Heistand photos

Through the generosity and kindness of David and Edgar Hiestand I have two photos of Mary to post online.

Both of these images, I am told, were taken over 20 years after they were stationed on the frontier, while Henry and Mary (or "Hosh" and "Mame" as they were known in the family) were posted in Manilla, the Philippines. In the first image Henry and Mary are together while in the second Mary is riding alone -- one can just see her as a young woman galloping across the plains in the Dakotas and Wyoming. . .

Mules and Pests

The recent intrusion of a small mouse in the pantry, and the resulting confusion reminded me of some experiences we had in our early Western service, with rodents and other wild and lively pests.

The Army Dougherty wagons were our only means of transportation in that vast expanse of country, outside of the transcontinental railroads that ran in as direct lines as possible, East and West. as I have mentioned in a previous paper, such travel was far from being uncomfortable, though it was tedious, and comparatively slow. Starting on a journey, one was liable to have any kind of experiences, not the least exciting possibility being that of meeting unfriendly Indians. Weather also was a variable factor in our calculations, as was more than forcefully proved.

My husband and I were the only occupants of an Army wagon at one time, when, near the close of day, we reached a ford. Our driver halted a moment at the sight of the stream. Recent rains had so swollen it that even at the ford it threatened to submerge the wagon. Streams stand on no more ceremony that does, proverbially, the tide, and this stream was rising visibly as we watched it. Realizing the ford must be made, and that quickly, the driver urged the team ahead. The team was composed of mules, in whom the sight of deep water accentuated their most characteristic trait: they moved not an eyelash, so to speak. The driver, an experienced hand with mules, and with this team in particular, used the lash and a voluble stream of “giddies.” Neither phased the mules as they stood serenely contemplating the rising stream. Anxious and provoked, the driver used every method of persuasion and force with which I was familiar, but without effect. Then, with a “do or die” expression on his flushed face, he turned to us. His tone was apologetic, yet determined, as he said:

“Will the young Madame please put her fingers in her ears?”

Alarmed for our safety, my husband leaned forward, fearing to hear that our plight was serious. But the mule-driver explained:

“Lieutenant, I just can’t do anything with these mules with whip or coaxing. I’ve got to talk to them the only way they understand. So if the young Madame will just hold her ears shut while I’m using mule talk, we’ll get across all right.”

Though somewhat mystified, at my husband’s request I complied. I am inclined to think that Mr. H. did not, for he has since told me that it would have been impossible for even a mule to misunderstand the driver. They evidently did not, for we crossed to safety before the recent rainfall near the source of the stream made it impossible.

On another trip the elements more roughly disputed our right to progress. We were traveling “express” -- that is, with relays -- and ran into a storm of wind and hail. The hailstones were as large as hen’s eggs, and so fiercely did they pelt us that we feared serious injury to the mules.
To my mind, for all the hardships patiently borne, the rough work constantly performed, and the effectual filling of a place as nothing else in animal form could fill, the old Army mules deserve an epitaph to perpetuate their memory after death. Whether pelted by a hail of earthly or heavenly artillery, they performed their tasks with the same hardihood and dogged stubbornness.

One stop we made, on an ambulance trip, I shall never forget. We put up for the night at an isolated ranch belonging to a half-breed Indian. As I, the only lady in the party, entered the ranch house, a white man in the rancher’s employ came forward. At sight of me he raised his hands and gazed with a kind of awe. Tears ran down his cheeks as he exclaimed with a beautiful, though awkward, reverence, that he had not seen a a white woman for seventeen years!

He looked about him deprecatingly, shook his head and spread out his hands. “This is no place to entertain a lady,” was the burden of his complaint as he hurried about on little errands conducive to my comfort. There was nothing good enough to cook for me, he declared, as the evening meal was being prepared.

The sleeping apartment assigned to us was a rude- barn-like room, with log rafters and beams, like a canopy, over our heads. After supper I saw the white man cut open several empty flour sacks, sew them into one big sheet, then attach the corners to the rafters of our sleeping-room. This odd addition to the bedroom furnishings, unsightly as it was, I soon learned was for a very practical purpose. The man explained that there were many rats, and some snakes, abiding in the roof among the rafters. Although they were harmless, he thought they might annoy me if some of them dropped down in the night. He had fixed this large “canopy” of flour sacks to cover the space just over our bed, in order to lessen the chance of any unceremonious descents upon me as I slept. He told me this to warn me not to be frightened if either carolers or scampers should approach me too closely. I had the assurance that they would not harm me, and that with the additional protection of his hasty device I might rest peacefully.

It may easily be conjectured that I never closed my eyes that night; but the imagination would be taxed to understand what I suffered! All night long the flour sacks were rustled and scratched by the pattering of rats. I listened in chilly horror of what might have been, or what might yet be, should the flour sacks, or the stitches that held them together, give way. One quartet of clawed paws after another crossed the “canopy.” As I lay still, coldly fascinated by the sounds, my nerves bade fair to snap when I thought I detected the stealthy progress of a snake just over my head. Would its weight prove too much for the cloth? or, crossing safely, would the reptile continue its stroll down the wall and over the bed? I was in a fever of fear in the impenetrable darkness. After that I became more accustomed to snakes, with which the country seemed infested. I saw at one time bunches of several hundreds of snakes, and later killed more than one singly; but never have I had the horror of reptiles than I felt in that sleep-infested darkness, in the unseen presence of rodents. I came in no closer contact with the pests, but their noises were sufficiently impressed upon my memory as yet to be very vivid.

The huge bunches of snakes that I have just mentioned were coiled and interwoven like a hopelessly tangled skein. It is their custom so to bunch themselves in hollows or protected places, to hibernate for the winter. I may safely say that there were no less than a thousand full-grown snakes in any one pile, coiled as they were, like piles of rope. It was a peculiarly hideous sight. If Medusa’s head boasted a heavy crop of “locks,” it is no wonder that a glimpse of her meant death -- perhaps from fear.

There were smaller, and what proved to be more annoying pests than rats and snakes, out West. At Camp Poplar River we suffered intensely from fleas. Our new post had been on the site of an old Indian camp, and we were nearly eaten alive by sand fleas. Four or five times a day I have undressed myself when fleas were torturing me. It was my custom to spread a white blanket to stand on as I removed my clothing. I was thus enabled to see the annoyances -- tiny only in size -- against the white blanket, and on it their legs tangled, and made them east prey. The process was slow, as I shook each garment before laying it aside. Sometimes, when the insect finally came to light, it escaped, with an agility unequaled, by jumping clear of the blanket.

At one time I was put to bed with fever induced by these miserable insects. They had so tormented me that I scarcely knew what I was doing; my temperature rose, and I collapsed. The physician pronounced my malady “flea fever.”

At another time we were taking a wayside meal in a stage ranch, when we heard a gnawing, crunching sound behind an open door. The ranchkeeper, with superb nonchalance, observed that it was “nothing but a polecate eating a bone,” and added that “they often come right int he house, and we don’t mind them, for the never bother us if we don’t bother them.” It is needless to say that my appetite was not stimulated.

At Fort Yates, Dakota, we had much to endure when the sand storms rages. At times the wind blew for days, carrying with it fine sand, that sifted into every crack and cranny, buried itself in our clothing, stung every inch of skin exposed, and became so all-pervading that we ground it in our teeth with our food, coughed it when we talked, and felt its grittiness in our sleep.

The severe sand storms were infrequent, but there was a sand always present with us, and that not always apparent. I refer to the hidden quicksand. Many times while driving or riding, my companions or I have seen the ground suddenly give, and felt our horse pulled from below as by magic. Only prompt action saved us at such a time. The horses became so wary and quick to feel the danger, that a sudden lunge or spring put us out of danger almost before we were aware of its proximity.

One day, while driving with my husband, our little horse stepped into quicksand. She was in so far when she began to struggle that her efforts to extricate herself only forced her deeper into the treacherous ground. perceiving the danger, my husband seized the whip and reins. With commanding voice, touches of the whip, and strong pulling on the reins, he sought to back her out of danger. The day was hot, and to add to her fear and torture, swarms of flies settled upon her. Of course it was decidedly unsafe, and useless for Mr. H. to get out and try to guide the horse’s head, as it was her fore feet that were being sucked in and he would have perished in the quicksand. After a quick and intense struggle the horse was saved, but when it was over her entire hide was a mass of blood splotches where the flies had bitten her. Between quicksand and flies, it was some time before the little animal was herself again.

One very hot summer another insect worked sad havoc in our garrison. For a spell the heat had been intense, and when the soldiers got paid at the end of the month some of them ignorantly sought relief in drink. During the consequent carousal two of the intoxicated men declared they were tired of the service and intended to “quit it.” None heeded the drunkenly expressed bravado, and at taps their absence caused surprise. The post was isolated, so there was no place else to go for companionship, and the conclusion was that the two men had actually deserted.

Very early the next morning, before search could be instituted, one of the missing men came staggering into the post. He seemed to have to his wits during the night, but was suffering terribly from the bites of mosquitoes, which swarmed in the bunch-grass and greasewood. He declared that he had returned to give himself up, and that some one must go with him to bring in the other man, It seemed that his companion had been too overcome with liquor to make his way back when the mosquitoes became too great a torture to endure.

