LITMIR.BIZ

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one hour later. Prepared as we were to encounter a desert country, the scene that met our view was far beyond all expectation.

      Our line of march was through what appeared to be a succession of brick-yards and extinct limekilns. In order to secure a good wagon-road, we were compelled to avoid the Platte, and, with the exception of one stagnant pool, during that weary ride of thirty-five miles we saw no water until we struck the river again. The sun burned us almost to the bone, and every man's complexion was scarlet. Despite all injunctions to the contrary, the tired and thirsty troops made a general raid upon the Platte, when we reached that stream, and drank to satiety. The cheekiest of land speculators, or the most conscienceless of newspaper correspondents, could not say a word in behalf of that infernal region, which it would be the acme of exaggeration to term "land." But some of our old Indian scouts said it was Arabia Felix compared with what lay between us and the Powder river. Why the government of the United States should keep an army for the purpose of robbing the Indians of such a territory, is an unsolvable puzzle. It is a solemn

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      mockery to call the place "a reservation," unless dust, ashes and rocks be accounted of value to mankind. Not even one Indian could manage to exist on the desert tract over which we rode. Trees, there were absolutely none, unless down by the river, where some scrub timber occasionally appeared.

      Some of the scenery was striking and savage. In the early morning we had the huge peak of Laramie, snow-covered, on our left. At 10 o'clock it was behind us, and at 2 o'clock, when we went into camp, it was almost in our front. This will give some idea of the zig-zag course we had to follow. Laramie peak is a gigantic landmark, a fit sentinel over that portion of the great American desert.

      "Boots and saddles" put us once more on the road, Friday morning. Instead of growing better, the country increased in worthlessness as we proceeded. We struck what are significantly termed "the bad lands"—a succession of sand-pits and hills, with neither cacti nor sage-weed—which are almost universal there—nor blade of grass to relieve the wearied eve. Persons afflicted with weak vision are compelled to wear goggles while riding through those sands which are white as chalk and dazzling as quicksilver. After making over twenty miles, we again went to sleep upon the Platte, and our colonel said we were just twenty miles from Fort Fetterman.

      Daybreak, on Saturday, May 27th, found us once more en route. The company of the 3d Cavalry with which I messed, having been in advance on the previous day, formed the rear guard, and, consequently, marched at will. It was pretty tedious, as the unfortunate mules of the wagon train were

      OR THE CONQUEST OF THE SIOUX

      nearly worn out, their backs galled by heavy loads, and their legs swollen by a long march.

      We again struck a hilly country, full of red sandstone, and cut up by countless ravines, some of which were of incredible depth. The captain determined to take a short cut from the wagon road, in order to explore the nature of the ground. Mounting a high hill, some ten miles from where we had camped, we beheld a long, low, white building on a bold, bare bluff, to the northwest. This was our first glimpse of Fort Fetterman, called after the gallant and unfortunate Colonel Fetterman, who perished only a few years previously in the Fort Phil Kearney massacre. Taking " the short cut," we found ourselves in a regular trap, and were obliged to ride up and down places that would make some of our city riders feel like making their wills. Our captain had, however, a sure-footed horse, and did not dismount. Neither did any of his men, and I, for the honor of my calling, was compelled to follow their example. Our horses nearly stood upon their heads, but they did not go over. They were all bred in that country, and were sure-footed as mules. Try to hold them up with the rein, and down they go. Give them their own way, and they'll carry you in safety over a glacier.

      Having traversed about fifty ravines, we again reached the upper trail, much to my delight, for I had grown tired of steeple-chasing. Our experiment revealed nothing new in the character of the soil—if sand can be designated by that name. If neither flat nor stale, it certainly was unprofitable. By the time we regained the road, the place of ren-

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      dezvous lay right beneath us, and long lines of tents and clouds of cavalry horses and pack mules grazing in the valley informed us that Colonel Evans' column from Medicine Bow, the shorter route by one-half, had already gone into camp. At the same moment a long cloud of dust, through which carbine-barrels and bridle-bits occasionally flashed, four miles ahead, showed us our main body entering the lines. The march was then down hill. Our teamsters lashed up their beasts until they cantered. The rear guard put spurs to their horses and trotted after. Half an hour later we were on the camping ground, and saw the desolate fort grinning at us from the bleak hill on the other side of the Platte. And thus we completed the ride from Russell to Fetterman.

      Some officers informed us that the ferry between the camp and Fort Fetterman had broken down, and that we could not get our mail or send despatches. The river at that point is so rapid and so full of whirlpools that few men care to swim it, and most horses refuse to do so. A wagon driver, together with a sergeant and two private soldiers of the 2d Cavalry, tried the experiment of swimming their horses over a few days before and all were drowned. It was absolutely necessary for me to cross the river, and some other correspondents were in the same position. When we reached the ferry, we found that it had been patched up in a temporary manner, and concluded to go across. When near the Fetterman bank, the rope broke, and we should have been swept down stream, at the imminent risk of drowning, but for the heroism of Lieutenant and Commissary Bubb, who plunged into the stream on horseback, caught a cable

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      which somebody threw toward him, and towed us in safety to shore amid the plaudits of the spectators. We proceeded to the fort immediately, and found General Crook at the commandant's quarters, busily engaged in forwarding the organization of his troops. He appeared to be in high spirits, and laughed grimly at our rough and miserably tanned appearance, stubble beards, dirty clothes and peeled noses.

      "Oh," said he, "this is only the prelude. Wait until the play proper begins. After that you can say you were through the mill."

      "We came over a pretty rough road, General," said one of our party.

      "Yes," he answered, " that is a bad road, but there are worse in Wyoming. We've got to go over many of them."

      He kindly invited us to dinner, but we preferred the sutler's establishment, and he directed an orderly to show us there. Fort Fetterman is now abandoned. It was a hateful post—in summer, hell, and in winter, Spitzbergen. The whole army dreaded being quartered there, but all had to take their turn. Its abandonment was a wise proceeding on the part of the government.

      CHAPTER V.

      MARCHING ON POWDER RIVER

      General Crook, impatient for action, hardly gave us time to have our soiled clothing properly washed and dried, when, everything being ready, he marched us northward at noon on the 29th of May. Two companies of the 3d Cavalry, commanded by Captain Van Vliet and Lieut. Emmet Crawford, had preceded us on the road to Fort Reno, to look out for the expected contingent of Crow Indians from Montana. The remainder, a formidable cavalcade, cemented, as it were, by a few companies of stalwart infantry, who furnished escort for the long wagon-train, streamed away from the Platte at a brisk pace, and came to a halt at Sage creek, thirteen miles north of Fetterman, in the afternoon. We were then fairly on the road to the Indian country proper—the lands secured to the Sioux, so far as that intangible instrument called a treaty could secure them anything. By the precautions taken in posting pickets and keeping the command well closed up on the march, even the most inexperienced could understand that we were in a region where active hostilities might begin at any moment. At the Sage creek camp, I was introduced by General Crook to Mr. Robert A. Strahorn, a distinguished 'Western newspaper correspondent, who had made a reputation over the nom de plume of " Alter Ego," and who, in every situa

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      tion, proved himself as fearless as he was talented. The General also introduced me to Mr. Davenport, of

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