Government.
MEDICINE BLUFF CREEK, January 14, '69.
I want to tell you about the courage of one of the guides. Last evening, about two hours before dark, a soldier came running into my tent, and said a man nearly naked was mounted on a mule and riding through camp. We rushed out, and sure enough there was the man. It's Stillwell, we both said simultaneously. He is one of my couriers, sent on the 4th with the mail to Camp Supply, and whose return with our mail we were anxiously awaiting. He had just returned, and this was the first we saw of him. I began calling to him in my delicate tones, and we soon had him in my tent. After pouring a gill of whiskey down him that I directed the surgeon to administer, he was able to speak. Heavy rains for several days have filled all the streams to overflowing. We are encamped on the south bank of this creek, and it is impassable at any point except by swimming, and even then at great risk to both horse and rider, as the current is both rapid and powerful. Stillwell, with his party, and their pack-mules bearing the mail, reached the opposite bank about a mile above camp, found the stream impassable for the loaded mules, as they thought; so he plunged in with his horse and swam the stream, and being nearly frozen with the ice-water, he was making his way to the scouts' fire as rapidly as possible. He decided that, owing to the rapid current, it was impossible to bring the mail over till morning, when it was hoped the water would fall and render swimming unnecessary.
The others submitted to this decision, but I said I knew there were letters for me, and I was going to try for that mail, and read my letters, if I had to put a candle in my pocket and swim the stream. My tongue fairly rattled off the directions. "Bishop, bring me a horse; don't wait to saddle him." I ordered so many men to report to me with lariats, axes, etc.; to another officer I called out to gallop up the stream, and tell the scouts to bring on the mail until they shall see me on the bank.
Jumping on Bishop's horse bareback, I forded one branch of the stream, and sought the most available point to cross the mail over the main stream. Some of the officers came down at first and looked on, but it was too cold, and they returned to their tent fires. I found a place where we could roll a long log out some distance in the water, and from it a rope could be thrown across to the other bank and secured by the mail-carriers. The men had to strip off their boots and pantaloons, and work in the water. I encouraged them all I could, and had the doctor send them whiskey, which Colonel Cook distributed to them. Tom thought he could make his way over on horseback, and tried it; but the current carried him and his horse down, and he had to struggle to get back. Finally we got the rope over and secured on both banks. One of the men volunteered to strip off and make his way across, holding on to the rope. In he went, and soon called out All right from the other shore. Fastening a mail-bag to his neck, he jumped in, and hard pulling against a roaring torrent brought him across; strong hands were waiting to lift him and his precious load out of the water. All this was after dark. In again he went and called out, as before, from the other side, "All right." Seven times did that brave man breast the current. Cook held the bottle of whisky ready for him as he came out the last time. "Drink, my man, I don't care if you are drunk a week", was my greeting; then putting him on a horse, naked as he was the day he came into the world, I told him to gallop to his tent and wrap up well in his blankets. As each mail-bag was landed, Tom, wet and cold, received it, galloped to the adjutant's tent, where it was distributed to the camp as fast as possible.
Two lodges of the Cheyennes have come in, and they say that the Arapahoes and Cheyennes, whose villages were a hundred miles distant when our council took place the other day, are all moving, but owing to the bad roads and high water they travel slowly. I am as impatient as a crazed animal to have them come in, so that I can start on my homeward journey rejoicing.
Tell Eliza I have just the thing for her. One of the squaws among the prisoners had a little pappoose a few nights since, and I intend to bring it home to add to the orphan asylum she always keeps.
The baby referred to was the child of an Indian princess described in a subsequent chapter. Owing to its lineage, the new-comer was treated with every attention by the prisoners, but it was not so with a poor little infant who was not the descendant of royalty. The mother of the little "forlornity" was killed while fighting in the Washita battle, and the captive women were given charge of the baby. They took advantage of every opportunity to drop it in the snow on the march, and our officers had to watch vigilantly to see that the squaws did not accomplish their purpose of leaving it to perish on the way.
IN CAMP, MEDICINE BLUFF CREEK, 11.30 P.M., February 8, '69.
It has been several days since I wrote to you. I have made a long march since. I asked the adjutant to write you during my absence. I did not tell you of my intentions, fearing that you might be anxious; but I am now back safe and well.
We have been to try and bring in the Indian villages, and have had what some people would term a rough time; were gone sixteen days, without wagons or tents. Our provisions became exhausted, there was no game, and officers and men subsisted on parched corn and horse-flesh, the latter not even possessing the merit of having been regularly butchered, but died from exhaustion. Scarcely a morsel of it was left uneaten. You could hardly have helped being amused, even though it was so serious, to have seen the officers sitting around the camp-fire toasting strips of horse-flesh on forked sticks, and then eating it without salt or pepper. I had buffalo robes for my bed, slept soundly and comfortably on the ground, with no shelter except the large rubber blanket spread over me from head to foot, and the rain pouring down. One night my pack-mule did not reach camp, and my robes and overcoat were all with it. I had to sleep all night without either, but I enjoyed it all, and often thought of the song:
"The bold dragoon he has no care
As he rides along with his uncombed hair. "
I write briefly, as it is late, and one of the officers going to Leavenworth to-morrow will tell you all the news.
The Cheyennes have delayed their coming in so long that