His comrade led a small party of soldiers to the place where he had left the man. There they found him, lying in the sage brush, where the liquor had overcome him. But the mosquitoes had gotten in their deadly work, and had literally sucked the life from his body, which lay bloated and practically bloodless -- a bitter temperance lesson to the garrison men.

This chronicle of pests seems like a modern description of the plagues visited upon Egypt, yet my own good memory, and that of many who passed through the same experiences, attest their authenticity; and with it all, though I must needs endure them again, I should not hesitate choosing to relive that free, helpful, healthy, happy life of the Western frontier Army garrisons, which recall so many pleasures and friendships, and whose trying experiences so developed the very best qualities of human nature.

The Way of the Medicine Man

Among the many interesting characters at Fort Peck Agency, Montana, was a “medicine man” named Sheo Sapa (“Black Chicken”), a tall, slim fellow of erect and dignified carriage.

He enjoyed among his people a great reputation for skill in all the magic and black art both for healing and other purposes. Among the white people his reputation was equally great as a humbug though he was possessed of superior intelligence.

He made no use of drugs. He treated his patients by sorcery entirely -- beating a tom-tom and pronouncing mysterious sounds over the affected parts; using the incantations inherited from generations of medicine men, to which he added others of his own invention. He worked among his people continually; distributing blessings and curses as best suited his interests, but always enjoying their faith and a respect inspired by the mingled emotions of hope and fear.

Above all, “Chicken” (as we called him for short) exhibited a savage vindictiveness, which, couple wit his uncontrolled temper brought woe upon any unfortunate being who provoked his wrath.

Among the many incidents of his vicious temper which crowd my mind, one in particular I can never forget. Passing “Chicken’s” tipi in my phaeton one day, I saw him in a fit of passion catch up a little child, growl at her in his savage gutturals and with a vicious swing, dash her against a wood-pile several feet away. There the little one lay piteously crying, while “Chicken” continued his harsh invective with increasing anger until, as the child continued its wail, he grabbed an axe and swung it over his shoulder with an apparent intent to chop the little body in two.

My frightful shriek at a sight so murderous arrested his movement, when he turned toward me in surprise. His anger had been too fierce to note our approach. He realized that he was too near the law and force to neglect my threat of imprisonment and punishment if he perpetrated such an act. Slowly and sullenly he lowered the axe. But, oh! such a scowl of diabolical anger as he gave me for the interference that thwarted him in his dreadful purpose! It stayed with me for many a day, and makes me shudder yet.

In the same camp was another individual almost equally well know. In character a living antithesis to Black Chicken, was a woman whom everyone at the post liked. Her Indian name, if ever I knew it, has been forgotten; but the post trader had dubbed her “Dolly Varden,” usually shortened to “Dolly,” and as such she was known to all. She was neither handsome nor young -- merely a good-natured Indian woman.

Her good humor was constant and she was given to frequent jokes; something quite unusual in an Indian. In fact, I recall in all my experience with them, but one other who joked. “Dolly” appeared to enjoy life so much that her high spirits seemed infectious, and it was little wonder that her short calls in the post were always welcome.

She earned her living by making and selling porcupine and bead work, and doing chores about the different houses. Heres was a round of laborious struggle for existence; but that did not faze her, as every day seemed a succession of bright happenings.

As I have said, we all enjoyed “Dolly’s” visits There came a time when several days had passed without her appearance at the post. Everyone wondered if any misfortune had overtaken her. A fortnight had passed since any one had seen her, when, while riding, I saw approaching me along the road a woman packing a bundle of wood on her back after the usual squaw fashion. She seemed weak and tottering and it appeared that even the small load she had was overtaxing her strength. The figure looked like “Dolly,” but as she drew nearer, the bowed head was not raised, and she made no sign of recognition or greeting. Certainly it could not be she, for “Dolly” never passed friends without accosting them with word or smile; besides, the familiar strength and energy that were so essentially hers, were missing. Yet there was something that made think I could not be mistaken. I looked again. Finally I cried: “Dolly Varden, is that you?”

“Tosh cola” (Yes, my friend) I finally heard listlessly uttered as the wan and wasted face turned toward me. With eager anxiety I inquired “Why, Dolly, where have you been? Are you ill?”

Then in a voice so weak as to be scarcely audible she told me that she was going to die. Naturally I was shocked. I plied her with questions, and in her weak, unwilling answers I got the story.

It appeared that sometime previous Dolly had provoked Chicken; whereupon he had approached and struck her menacingly with a bird’s claw fastened to the end of a stick which he carried as a sorcerer’s wand. Then he told her that the claw had entered her breast and would kill her in forty days. Her belief in the man’s words was so sincere that she gave evidence of real pain as she touched the spot where the bird’s claw had fell. In the thought of approaching death she had become emaciated. her face drawn and haggard. She had lost interest in the world and all about her. I tried in every way to persuade her that “Chicken” possessed no power that enabled him to strike a bird’s claw into her breast, or to predict when she would die. But her faith in his “bad medicine” remained unshaken.

Shocked at the fiendish knavery of the man, and filled with compassion for the poor woman’s meek acceptance of his word, I finally gained her reluctant promise to come to my house and take some medicine to break the spell. Once at my quarters, not surrounded by native influence, I thought to reason with her and give her substantial food. I was determined if possible to save “Dolly” from her fatal superstition. That she was incredulous of any relief was evident from a manner which indicated disbelief; but like an Indian true to her promise, she came. She looked to be worse than when I had seen her on the road and although she had absolutely no physical ailment, the woman was actually wasting away -- a victim of fear and alarm at the fate Black Chicken had prophesied for her.

“Chicken” was a frequent visitor at our house and while talking with her I saw him approaching an idea occurred to me upon which I acted with an impulse in a way which I fear I would not have dared, under careful consideration.

“Doll,” said I, “if I let ‘Chicken’ strike me with the bird’s claw will you believe what I say? I’m not afraid. He cannot hurt anyone with it.”

She was visibly terrified at such a test. Finally, however, she acquiesced. I called my husband; explained the situation; and asked him to stay with us.

When “Chicken” came, we confronted him with “Dolly.” he gazed at her so savagely, that the poor woman shrank farther and farther into the background in evident fear of worse and swifter calamity at his hand. His bravado aroused my ire. All I could see was a strong man taking a shameful advantage of a weak, ignorant woman. In the native tongue I belittled Sheo Sapa’s power, and defied him to injure me with his bird’s claw. I recall how I warmed up as I ridiculed his humbuggery before “Dolly” until I had poked fun at every form of his vaunted skill. Poor “Dolly” cowered in that shadow and listened with amazement at my audacity, and watched each moment for my downfall at the medicine man’s hand. To her, to defy the medicine man meant death. When he stood before me and neither my life was sacrificed nor my strength diminished, “Dolly” took courage, and I could see that her deep faith in him was weakened.

As for “Chicken,” he was took angry to speak. He probably expected the camp to hear of the incident, and he gave me a look of intense hatred which is indescribable. Then slowly gathering up his blanket and his trappings, he departed.

Poor “Dolly”! Her nerves had been unnaturally tense, and she was greatly relieved at his departure. After she became more calm, she gratefully ate the meal that had been prepared for her.

For several days after, “Dolly” and I watched each other. I to see if she improved; she to see if I grew weak. I circulated freely to protect her from “Chicken’s” molestation; I could see her covertly noting my appearance and actions, evidently somewhat fearful of evil effects from my defiance of the medicine man. At last, when she saw that my health and spirits remained good, her faith in him was completely overthrown.

With the loss of fear, hope returned and “Dolly” gradually strengthened and became her old jolly self again.

The incident had another and a more far-reaching result. Though my berating incurred for me “Chicken’s” ever-lasting dislike, it put an end to his over bearing manner toward his people while we remained at the station; but I heard later that he had regained all of his old power and influence at the time of the Ghost Dance craze which swept over the Indians a few years later.

Trading for a Wife

The inherent seriousness of the uncivilized Indian caused one of our earliest impressions of frontier life, and his inability to be anything but earnest and matter-of-fact was the text of a lesson my husband and I early learned. It occurred as we traveled to our first station – fort Custer, Montana. A delay of a fortnight at Fort Keogh awaiting transportation had been made very delightful for us by the officers and ladies of that post; so it was with sincere regret that we took advantage of returning overland transportation, and left our new friends for other new faces and scenes.

The transportation consisted of a strong covered spring wagon commonly known throughout the army as a “Dougherty wagon” – the barouche of the prairies. It was very comfortable, for the top was rainproof, the springs good – a most necessary quality in a country almost roadless. It seated four persons besides the driver. Many a day have I spent less comfortable in modern travel than those passed in a good old Dougherty wagon with jolly companions and my guitar in my lap. In winter the wagons were frequently made more tenable by lining them with heavy army blankets or buffalo robes. More than one trip have I taken with great ease and comfort notwithstanding a temperature of 30 or less – jolting along in a well-lined Dougherty wagon, myself snugly encased in buffalo fur clothing – coat, cap, gloves, leggings and boots.

