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.