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.

A skating adventure

The first winter we spent at Camp Poplar River was full of interesting experiences; but there is one, connected with my favorite sport that has left an indelible impression on my memory.

Our camp was quite near the river, which afforded excellent opportunity for the sport. So I was in my element. About thirty yards away was ts the river. Beyond it we could see across the valley for miles. The barrenness of the country on the other side of the stream was only relieved by a few scattering bushes marking the course of a tributary stream that only had life in the wettest weather. The near bank of the river was higher ground for some distance, then it abruptly dropped to the level. On this projecting bluff was situated our little camp. Below was a clump of trees on the farther side of which the water wagon started to zigzag up the bluff to our camp. The river gently turned out just above the wooded patch, then swung back toward the camp, a few hundred yards below; and a mile and a half down stream, it emptied into the Missouri.

We had been at Poplar River only a short time and since our arrival, the conduct of the red men had changed considerably The uneasy feeling among the warriors finally. We came in spite of their protests and they had not received us with open arms. As time went on, the feeling of enmity had grown. They became more and more surly. Their every move seemed a veiled menace; they appeared to breathe treachery. The uneasy feeling among the warriors finally came to a head, and their anger and dislike was demonstrated by their sending us word, couched in no unmistakable language, to vacate the post within seven days.

We were so outnumbered, having but two small companies to their hundred or more, that we were practically helpless insomuch as we could not safely forbid them the camp, which theu overran at will, so it was found necessary to carry arms at all times. Even on their way to the sutler’s store, a few hundred yards distant, the Indian bucks sometimes lifted the coattails of passing officers and men, to ascertain whether or not they were armed. The time had come, since the attitude of the braves was so menacing, that it was not deemed safe for anyone to go out of hailing distance of the camp alone.

Now I was not in the least afraid to go around. In fact, I rather prided myself on having always gotten along famously with the Indians as I had learned their speaking language, and they had always been friendly with me. However, the very day previous to the one of which I speak, I took particular pains to be gracious and speak to an old warrior in the store. But for the first time in my experience, my cheery “how cola” ("hello friend") was grudgingly answered by a surly, guttural “how.” Nevertheless, that made little impression on me, and that morning I was making plans to go skating. I had already been out skating that winter and so was anticipating much pleasure. My husband did not skate so he gave me permission to go with a brother officer who was fond of the sport. He cautioned me however to go no further than the clump of trees at the foot of the cliff. “Not even,” he said, “ as far as the water wagon trail.”

It was a glorious December day. The ice was in perfect condition. A heavy fall of snow had covered everything with a solid sheet of white, but a keen wind had swept the glassy ice clean and made it doubly tempting. The air was intensely cold; a dry, crisp, cold that was invigorating to the mind as well as to the body.

After we had been out for some time, I became tired of traversing just the slip of ice that lay in plain view of the camp, and circling across the forty-foot river. So I laughingly told my escort that I was going down farther to seek new fields of adventure. He very seriously remonstrated with me, at which I became piqued.

“Why shouldn’t I go, if I want to?” I exclaimed.

“Well, your husband particularly advised you not to go down any farther.”

“But that was because he was afraid of the Indians annoying me; but you can see for yourself that there are none about. T would be ridiculous for me to restrict myself, when I see that there is no danger. My husband was only worried on that account.” I really saw no cause for alarm; and now since I had thought of it, was eager to go.

“I shall not the responsibility, for I do not approve of your going any farther,” the officer said.

“Oh, I will take the responsibility,” I answered promptly. So off I went, skimming along at a rapid pace, and reluctantly followed by my escort. I knew that I was fleeter than he on my skates, and so felt that further resistance on his part would be in vain.

The ice here was excellent, and like the proverbial fruit, this forbidden field seemed even better than that which had been advised.

I was swiftly nearing the trees on the left bank, and my friend was yet far behind, when my attention was attracted to the thin bushes on the opposite bank, at my right. I turned casually to look, as I came abreast of them, when, to my utter amazement, two Indians stood erect from behind the protecting shrubbery, with the effect of rising slowly from the bowels of the earth.

They were enveloped in long white blankets, over which each wore an outside covering of unbleached muslin. The blankets covered their heads, only allowing a small oval of their faces to be seen, and the lower ends of the blankets trailed in the snow, quite hiding their feet. The effect was ghastly. Their appearance was so unexpected and so silent as they merely stood up noiselessly, and looked at me.

The glimpse of their dark sinister faces, with the shining eyes and cruel thin lips, was enough to startle anyone in an unexpected meeting. Out here on the plains, however, where all had been tenantless and lonely, to have these two weird figures loom up and stand looking at one with purposeful eyes, was enough t make me scream – which I promptly did.

As I screamed in passing them, I saw the Indians fling their arms free of their blankets, and as the white robes flapped back, I caught a glimpse of weapons upon both. They were strong warriors out for mischief; and I shuddered as I thought of how they must have been there hiding ever since I had been out; and realized that their eyes must have followed me all the time. I passed the before I understood the situation, and then it was too late to go back.

My escort called to me in English, which of course the Indians did not understand, “Make for the water wagon trail,” and so I did.

I had the start of the blanketed pursuers, and I also had skates to aid me, while they had to cross the glassy ice, wearing moccasins. Yes, I had the skates now, but when I got to shore they would be of no further assistance and I would lose time in getting them off. Then it suddenly flashed over me, that I did not have the key to my skates. At that moment it was reposing in my escort’s pocket.

What should I do! The skates would not possibly pull off, and I could not go up the hill with them on. Ice skates are convenient pedal accessories when one is on a smoothly frozen surface, but for overland traveling they have never been extremely popular. As I thought how impossible it would be to procure the key, I remembered that I was wearing buttoned boots – there was yet a chance.

I skirted the miniature wood, and soon gained the shore. Not a moment must be lost, for the Indians were cutting through the trees on the slope and I knew their intention was to head me off on my way to Camp. My only hope was to make better time than they had and I had further to go. However, I had the advantage of the trail which was fairly well beaten, while they had the hill side and snowdrifts to encounter.

Without hesitation, I balanced myself first on one foot and then the other and ripping open my shoes, slipped them off with the skates still attached. I then clutched the loaded shoes in my hand and started up the trail.

I had always been fleet of feet; but never before had I tried to make time up a hill in my stocking feet and along a road of roughly beaten snow. The wheels had made ice ridges in it that bruised and cut my feet. One of the shoes dropped, and with anxious haste I gather it up and plunged on. Even my short walking skirt was an impediment to my progress but away I hiked for dear life up the incline.

Never had the way seemed so long, though never before had I expected each minute to be stopped by two ghost-like figures. Fearfully I kept watching for their appearance to the path ahead or just back of me. Up the hill I ran, catching first my dress then my breath. Above was the guard tent. If I could make that I would be safe. Would the red men appear before I could reach it?

The last few steps I was without definite thought or aim. I was running at top speed and the muscles kept working themselves. I had forgotten to fear. In a moment more I reached the guard ten and as I saw the sentry spring toward me, I dropped exhausted and unconscious onto the snow.

It was not until sometime later, that I came to myself a few yards in my own tent. And then it was, as I looked into my husband’s anxious face, that I realized the danger was past, and that I had won out in the race.