All that, however, followed the journey referred to. Leaving Fort Keogh, we swung out at a smart gait over the trackless, treeless, tenantless prairie, behind four agile mules all bedecked with varicolored rings on the harness and apparently enjoying it as much as we. The wagon was preceded and followed by a rather slim guard of mounted soldiers. Although the wagon itself was heavy, the load it held was small, so the mules drew it as easily as a child trundles its toy cart. Our only companion was a young lieutenant who was returning to his post. The three of us had the wagon to ourselves, for the soldier driver paid no heed to naught but the mules and the trail. It was delightfully new and strange: the novelty of it all held me throughout the day; but I found upon alighting that the first thirty-five mile drive held an element of fatigue as well as one of interest.

It was on the bank of the Rosebud River that we chose to make our first camp in the wilderness. It was on the edge of a rolling country made alluringly beautiful b the sweeping sunset sky. The peaceful solitude was a fitting introduction to that heretofore strange land; it impressed me with the dignity and natural grandeur of the country that was to be my home for I knew not how long. With admiring awe I viewed it from my standpoint as a youthful bride from the far East.

After a substantial supper cooked over the campfire, we watched the men erect our tents. While we chatted of the utter wilderness, untilled and uninhabited, we began rather to glory in our undisturbed ownership of all in sight, when we were startled at the appearance of visitors – Indians – big, stalwart warriors in paint and feathers. We soon learned that they belong to a large camp of Crows half a mile distant but hidden in the fold of the low hills. Their appearance came strangely enough upon the heels of our remark about the absence of human neighbors. Our campfire had attracted them, and there was nothing to do but receive them graciously. Indeed, for my husband and me it was a unique and genuine pleasure.

Of course, we did not understand their language, and did not try to communication with them except by the simplest of signs, but it was interesting to hear the soldiers converse with them. Now and again, as they talked, the Indians looked at me, and finally one of them addressed my husband.

“He says the lady is very nice, Lieutenant,” one of the men translated. My husband doubtless felt gratified at the compliment to me; it was a pleasing statement from even a savage to a young husband just married within the month. The Indian continued his speech, and the soldier with evident amusement translated each sentence.

“He says he would like to trade with you for your wife.” It came out at last. It was a startling proposition, indeed. For a moment were both too breathless to comment. Finally my husband yielded to his impulse for amusement, and, smiling at me, he replied:

“Ask him what he will give for her.”

“He says six ponies, Lieutenant.”

“Oh, tell him she is worth lots more than that.”

“He will give you twelve ponies for her.”

My husband again replied that he would not trade for anything like that; so the Indian kept raising his bid. He offered twenty ponies; then twenty ponies and a squaw; and finally twenty ponies, a squaw and a papoose. At length, wearying of the nonsense, my husband nodded his dismissal of the subject. But the Indian seemed to think that the apparent holding out for a higher price constituted a trade when the final offer was not rejected. He appeared satisfied, but soon signified he wished to finish the bargain. Of course, my husband immediately objected. My savage admirer continued unaccountably insistent, and, amicably to rid himself of the Indian’s importunity, my husband told him I was not fit for more travel; that I needed to go rest at once. Accordingly, I entered our tent.

The Indian was not content, and continued, with some of his companions, to hang around the camp until one of the men told them must now return to their camp, as we were all going to retire. When they had reluctantly departed my husband laughingly told the lieutenant, who had not bee present during the parleying, of the incident. The latter looked grave, and expressed a fear that the Indian, in the belief that he had made a trade, might cause trouble when the bargain was not kept. My husband assured him there was no agreement, and that the buck had no basis for such a claim. The lieutenant explained that the failure to reject the last bid and the presence of witnesses to the price haggling was all that the Indian considered necessary to make a binding affair of heart and honor.

As he spoke, a soldier reported that the Indians had been overheard grumbling and expressing discontent in the fear that the white man would not trade as he had bargained to do. However, it seemed they were determined to have the white squaw, and several of them continued to lurk about the camp. Such tidings were extremely disconcerting, for there had been no thought that the bucks were serious or that they would expect the consummation of what appeared to be sch an unheard-of exchange. When my husband noticed the other officer’s concern he realized that his carelessness of manner and indifference to Indian ways had caused him to trifle unintentionally with their sensibilities.

Anxious to avoid unpleasant results of a condition which it was too late to mend, the two officers planned a speedy resumption of our journey, for if the red men were in earnest about holding us to the implied bargain, it would not be well to risk an open dispute with such a small force and so far from reinforcements. Unheralded flight was deemed to be the wiser course; so the decision was soon made. When retiring for the night the lieutenant insisted upon erecting a shelter tent and having one man sleep at the very door of our tent.

It was yet chill and apparently scarce past midnight when my husband awakened me and bade me prepare for the march as quickly and silently as possible. In the nervousness of broken rest and startling strangeness of environment my fingers fairly stumbled at the tasks set for them in my hurry. It was all so weird and unusual. From the outside came a muffled stir. The work of the soldiers as they folded their tents and the man’s labored breathing were audible, also the stifled “mule” language as the driver got the animals into harness; all punctuated by orders and directions in muffled whispers.

Soon I emerged into a still world, dark except for the flickering campfire that afforded the only light. Had more been made, the Indian neighbors would have seen and interpreted aright our early rising. To keep them in ignorance of our movements, the last act was to replenish our fire just as the Dougherty wagon with its accompanying cavalcade moved off into the darkness.

At firs tour progress was slow, for, while yet in the neighborhood, safety demanded silence rather than speed. For a couple of miles or so we traveled stealthily, then quickened our gait and put several miles between ourselves and the Indian camp before dawn heralded the day and aroused the savages from the early-morning sleep which appeared to hold them always so closely in its grasp.

But for us dawn did not announce breakfast time; not until we had traveled nearly twenty miles did we pause for refreshment. Then a substantial meal renewed life and energy into the whole party, the faithful mules included, and after a brief halt we again took the road and hastened on.

At the end of a hard day’s travel we camped where we heard the evening bugles of a scouting party out from Fort Custer, and it seemed a friendly salute to us as we approached our destination and insured us against molestation. We were weary, but quite safe and unannoyed, for not one glimpse had we caught of our dusky friends that day.

However, the following morning the Indians arrived, and insisted that my husband had made a bargain, and demanded its fulfillment. Of course, terms had to be reached, and my husband, for the only time in his experience with the red man, agreed to compromise. He bought them off, and appeased their disappointment by a gift of good, hard money and a lot of tobacco.

That was not the only result of our contact with the Indian camp. We later discovered that a bundle containing my brown broadcloth coat, handsomely trimmed in sealskin, and my husband’s dress-uniform trousers, had been appropriated by the Indians during their visit to our Rosebud Camp and later in the winter we saw the remnants of the articles worn by an Indian without feeling able to lift a hand toward their recovery, even had they been in condition to warrant a desire to do so.

I cherish the incident that proved to me, a bride, that I was “without price” in my husband’s eyes; but it nearly came to be a serious business, the possible termination of which makes me shudder to this day; and if it was a “joke.” The Indians were entitled to the “last laugh.”

A Day of Double Adventure

The Indians, many of them at least, were a good deal like children -- the difference being that children, when sick or in trouble, look to their parents, while the Indians turned to the white man.

The tender-hearted of us had so many visits of the good-Samaritan order to make, that frequently our walks and rides, otherwise purely for pleasure, were given definite objective in some hut where ailment or bereavement reigned. One such ride I so vigorously recall in connection with the adventure to which it led, and the events following it.

One evening, after an early dinner, the sky gave promise of one of those particularly gorgeous sunsets that nature so often gave us as compensation for the monotonous landscape of treeless prairie and the hardships of frontier life. In order to view it better, another lady of the garrison and I mounted our horses, to go out some little way from the post -- Poplar River, Montana -- to higher ground, where the coloring would hold unrestricted sway. We shaped our course along the foothills bordering the Missouri River bottom, and reveled in the view with as great enthusiasm as that inspired by our first sight of these wonderful riots of color, but the afterglow, or, as we are in the habit of designating the lingering sunset glory, twilight, slowly fades as though loath to leave the scene of the sun’s daily reign. While the spectator drinks in the wonder of the scene, the heavens are so gradually drained of their intoxicating color that the final realization of the empty, darkening sky is an unwelcome shock.

With our experience with the deceptive daylight that so suddenly ends in darkness, we hastened on our way. We were near an Indian village where lived a sick protege of mine, whom I was anxious to visit before turning home. A poor squaw had met with a painful accident a few days before. She (squaw-like) had been out after wood; the axe had slipped, severing the toes of her foot. The woman’s suffering had enlisted our sympathy, and one of the missionaries and I undertook to dress her wound. The surgeon was glad enough to give into the ladies’ hands cases that required but care and visiting. So every day one of us had made the pilgrimage to her tipi to see that matters were going well. It is a pleasure to recall here appreciation.

That evening, as we rode through the Indian camp, several of the inhabitants came out from their tipis to solicit aid or called from within for us to come and see them. More than once we recognized the voices of ailing or aged Indians, to whom we frequently carried food and delicacies. By the time our errands were accomplished, and we had turned out horses homeward, the stars were making their appearance in the yet bright sky. Reading this as a sign of fast approaching night, we started off at a rapid pace. Our horses were restive from waiting and willingly loped along the river bank. For some distance we rode, the fresh evening air in our faces, and were nearing the coulee which led to the first bench of the foothills, when we heard the sound of riders in our rear.

