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.