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.