Not slackening our pace, we made up the coulee, and came in sight of the post lights, yet a considerable distance ahead. The riders back of us stood not upon ceremony, but made their presence known by calling loudly in Dakota to us to wait for them. The voices were those of Indian bucks. This fact, and the manner of its tone, did not increase our feeling of safety, when we realized that we were alone on the prairie, in a semi-hostile country. The Indians, at that period, were never really trustworthy, for the late Sitting Bull rebellion and the triumph of the Custer massacre were still very fresh in the memory of the entire tribe.

The call of our pursuers did not have the desired effect, for, putting the whip to my horse, I scampered off. At that the Indians called more harshly and whipped their ponies. To add to the confusion, my companion, whom I expected to follow me, reined in her horse, and raised her voice in protest at my riding away so rapidly, and remonstrated in jerky sentences: “They - will think - that we - are afraid - of them. Slow down a bit; we are - near - home. Don’t let them think - you are afraid - of them.”

My horse was tearing along over the uneven ground, without any effort or desire on my part to stop him; and the only reply I made to her was: “I am afraid of them! Come along!” and I kept on.

We had been running for perhaps a mile when I was seized with a severe pain in my side. It seemed an absolute necessity for me to slacken pace, no matter what the consequences, but I had started a pace so furious that it was extremely difficult to stop. My horse had been running just far enough either to be feeling good or to think that he was running away, and it was after the greatest effort that I finally succeeded in brining him down to a walk.

Our decided flight from their proffered company and attention had in no wise sweetened the Indians’ temper, and by the time they now caught up with us there were more overbearing even than perhaps had been their original intention. They were two husky young bucks, seemingly well-to-do, and said they belonged in the village which we had just visited. They evidently knew who were were; but they were strangers to us, and their antecedents could only be conjecture in our part.

Upon their approach, one of them placed himself beside my companion, and the other beside me, both separating us. This alarmed me still more. They inquired with superb impudence what we had gone to the village for, and where we were going now. By the way of introduction, they informed us that they had just returned from driving in their pony herd to camp, and upon seeing us leaving, they had started after us without dismounting.

Theirs was decidedly the advantage, and civility was the only weapon left, so we answered them quietly enough, saying we had been visiting the sick, and were hurrying home, as it was late. Then, hoping to end the audience, I started up my horse again, and said good-by.

The young gallant was far from satisfied at that, and, keeping pace with me, he insisted that I ride with him. Indians are generally afraid to excite jealousy, so I told him that my husband would not like to have me riding with a strange man, and he would have to leave me, and go in some other direction. But instead of being frightened he became much incensed. Our altercation attracted the attention of my companion, who talked the Sioux and sign language very well, and understood the Indians better than did I at that time.

She called to me in English, “For goodness’ sake, don’t talk like a goose. Let him alone. Tell him he can go as far as the sutler’s store with you, to pacify him. It will be all right, if we treat them right.”

Our lack of encouragement in the early moments of contact, however, had left them in an ugly temper, and such a ride seemed far too short for our erstwhile admirers, and it was in no honeyed tones that they insisted upon a longer ride with us than that.

The buck who rode with me became so decidedly insistent that he made bold to grasp the bridle of my horse and turn him in an opposite direction from the post, for which we were anxiously heading. At that, my mount suddenly and in quite a startling manner, turned protector. Without warning, he snorted and bolted. The cause was the nearness of the Indian pony, for which the American horse (for as such they were designated) always showed a decided antipathy. When the pony’s flank touched my horse in process of turning, the latter felt outraged, and immediately took steps to rid himself of the hateful proximity.

I clung for dear life (I was not worrying about my appearance). The horse worked himself into a perfect frenzy, shaking himself and foaming at the mouth as he tore along. To make matters the more uncomfortable for me, the now infuriated Indian whipped his pony up and followed as closely as possible, taking all the time. I had no wish to interpret his words, and perhaps it is just as well that I paid no closer heed to them. For over a mile we raced along, my horse steadily outdistancing the pony, until his rider’s voice became more and more indistinct, and finally ceased entirely, though at just what point I lost them interested me but little.

Fully realizing that if my horse wanted to run I could not stop him now, I let him have the bridle, and trusted him to land me safely at camp. What was my astonishment, then, when he circled a trifle, and stopped abruptly at the sutler’s store, where he was in the habit of being ridden. He made such a scamper stopping in his wild career that the trader hurried out to investigate the commotion. When he saw who it was he exclaimed: “I’m so glad to see you, “Cola” (“my friend”). Do hurry home, They are so uneasy about you, and were just about to start out in search for you.”

My breath had not yet returned sufficiently for me to talk; but upon hearing of the alarm I started again, and was met a few yards from our quarters by my anxious husband.

It took me a bit longer than usual to get settled for the night, for the uneasiness of mind, as well as body, had left me quite nervous. I had scarcely fallen into sleep when the reports of rifles and the noise of running feet by our quarters suddenly aroused and startled me.

The guard was quickly out, and orders were hastily issued for different squads to take their positions of defense. No one seemed to know what was the meaning of the rifle shots, except that they came from the direction of the Indian camp, and the long-talked-of attack seemed now a reality. The troops formed in less time than I can tell it, and by that time the whole garrison was aroused. The firing continued, but there was no sign of a rush or other advance on the post.

There seemed nothing unusual about the firing. The Indians seemed to draw no nearer, and as the demonstration came no closer, we began to think the Sioux were having a family row, or else had been attacked by the Crows or some other of their enemies. The affair was puzzling until some one noticed that the moon was undergoing a partial eclipse. Investigation then revealed that the red men were shooting at it to drive away the evil spirits! Then we enjoyed the somewhat curious spectacle of our scientifically evolved weapons of warfare being used by these savage owners to drive away the intangible beings who were only represented in the superstitious religion of nature’s untrained people. The knowledge that the Indians were shooting at intangible targets instead at us was very comforting, but it did not alter the fact nor prevent the unquestionably tangible bullets from plumping against and into our houses, and tearing up tufts of grass on our parade ground.

When the real facts of the situation were known, the disgusted soldiers returned to their interrupted night’s rest, content to let the Indians shoot fruitlessly, as the helpless hound bays at “the lesser light that rules the night.” The sentries paced on in stolid indifference, confident in his knowledge that soon the lunar phenomenon would respond to nature’s cry of “All’s well,” and filled with condescending pity for the Indian, whose fears kept him anxious so far into the night.

The midnight attack on the moon was the last straw to be heaped upon my worn-out frame, and from this climax of excitement I literally swooned into dreamland.

A Buffalo Hunt

The herds of buffalo so frequently seen during my sojourn in “prairie land” always held for me a special interest. I saw them from near and from afar; across the rolling country as they grazed n the foothills -- herded on tile open prairie -- coming to water at the streams -- all though that interesting territory fresh herds were to be seen. As we traveled up the Missouri on a stern-wheel steamboat we had several close views of them.

Those old river boats were true floating palaces in the early days of the western country; as they plied back and forth they made many stops of indefinite length. It was quite a usual experience to feel the throb of the engines cease and the boat slow up at a great pile of wood on the river bank. This indicated that some industrious squatter had a supply of fuel for boats in need, and was willing to dispose of it to the first comer.

A stop to “wood up” often lasted several hours, and it gave opportunity for an informal call, if a fort or a ranch happened to be within walking distance. At any rate, we rarely lost the chance to take a walk while “roustabouts” put the fuel aboard.

I recall with great pleasure the long river voyages, and when the engines stopped it was interesting to watch them “bury the dead man,” as the process of anchorage then followed was called. My first experience was to play the role of “tenderfoot” and look for a real corpse. Instead, a great log was embedded in a trench, and by a stout rope passed under it the boat was held to the shore. I doubt if anyone ever escaped getting laughed at for their first morbid interest in seeing the “dead man” buried.

The country in its superb distances was very deceptive.I remember starting more than once with a party for a supposed half-mile walk to the foothills and always compelled to turn back after an hour’s tramp with the hills still elusively near -- yet apparently just as far as when we left the boat. Watching for game was one of the pastimes. Sometimes a clump of objects would attract our attention and start a merry discussion as to what they were. Some would loudly assert that they were buffalo; others would declare them to be stones or bushes. If field glasses proved them to be grazing undisturbed, miles away, it was more of a disappointment than a satisfaction even to those of the “buffalo faction,” for everyone wanted to go hunting.

At last one day as we slowly crawled along against the current of the Missouri the opportunity came to “bag” some of the animals at close range, and it was seized with great delight. We were approaching a shallow that was evidently a customary watering place, and when the captain called attention to a herd that was already partly in the water, guns and ammunition appeared as if by magic. The animals must have regarded the boat as a monster aquatic foe, for on its approach its decks spat fire at them as many stinging bullets made a way through their tough sides. Although several shots must have taken effect, all animals but one struggled toward the land. That unfortunate one staggered just as it tried to clamber out, and after a dizzy effort succumbed and toppled over.

It was a fine young cow that had been brought down, and, loath to lose her the successful sportsman insisted that an be made to recover the carcass, and all the passengers added their appeal, for it meant fresh meat in the larder -- a matter of more importance than can easily be understood by those never distant from the market. After some interesting maneuvering on the part of the boat-hands a rope was fastened to the fallen buffalo, by means of which she was towed in and dragged on board. That evening for the first time in two weeks we had fresh buffalo steak for supper. All this is somewhat of a digression but I like to ramble about with the memories of those glorious old army days and their joys. After the experience just related I was more anxious than ever to take active part in the sport of a buffalo hunt.

I had to wait a good long time, though, for it was not until the autumn of the following year, while we were stationed at Terry’s Landing, Montana, near the Yellowstone River, that my oft-repeated wish was gratified. Buffalo had been seen with promising frequency by parties riding about the country, and at times tray animals appeared within sight of the cantonment itself. So one day my husband told me that we could go out on the following morning, if we could be sure that the horse I had been riding was perfectly fit and safe for a hard cross-country run.

The mount I used was a large bay, in fact, the largest horse in the corral; not a bit good-looking, but gentle and apparently sure-footed. In taking a long ride such as we anticipated, we would have more or less rough country to traverse, many coulees to cross, and lots of prairie-dog holes to avoid. These coulees or fissures in the ground, frequently filled by running streams, appeared at times rather unexpectedly, and unless a horse were accustomed to jumping and were not easily frightened, the crossing might prove a serious matter, and to avoid prairie-dog holes required the quickest sort of dodging by the most experienced equines.

That afternoon my husband, to guard against mishap, took me out to one of the fenced-in garrison gardens from which the crops had been gathered, and, putting me on the horse, sent him high over the rails of the fence again and again. First a foot high, then two, and finally, after the animal was quite sure and I was accustomed to his rise as he topped out the bars, we practiced jumping rails three or four feet high. It was excellent training both for me and the horse, and when it was over I was reasonably sure of perfect safety in crossing coulees or any other low or high obstacle that might arise in the morrow’s path, and I had ridden him over prairie-dog villages many times.

Our early morning start brought us to the ford of the Yellowstone river just after the sun peeped over the hills. The water was cold, and the streams had all been more or less swollen recently, but, nothing daunted, the men without hesitancy started for the river. The clear water was deceptive, and before they knew it the man riding ahead was in up to his horse’s shoulders. At first, fearing he might be caught in a quick sand, one of the great dangers of the country, we called loud warnings to him when we saw him dismount and keeping hold of his horses tail, urge the animal to swim. As the other riders gained the middle of the stream they also, with their short ponies, were compelled to follow his example, on account of the unusual depth of the water. The sight of the swimming men and horses did not inspire me with levity, even when I saw there was practically no danger, for I knew that my road lay the same way if I were to have my buffalo hunt. My husband reassured me, however, saying that my horse, the tallest of the party, would be able to avoid swimming, and that the thought I could manage to remain on his back. With assistance I pulled my feet up and crossed them on the rear of the saddle. Thus kneeling, my hands clutching the horse’s mane, I started across. The steady fellow splashed slowly into the deeper water, while I anxiously watched it rise. Just when I though the saddle was about to be flooded my horse made an extra effort, brining me to a higher level that gradually rose to the opposite bank, in safety and quite dry.

Our ride was now across country in what was called “Pease Bottom.” Up over the hills we picked our way, constantly on the lookout for buffalo. A ranch hove into sight some time after crossing the river, and, stopping beside the little low dwelling, we inquired if any buffalo had recently bee seen thereabouts.

Strangers were a source of interest in the Far West at that time, and a chance meeting was a pleasure to be made the most of. This lone ranchman seemed more than usually delighted at the sight of us, and though he could give us no information, he hospitably urged us to dismount and have some refreshment. He was standing in a watermelon patch, and as he voiced his invitation waved his hands in the direction of the ripe fruit.

“They’re good,” he said, with a genial smile. We dismounted, and that the ranchman was a good judge of watermelons we soon discovered for ourselves. Such luscious melons I had never eaten, and fear I shall never eat again. We sat on the ground amid the fruit, cutting our choice from the vines with our big hunting knives and eating the melon with only its rind for a dish. “Close to nature” it was, and leaves a joyous memory of frontier hospitality. The men dried their clothes at the house, and by 9 o’clock we had finished this second breakfast and were ready to remount and continue the quest of buffalo.

Over the hills, through the valleys, up and down the coulees, onward we rode, sweeping the horizon and straining our eyes for a moving patch on the landscape. Two or more fruitless hours we had spent in our saddles when I exclaimed, in Indian lingo, “I see ‘heap’ buffalo!”

“False alarm,” my husband warned, as he had caught no signs where I was locating the shaggy-haired animals. On my insistence the field glasses were brought into service, to prove my long sighted vision to be good, for, sure enough, there was a herd four or five miles away, disappearing up a ravine.

“They are just entering a coulee, very likely going to or from water. We can head them off before they reach the plateau if we hurry,” was Mr. H’s quick conception.

Off we started at a rapid pace as soon as the last of them left the level of the “bench” we were on and had disappeared into the trench-like formation that contained or led to the water supply. As we drew nearer we sighted the scrub brush that indicated the presence of water, and we struck out in a direction to meet the herd on its return to the upper level.

When we thought we were near, one of the men dismounted and crept to the edge of the coulee to reconnoiter. The buffalo were in sight, but would not be coming out for some time; so, while we waited, our knapsacks yielded up the luncheon we had provided. A lookout was kept, and just as we were finishing the repast an alarm of the approach of the herd got us quickly to our horses. Kneeling on the edge of the coulee, the solder waving his arms to us, who were back farther, indicating the direction of the herd’s advance. Quickly we rode to meet them, going slowly for fear our horse’s hoofs might attract their attention. On our way my husband, then a young lieutenant, and ambitious for me to kill some big game, was saying:

“Now, men, my wife espied this herd, and I want her to have the first shot.”

The five soldiers who had accompanied us willingly acquiesced, for our soldiers never lost an opportunity to be gallant. His word, however, filled me with stage fright, and as we drew near them I exclaimed, “Oh, I can never shoot one of those big beasts!”

The animals, now having gained the level, had greatly accelerated their pace to escape the danger sighted. We started our horses on a run after them, and away they raced for fields unknown, in their mad effort to escape. They scattered, the better time to make, and with their rolling, awkward movements loped away over the uneven ground with their great woolly heads so near the earth it seemed they must stumble. Our horses measured themselves along the ground in long strides, and seemed to enjoy the chase as much as their riders. It was a long hard chase, but we were continually gaining on upon the fleeing herd. As we finally came within range an opportunity presented itself. My husband urged me, saying:

“Shoot! You’ll never have such a chance again.”

he spoke more prophetically than the excitement of the moment allowed us to realize, for it was truly the “chance of my life.” The stimulus, at any rate, hastened my decision. I braced up, grasped the cavalry pistol hanging at my waist, aimed the best I could, riding as we were at a fast gallop, and fired twice. My living target lunged, stumbled, and in a few seconds was down. My husband was more delighted and jubilant at my success than I was, and, seeing that I had my trophy, called to the men, “Now, go ahead; every man for himself” -- forgetful of any wish personally to enter into the chase. At his word the solders scattered, riding at a dead run after the fleeing game, the reports of their rifles coming back to us like a scattered volley.

My husband paid no heed to anything but my skill, and, gleefully dismounting tossed me off my horse and carried me over to where the buffalo was rolling in his death agony. The monster plunged with his feat in mid-air, beat his head angrily on the ground, and rolled his big body clumsily from side to side. As we approached his motions became more and more feeble, and finally ceased.

Before I realized what was happening my husband lifted me up and stood me upon the shaggy side, near the animal’s shoulder, holding me there in triumph over the fallen beast. I was greatly frightened and nervously fearful of the consequence of such a daring deed. I strongly resented the action, and rebelled at being placed upon so uncertain a pedestal.

Surprised at my terror, he lifted me to the ground, and I retired precipitously from the close proximity of the expiring animal.

Mr. H. was extracting the fatal bullet from the buffalo’s neck when the soldiers returned, well satisfied with their sport. we all regretted, however, that it was out of the question to carry away with us the heads of the animals we had killed. The distance we were from home and the absolute lack of wheeled transportation made it impossible to preserve or use any more of the carcasses than we could pack on our horses.

The day, with its fifty miles in the saddle, was for me a thorough satisfaction, despite the fact that we had nothing to show for our outing but a little fresh meat and a battered horse-pistol bullet which I still retain in my collection of souvenirs as a mute reminder of my buffalo kill on the plains of Montana in the early days when the State was the red man’s hunting ground, and the only evidences of civilization were clustered around the widely separated Army stations.

An Old Army Outing

In the early spring of ’79, while seated strumming up my guitar, quite oblivious to my surroundings, was startled by the abrupt entrance of my husband.

“Hello, girlie! How would you like camp life for a week?” was his cheery greeting. “I am ordered to Fort C. F. Smith for limestone, and you can accompany mer if you like. I’ll have plenty of transportation to take your feather bed and mattress. You can be altogether comfortable, and have an enjoyable trip. What do you say?”

before the manifestly unnecessary question was finished I had jumped up in high glee at the prospect. Our station at the time was Fort Custer, Montana. It was so far from civilization that a change of any kind was hailed with delight. This promised to be better than I could have hoped for, and my expectations were fully realized on the trip. A detachment of eight men, including one of the favorite cooks of the mess, constituted the guard and work party, my husband in command. The time fixed for departure allowed but two hours to get ready. The hurry of getting together the few comforts my husband’s thoughtfulness provided, with plenty of clothing and wraps possible for a possible fall in the thermometer, was fascinating in the excitement, and the jolly anticipation of the outing itself exhilarating yet, with all the rush. I did not forget to strap up my guitar, with a supply of new strings. The long-suffering instrument has bravely withstood many a sudden change of weather in tents.

We left at the appointed time, riding our saddle horses and followed by the ambulance and escort wagons, for our destination forty miles to the southward. The sun was still high in the heavens when we started, and just as it was setting we chose our camp for the night fourteen miles from the post.

It was on the banks of the Little Big Horn, at the foot of Custer’s Bluff, and as we walked about while camp was in course of erection the tragedy that had been enacted there less than three short years before came vividly to our minds. It was there that over three hundred brave soldiers of the 7th Cavalry were massacred by the red man. In rehearsing the tale a great sadness stole over us that the desolate, bleak sweep of the country was not calculated to dispel. The exhilaration of the sudden preparation and the delightful ride across the rolling country was lost for the time, and we answered the call to supper with the light of the setting sun over Custer Bluff strangely dazzling our eyes, and I can remember yet the little white pile of bones that marked where the men fell and lay. Our cook’s ability had not been overestimated, and the fine supper of hot biscuit baked in a Dutch oven, nice crisp bacon with venison, fried potatoes, and excellent coffee, was a real joy. That the rising sun might see us well on our way to our permanent camp of a week, we retired almost immediately, and were lulled to sleep by the yelping of the coyotes. These animals evidently smelled our fresh meat, and drew unpleasantly near in their ravenous desire to sample it. To a “tenderfoot” the barking of the coyote might be a sound in the extreme, capable of terrorizing the stoutest heart, but to the initiated it creates no fear, but instead constitutes one of the few soothing sounds that relived the vast prairie of its silence, often described as depressing. It fell upon my ears so often I came to look upon it as one of the cradle songs of the western land.

The next morning after an early breakfast, we cut off on a steady trot toward the abandoned fort which was our destination.

One stop we made near a pretty stream for coffee and a “snack,” then crossed the divide into the Big Horn valley. Our tents were pitched in sight of the crumbly adobe walls and rotten stockade which were all that remained of one of a strong of forts that had been built at the close of the war far out into the Indian country.

The Indians were much opposed to the occupation of their country, and constantly committed depredations, frequently firing into the post and attacking all parties outside, until finally a treaty of peace was signed and the fort abandoned. Scarcely had the troops marched out until the Indians rushed in and set fire to all the buildings, which were consumed in sight of the departing columns.

Time had completed the work of destruction, and the spot in its death gave life to the romantic suggestiveness that clings to an abandoned place of abode.

We selected a pretty place for our camp. I did not realize how tired I was until the seclusion of our tent gave me opportunity to relax before the evening meal.

The night was glorious. After the sun had set, and the stir of preparing camp for the night had ceased, we sat in the door of our tent and watched the big campfire. It shone red against the long, purple stretch of land and the great dark-blue arch of sky, where the stars glinted like cold steel sequins. But our fire burned on with all the impertinence of a man-constructed pile, boasting its God-given light in the very face of the sky and crackling its gleeful bravado at the quiet night. My guitar was tempted out of its casing, and youthful exuberance triumphed over fatigue amid the charm of nature as our favorite songs mingled with the wind-harps as the breezes tossed the lifeless tree-tops. The night was chilly, and the little “Sibley” stove that stood in the tent threw out a grateful heat. We slept oblivious to changes of weather, so next morning the sight of snowy air, sky and earth was a surprise and delight. The charm for me lay in the fact that the snow made it impossible to hunt limestone -- the object of the trip -- and left the day free for exploration and amusement. At breakfast we decided to essay fishing in the cavernous depths of the canyon which split the mountain. The limestone was found in boulders, and it required something of an expert to distinguish to from many other kinds of rocks lying around.

The ambulance, drawn by four mules, conveyed us on a gradual rise for about four miles up the side of the mountain to the edge of Black Canyon. There we lariated the mules and prepared to descend. The canyon was about thousand feet deep, with sides almost perpendicular and walled up with varicolored stone relieved by patches of dark-green pines, where never yet had set foot of a white woman trodden these cavernous depths at that place. Some time later general Sherdan had a rude pack-mule trail built down those almost perpendicular walls to enable a party of ladies and gentlemen from Chicago to descend.

The edge of the canyon was dotted thinly with beautiful spring flowers, lifting their tiny heads above the snow as if in defiance of its efforts to rob them of their divine right to shed their fragrance Their rich and varied hues seemed to enhance the beauty of the pure white robe.

A sight into the depths of the canyon made me dizzy at first. Without hesitation, however, i started down with my husband and our escort of four armed infantrymen and one cavalryman. Slowly and carefully we edged our way downward. After descending a couple of hundred feet we came to a place which my husband feared to runt he risk of my passing. Loath to give up after such a good start, I declared that I could go anywhere the men could go, and insisted on accompanying them. I won my argument, and the entire party continued to descend.

The drop was so sheer and the ground so unsafe that at my suggestion a long rope was securely fastened to a huge boulder embedded in the side of the cliff-like formation. Holding on to this rope, one after another the party almost swung down the rocky declivity for perhaps fifteen or twenty feet to a gentler slope and firmer ground. Then down again we plodded scarcely daring to look back for fear the dizzy height might be so startling as to cause us to dash headlong into the chasm below.

After a while we came upon a ledge some ten or twelve feet wide, covered with soft bunch grass, a veritable oasis in the almost perpendicular desert of pink and gray rock, loose stones and crumbling earth. As we started to breathe freely on this little resting place an exclamation came from one of the men called our attention to a similar spot but a short distance to one side. There stood a large black bear with two cubs. She looked nonplused at our appearance, and awaited in patient curiosity and calm dignity the explanation of our presence.

The men involuntarily raised their rifles, but at my husband’s caution no shot was fired. The bear was not very likely to trouble us if we refrained from molesting her, but he explained: “She bears with cubs are not pleasant antagonists, especially when a woman is int he party.” The men formed a line between the animal and me, for protection in case of a possible attack.

With rifles raised and ready for an emergency, we continued our descent of the canyon wall. Now a tuft of short grass (known as buffalo grass) now a clinging knotted bush, again a firmly embedded stone, came to our aid and saved us from being hurled into the depths below, as we fairly slid down.

By the time the descent was finally an accomplished fact, and I had time to take stock of my costume, I found that scarcely a half yard of my dress was left intact. However, my delight in having safely reached the bottom alive and unhurt was so keen that the loss of the dress was of small moment.

The snow was still falling high overhead, but the difference in temperature in this protected depth was so great that long before the snowflakes reached us they were changed back again into drops of water.

The view from above had been indeed tempting, but from our present vantage it was well worth the trip down, just for the glimpse of the beautiful stream of crystal clearness rushing over the rocks to the tune of its own music or gliding peacefully beneath the great pine trees on the opposite bank. Up and down the great chasm, at precipice, river and sky, we gazed in silent admiration of the handiwork of our Creator.

On closer inspection the sportsmen were made supremely happy at the sight of fine gold and speckled trout that filled the stream and flashed out of sight the moment the shadow fell on the water. It almost seemed that one could lie upon the bank and reaching into the clear water, land the scaly beauties by the dozen.

Some of the men, returning from a short tour of inspection, reported the existence of a cave about a hundred yards distant. Anxious to see as much as possible on our limited stay, we hurried away to inspect the large hole, which was prove a veritable cave for me. The rain continued to fall, coming faster and faster, until I was thoroughly drenched. We built a fire in the cave.By it I hung my wet clothing after wringing out most of the water. Several times during the day they were treated to a like drying by the hot blaze, for as I could not resist the temptation to fish, I became thoroughly wet time and again.

My fright at seeing the bear, and the thought of a possible encounter on our return up the mountain, were lost in the excitement of landing one after another of the trout. As I had not accepted to take part in the sport, my husband had brought along but one rod -- a treasured gift which he highly prized. However, to provide against contingencies, he had plenty of other tackle on hand. While he was cutting a slender willow that I had every reason to suspect was intended for my “fly rod” one of the men assisted me in preparing my husband’s rod for service, and I cast delightedly, if a little awkwardly, into the stream.

In an instant the fly was savagely seized by a fish. They were not yet wily,inexperienced as they all were with any prey but the harmless variety that nature provides. My catch was firmly hooked, and I began to land it in my own fashion. My shouts of joy attracted my husband’s attention. He seemed to be transfixed. for a moment his face was the picture of dismay at beholding his beautiful rod in such unskilled hands and bending double under the weight. Then his quick cries of fear lest my fish escape or his lovely rod be splintered, all mingled with excited instruction as he ran toward me, more than made up for his momentary inactivity. But his words fell upon heedless ears. My hand had found the reel, which clicked rapidly until there was no more line to gather in; and just as my husband came panting up I triumphantly backed out, dragging the wriggling, plunging fish out endwise with the point of the rod half way down its throat.

Many were the compliments I received upon the size of my catch, which weighed nearly four pounds. It was not the only fish to my credit that day, but the one of which I was most proud, as it was the heaviest of the 64 trout caught that day. Science played no part in my sport; and had I felt any chagrin at the unscientific handling of my rod, it would have dissolved when a little later my husband splinter that self-same rod scientifically landing an insignificant trout not half the size of mine.

That was only part of the day’s fun, however. Beautiful birds and duck in great numbers flew over the stream, Some of the men preferred shooting to fishing. Strange to say, the cracking of the rifles did not in the least disturb the fish.

When we finally prepared to return to camp our knapsacks, which had served as lunch baskets in the morning, were filled to overflowing with the fruit of our day’s endeavor.

Such a climb up the mountain it was! We could make but slow progress, as the rain had soaked the ground until it was muddy and slippery beyond expression. Exhausted, drenched with rain, my short dress torn off by brush and stones, my skirt in ribbons, again and again I was tempted to end the upward struggle, loosen my hold, close my eyes, and sin, regardless of the awful consequences. The magnificent strength, endurance and chivalrous care of me that my husband and the men displayed cheered me forward, however, and finally, after nearly three weary hours, we reached the top, and the end of the trying journey. It was quite dark, except for the faint light of the stars, as it had stopped snowing and the sky was beautifully clear.

Apparently the bear had been forgotten, as no one in the party mentioned it, and no trace of it remained upon the rocky ledge that it had occupied in the morning.

The sight of our wagon, its top covered with snow, was oh! so welcome, as we again reached comparatively level ground. Our overcoats had been stowed under the seats to protect them from the storm, and with the help of these I re-arrayed myself. Turning the wagon into a dressing room, I quickly removed my wet clothing, putting on the overcoat of the driver and using my husband’s fur coat as a dress and leggings -- the sleeves warmly protected my chilled limbs.

Two of our escort rode away over the snowy prairie, using the little pocket compass and the North Star as their guide, in order tat hot supper might be ready and our tent warm on our arrival. In the ambulance we followed the trail they broke in the snow.

After a bath of camphor and whiskey and a good rub with a Turkish towel, followed by supper, I slept the sleep of a tired child, and awoke the next morning not a bit the worse for the exposure and exhaustion of the previous day. Indeed, I was quite ready for any fun that the new day might promise. However, it proved much less strenuous, for the hot rays of the sun soon whisked away the snow covering, thus making it possible for my husband to engage in the work for which he had come. Thus we lived for a week or more, true children of the prairie. Every day I accompanied him over the wide stretch of country as he tested the various rocks with acid and marked the limestone so the men to follow with the wagons would not load them with other than limestone.

69 Below; 115 Above

Camp Poplar River, Montana, was the real, bona-fide, unmistakable “jumping off” place. It was on the Missouri River, about sixty miles west of its junction with the Yellowstone. The railroad was at Glendire, a hundred and forty miles away, with the only intervening white settlement at Fort Buford, another army outpost, about half way between.

Life at Poplar River, in the early 80s was quite as trying, I imagine, as would be successive service in Alaska and the Philippines. The dreadful extremes of temperature while we were stationed there cause me to fear the criticism of exaggeration in writing of them truthfully. My diary tells me it was 69 degrees F. below zero, as does also a newspaper clipping I have cut from some paper at the time. I have read somewhere that the official record is 67 degrees. But it makes but little difference to me which is correct, for it was too cold to care. There came a time, during the late fall of our first year at Poplar River, when the cold and an artificial heat met -- to the devastation of the little log house we called “home.” The day was clear and crisp, as I drove home from Fort Peck Agency, where my duties as secretary of our missionary society had called me. Sufficient snow covered the ground to make sleigh riding a real joy, and I was comfortably ensconced in my home-made box-sleigh, and deeply bundled in a regular wad of soft buffalo robes, which were then so plentiful and cheap. The air was invigorating; my heart was care-free, and the sleigh-bells jingled so merrily that a song arose to my lips in response to the rhythm of muffled hoofbeats and bells.

Upon approaching the post my song suddenly ceased at the sight of dense smoke issuing from a set of quarters I whipped up my pony, and meeting an India, who was riding away from the post, I greeted and questioned him about the smoke. He returned my salutation, the in a calm, matter-of-fact tone told me where the fire was: “Tipi notowa, cola” (“Your house, friend”).

Startled, yet scarcely believing, I stood up in my sleigh and urged my pony into a running gallop. Upon close approach I found he dreadful news to be only too true. My little home was enveloped in smoke, and flames were spitting through the windows and out between the logs.

The fire was quite an unusual spectacle to the Indians, and many of them stood about, stolid and inactive, silent and watching. The soldiers, however, were very active, and it appeared that as soon as the fire had been discovered they had begin their attempts to save as much as possible from the threatened destruction.

When the sleigh stopped, I managed to dismount, with tear-flooded eyes, and rushed toward my burning possessions. A young surgeon, newly appointed, came running toward me with his wife.

“Oh, dear Mrs. H!” they exclaimed in sympathetic tones. “Don’t cry! You come and lie down in our house.”

However, their warm-hearted solicitude was not calculated to appeal to me in the presence of the sights that greeted me. Men were dragging furniture and brac-abrac from the house,some working systematically and effectively; others had “lost their heads” in the excitement. One great, strapping, big soldier carried out very carefully a “tilter” one of those long “bustles,” or hoopskirts, of wire and tape that was then in vogue. With it he walked outside, and placing it safely on the ground, returned to the burning house. A minute later he reappeared bearing a very pretty gilt-framed looking-glass and without crossing the doorsill, he pitched his burden out on the ground, shattering it into a mass of splinters!

The sight gave increased impetus to my nervous energy. I rushed forward to direct the soldiers’ efforts to save my belongings and against their remonstrance went myself into the building to procure things of whose hiding places I alone knew.

The building was what is called a double set of quarters. Our quarters occupied one side of the building, the other was used for the Adjutant’s office, where the fire had started from a defective stovepipe. The entire structure was so completely destroyed that there was nothing left but a covering of ashes over the ground where it had stood.

A big German, who had worked very faithfully during the fire, and had been instrumental in saving my big square piano and a very pretty hand-carved set of furniture went over the ruins the following day, digging in the ashes and prospecting. In the still-smoking debris, where our sideboard had stood in the dining-room, he found a big lump of silver, melted into a shapeless mass. This he offered to the post trader for sale. When told he should return it to Lieut. H., as he had no right to it, he exclaimed: “No sir! That belongs to me I saved lots of things for the Lieutenant, and he will get it all back. I hear he has a couple thousand dollars insurance.”

So it was that we never recovered even the material that composed all of our wedding silver. It was this man whom I have mentioned in a previous story as having attempting to tune my piano, with such disastrous results.

New quarters were at once started and while they were in course of construction we moved into another set during the cold season. It was intensely cold; every precaution had to be taken to protect ourselves against freezing. Snow was constantly on the ground, but except when the furious blizzards swept over the prairie the cold was still, penetrating, and dry. At night the sky would be inky blue, and it seems to me one could see twice as many stars as are visible near the sea-level, and stars bright here seemed out there almost near enough to touch, so clear is the atmosphere of that high prairie land. We had become accustomed to it bu the time winter was in full sway that we though nothing of wrapping up and going for a horseback ride when the thermometer registered far below zero.

Many delightful rides we had, returning on our frost-covered mounts, our hands and fingers stiff with cold, but our lungs full of as fresh air as man has ever breathed outside of Eden.

Our cheeks held the glow of perfect health, though sometimes the red was eclipsed by white, waxy spots that appeared suddenly and spread without feeling or warning. Often a gay conversation was interrupted by the words, “Your face is freezing!” The one so unconsciously affected would nonchalantly reach for a handful of snow, and rub it upon the white spot until the cold application and friction brought back healthy circulation, then continue a conversation scarcely broken.

Once in a while none were at hand to give warning, and more than one solder, in the cold winter of ‘80-’81, suffered from frozen ears, noses, fingers or toes. In the extreme case, when members froze, the fleshy parts withered and sloughed off; such such cases were surprisingly rare when one takes into consideration the exposure to which everyone was subjected.

In our quarters we kept the stove fires going every minute of the twenty-four hour days. During the coldest weather, in order that the heat might be retained, and the fires not die, the servants went to bed early in the evening in order to arise before daybreak and tend them. We ourselves carefully watched them until late into the night, and they were our last care before retiring. This a fairly equitable temperature was maintained during the sleeping hours.

My sister, from the Far East, visited us one winter, and we had a great time keeping her warm. At night she wrapped her legs in newspaper, and wore heavy “German socks,” a sort of woolen boot, very thick and warm, with long, fleecy loops o the inside. On the beds we used buffalo robes, over as many heavy Army blankets as we could hold up. Nevertheless, many a morning we have awakened to find my eyebrows and bangs and my husband’s mustache frozen to the buffalo fur in ice formed from the moisture of our exhalations!

The mercury in the thermometer kept dropping until it could shrink no further, and then froze; and once I saw the unique performance of the post blacksmith flattening the frozen mercury bulb by gently tapping on the anvil with his hammer. The spirit thermometer was the only instrument with which the lowest temperature could be measured.

Despite their constant exposure to this cold, sleeping on the ground, and living practically in the open, the Indians fared better than we had hoped. Perhaps their comparative comfort, in some cases, was due to the precautions they had taken when the cold weather had set in. Many of them in that vicinity had greased themselves from head to toe with tallow, then rubbed on a coating of earth. Thus they formed a closer fitting garment of protection and warmth than any to which we had recourse.

In the summer time they dispensed with this earthy garment, and well they might! During one hot summer I well remember six successive days of the intensest heat I have ever had to endure in our seasons of service all over this country and in the Philippines. The days were a succession of scorching, blistering, maddening days, for the temperature dropped so imperceptibly that in our exhausted condition we could feel little relief, even after the setting sun.

My same little diary records that it was 115 degrees F. in the shade for several days. Every one suffered from the heat, more than the cold, against which there was some protection. The animals, as well as their owners, sought relief in quietness, and rested every possible moment. All life seemed swathed in lethargy, and nothing but the most necessary duties inspired energy in anyone or anything to stir. Our appetites dwindled, and our only craving was for ice-water, with which to saturate the parching tissues. To relieve our cook, as far as possible, from work, and to spare her the awful torture of bending over a heated stove, we subsisted during the worst heat upon cold meals, principally cold canned bouillon, cold canned meats, salads and ices. All our rugs were, of course, taken up, but the floors of our quarters were far from being cool. We had tubs of ice water kept in the rooms, and in these we dipped big army blankets and hung them, dripping before the windows. In this way the ardor of the incoming heat waves was somewhat dampened ere they reached the recesses of our quarters.

The big old Army blankets are forever associated in my mind with both extremes of weather in the unprotected Western posts. Their utility was established beyond question when they so ably protected us from the insidious frosts of the winters and the all-pervading heat of the summers.

An Unusual Treat

When in Manila, I met an old friend who at once laughingly recalled the last time that we had met. It was at Camp Poplar River, Montana, in the early ‘80s. My friend was then a Major in the paymaster’s department, making one of his bimonthly pay tours. We entertained him in our home.

On this trip he had with him an Eastern friend, a Doctor. The latter knew nothing of the Indians, and the Major was anxious for him to see the large village near by, as their stay was to be only twenty-four hours, they wished to make as much of their time as possible.

My husband knew most of the Indian chiefs, and was on very friendly terms with them. He requested that a “Wacheepee Tonka” (general dance) be held the evening of their stay, instead of the many small dances that were nightly held. By promising that “our hearts would get strong” and that we would contribute to the feast, he obtained the desired result. Soon we heard the Indian criers running through the camp announcing the feast.

The scene of the dance was a rude hut of logs set upright in the earth and chinked with mud. The roof was of poles thatched with grass and covered with a layer, six or eight inches deep, of earth.

It was dark when we entered the building; the earth floor showed densely black except where the candle light changed it to a somber gray. These candles place don the floor, being the only means of illumination in the room, produced a singularly weird effect.

Dark figures stood or squatted around the edge of the room wrapped in blankets. Among the shadows moved busy women, hovering over the small Dutch ovens and camp kettles at one side, as they prepared the repast.

Suddenly a corner became obscure as a sweeping blanket extinguished a candle. A squaw quickly brought another, and, as she stooped, the flame illuminated her expressionless face and somber robes.

Picturesque maidens helped the older women, and anon cast shy glances at their favorite young bucks.

As we entered, the Indians called “Ho-holl ay! Leela cola otah metowa coah. Hatswashtay.” (“Look! Very many of my friends come. That’s good.”)

as the tom-toms struck up their rhythmic thud, the dancers sprang forward, ranged themselves in a ring, and began. Throwing off their blankets they revealed their magnificent figures, adorned with no clothing but their breech clouts.

Their bodies were gaudily decked with different colored paints applied in fantastic figures. Upon their heads were bonnets of waving grass and feathers. Several also wore a bustle effect of some material that lapped their heels as they danced, and clucked in rhythm to the “music.”

In their hands they carried their “coup sticks” from which hung strips of fur or possibly a scalp. These coup sticks were made of wood and cut with notches representing the brave deeds their owners had done.

There was nothing particularly graceful in the slow movement of the dance. The feet were alternately lifted high to the rear on the beat of the instruments. At the same time the coup sticks were waved in the air from side to side, while the dancers turned their heads with nervous alertness as though stalking an enemy. When the dance was ended or rather at the end of every “round,” the men resumed their blankets and seated themselves in a group.

After a short but impressive silence, a stalwart fellow flung away his blanket, sprang from the group, and pacing back and forth began speaking in a clear well-modulated voice. His accents commanded respect as the tones of his voice rose and fell. To and fro he paced, the light now gleaming on his body, now playing with the sprawling shadow that alternatively broke from and melted into the denser darkness of the real figure.

We were strangely impressed as we listened to one of those people who had lived, struggled, and finally become reconciled to their fate. His tale was one of skill and daring in personal encounter. As the recital became more exciting he stopped, and leaning forward shaded his eyes as he spied, in mimic fashion, upon the foe. Then suiting action to word, he told of the rush of the attack; the quick meeting; the desperate combat. Suddenly his long arm was raised to strike, softly and silently it descended. Then he went over his imaginary enemy as he had over the real one. At the conclusion, the brave strengthened himself, and holding his hand high, shook it in triumph as if he were holding aloft the blood-dripping scalp. The harangue ended, the speaker, held his dramatic pose in silence a few moments, when suddenly broke forth the weird Indian applause of trembling whoops.

When it subsided, the brave resumed his blanket and his place in the circle and another took the floor. He told a tale of outwitting a camp of Crow Indians and stealing their ponies. Still others had different experiences to relate; and they alternated dancing and reciting their brave deeds until all had finished. Each, at the close of his recital was greeted with the moaning shriek of approbation.

This custom of relating brave deeds was called “counting the coups.” Sometimes at great dances, the history of the tribe would be recited. It was the shrine of inspiration to the growing youth. The “coup stick” was the great personal treasure, upon it the individual recorded his deeds of bravery.

The feathers worn in the Indians’ hair also had their significance. A warrior who had distinguished himself in battle; risked his life, or struck with his stick a living enemy, was given permission by the camp-fire council to wear a “coup feather,” a sort of medal of honor. The ornament was not presented to him, however. Having earned and been accorded the right to wear it, he must procure the feather for himself; furthermore, none but a feather plucked from a living eagle was allowable.

I knew an Indian, Yellow Eagle, who, in order to get his coup feather, dug a hole in the ground on the open prairie far from camp or habitation. Over it he fixed a covering of brush, upon which was laid the carcass of a freshly slain antelope. In this trap he lay for three days awaiting the eagle’s coming.

When at last, lured by the bait, one did alight, he seized it from below and despite its flapping and clawing and pecking, he plucked the precious feathers before freeing the astonished and terrified bird. I recall none but the American aboriginal who has been able successfully to pull the American eagle’s tail.

When the warriors had finished their dancing and boasting, the squaws prepared to serve refreshments. We had brought out contribution to the feast -- bread, hard-tack, and tobacco, so I now sent out for these. The native refreshments consisted of sodden fried-cakes (a mixture of poor wheat flour, bacon grease and baking powder) and soup. It was then the custom to pass the pipe after the food was disposed of.

Our guests were curious to know what was to happen next. We told them, and to have some fun, whispered to the Major that it was dog soup that they were about to serve, and so it was. The broth was prepared like any other, only the flesh used was that of freshly slaughtered dogs. we had attended so many “feasts” that while my husband as he says, “did not hanker after dog,” yet, as it is his pride that he can eat everything that can be cooked or served raw, the prospect did not disturb him. I, too, was undisturbed for the reason that women are not expected to join in the feast or smoke.

The Major demurred strongly at partaking, but we told him that we greatly feared the Indians would regard as an unfriendly act, a declination to partake of their proffered hospitality. The result might be pleasant. Even if I had no note of the evening in my diary, I could never forget how greatly disturbed he appeared as he turned to me and said, sotto voce:

“Oh, Mrs. H., get me out of this. I can eat it! I really shall be ill if I have to partake.”

Repeating my fears, I said, “I’m sorry Major, but it will not do to refuse to eat with them; it will involve a risk of angering the Indians. The consequences might be serious.”

“But,” said he, “I cannot eat that soup.” His countenance was so woe-begone that my sympathy prompted me to turn to my husband and say:

“I’m not feeling well. So think I shall not stay for the feasting but shall go home now.

“Very well,” he replied, “I’ll take you,” but the Major interposed:

“Never mind, Lieutenant, I will be glad to accompany your wife. I have seen these feasts before, so shall not mind; besides, you can better explain things to my friend. I do not want him to miss any of it.” My husband started to object to the Major’s missing any of the scene; but I assured him that I was not seriously ill, that the fresh air would revive me, and that the Major could see me home nicely. I also added that he, with his more intimate knowledge of Indian customs, could no doubt explain to the Major’s friend better than the Major could. Having made the excuse of my illness to the Indians, the Major and I then withdrew.

After the dance was over, and the party reached home later, we had refreshments of our own choosing, then the Major told the joke on himself; and we all -- with the exception of the other guest, who until then did not know what he had partaken -- had a hearty laugh.

If the Major ever had to “square himself” with his friend afterward, he has never revealed it.