by 1864-1898 Indian War Veterans: Memories of Army Life;Campaigns in the West
As soon as the firing ceased the soldiers gathered around their tents. One lifted up the flap of the tent to step inside, when he was shot down by a wounded Indian who was concealed behind the stove inside. All the soldiers were of course very much excited from the battle, and when they saw their comrade shot down three others pulled their revolvers and started for the tent only to be shot down dead one after the other. At this stage of the game, a corporal in charge of the Hotchkiss told them all to stand away. He trained his gun at the center of the tent and let it fly; the shell made a clean hole through the stove and caught the Indian, who was lying on his stomach behind the stove, on the chin and ripped him wide open. The fire from the stove was scattered over the bedding and everything went up in flame, roasting the Indian like a barbecue beef. This battle was not a massacre, but a fight to a finish. The evidence on the ground showed that the squaws fought as desperately as the bucks. I counted as many as twenty-three empty shells by the side of dead squaws. This tribe [group] of Indians consisted of about 354 members, was Sitting Bull’s own tribe, and was the most desperate in the Sioux Nation. About ten days after the battle, General Miles sent out under a heavy escort a bunch of Indians to bury the dead. They [the dead] were all laid in a long trench on top of a small hill back of the camp. If my memory serves me right, they buried a few over 300 only because every night the friends of these dead Indians would steal the bodies of prominent bucks and bury them according to their own rites. Strange to say, they never took Big Foot until he was buried, when they stole him out of the grave and packed him off somewhere.
The Seventh Cavalry lost something like eighty men. These were immediately transported to the Pine Ridge Agency while the rest of the regiment rode across the country to relieve the mission from the attacks of Short Bull. During this fight at the mission, the Seventh was extricated from what may easily have terminated in another Little [Big]horn catastrophe by the timely arrival of the Ninth Cavalry. Sitting Bull was killed by the Indian police some time before the Wounded Knee battle, and as the Seventh Cavalry had been the heaviest sufferer at the hands of the Sioux during nearly thirty years of warfare, it was fitting they should administer a severe and last lesson with a heavy hand. During the final windup of the campaign in January and February, 1891, it was a privilege to be a member of the Regular Army at the Pine Ridge Agency. Such an exhibition of Indian life will never be seen again.
The Indian camp extended for four miles down White Clay Creek, with all their dogs and countless horses…. For fifteen miles around their camp the hills were literally dotted with their [dead] cayuses. You could see hundreds of braves walking around the agency in all their finery, and what is more, see all the scouts from Buffalo Bill down. It was their last meeting. The Indians, too,…for the last time could look at the old army commanders when [who] they met on many hard-fought battlefields, such as Forsyth, Carr, G. V. Henry, and Miles, the peer of them all. If my memory serves me right, we were in camp near the battlefield about three weeks. During this time, the work, pack, and saddle animals suffered greatly for the want of hay. There was abundance of forage on the range, but we could not of course make use of it for the reason that nearly every day scouting parties of Indians would make their appearance on the surrounding hills, watching for an opportunity to commit some depredation.
But the Regular Army officers had learned Indian warfare during nearly thirty years of continued conflict, and during this whole campaign not a serious mistake was made. All this accounts for the small loss of lives and the shortness of the campaign. In plain English, the Indian found out in less than four weeks that he had no more show than a rabbit; no matter which way he turned, he found himself opposed by a detachment of regulars ready to smoke the pipe of peace or fight him to a finish. But I am digressing again. The commanding officer learned from the scouts that there were about five tons of hay scattered in small bunches of from 500 to 1, 000 pounds each at Indian homesteads up and down Wounded Knee Creek, some being as far as ten miles from camp. So when the coast was clear I would empty my wagon of ammunition and hospital supplies, get an escort of six or seven mounted men, and go after a wagon box of hay. It meant only a mouthful of hay to the horses and mules, but it was better than nothing. But we liked it for the excitement there was in it, for it was a gamble every time we went out. However, I knew that my four mules were faster than any Indian pony, so we used to beg the quartermaster to let us go. On one of these trips up the creek, we came to a store building. We put out guards and searched the place cellar and all, but the Indians had stripped the place clean. The only thing that was left was a tobacco cutter which was screwed to the counter. One of the boys took that for a souvenir, I believe. In the hillside at the back of the store we noticed a dugout. Upon investigating it, we found it full of chickens, nearly dead from starvation. At first sight my mouth began to water at the thought of fried chicken, but all we could do was to liberate them and forget about that chicken diet.
A few days after this, while out foraging, we ran across a small mission. A short distance from the mission was the preacher’s house. Everything here was smashed into kindling wood. The preacher’s wife had a fine collection of fancy dishes, for in one room there was a pile of dishes two or more feet high smashed into small bits. But strange to say, in another room there was a whole trunk full of the finest kind of ladies’ dresses, some of silk, uninjured. They did not do this out of gratitude to the lady, for most of them do not know the meaning of gratitude. For example, there was a colored cook at the agency for nearly fifteen years. He gave a handout to every hungry Indian during all these years, but in December he ventured too far from the agency and they skinned him alive. On this occasion, we had one of the preachers along from Arizona, an old timer wise to the game, and he evidently knew what he was looking for and the proper place to search for it. He finally got a box from the yard to stand on and searched under the roof in what appeared to be the preacher’s study, and here to our surprise he found three quart bottles of whiskey, one half empty. As no whiskey is allowed on Indian reservations, we immediately confiscated this supply. We did not report the preacher to the commanding officer as we should have done, for the culprit being a preacher and probably a stout member of the A. S. L. [American Sobriety League?], we felt sure that he kept this small supply for medical purposes only. But that night about a dozen of us had a meeting in an empty wagon by a shaded lantern and along about 2 a.m. we defied Short Bull, Two Strikes, Young-Man-Afraid-of-His-Mother-in-Law, and all the rest of the Sioux tribe to come and take us. After this, we made the roofs the main point of attack in searching abandoned dwellings, but you know the saying “lightning never strikes twice in the same place.” At any rate, we never made another lucky find, but then we never had another opportunity to search a missionary’s private dwelling.
A few days later, at about 2 p.m., two Indians came to the camp and stated that about seven miles up the creek there were two helpless wounded Indians at an old cabin. They stated that apparently before they became helpless they had killed a beef a short distance from the cabin, took the liver and tongue and made themselves at home in this old cabin, but that they were in bad condition now and without food. Charles Taggett and myself, with six infantrymen as escorts, were told to go out and bring them in the same evening. The proposition looked fishy to Taggett from the start, for the reason that the Indian scouts had searched every nook and corner within fifteen miles looking for wounded or dead Indians, and it was queer they never discovered these two wounded right in the valley of Wounded Knee. He acted, therefore, accordingly.
It took us a little over an hour to get to the place described by these Indians. We saw a dead critter in the center of a 160-acre flat and, on the opposite end of the flat near the creek bank, a cabin. We stopped in the center of the flat; Taggett instructed us not to leave the wagon for a minute and be ready to move on up the creek—not back to camp the way we came—as fast as the mules could travel if we heard any shooting at the cabin. He
told us not to look for him, for if there was an ambush at the cabin he would either be dead or would catch up with us further up the creek. He then went back the way we came to the creek crossing and followed the creek bed on the ice until he came opposite the cabin. Here he tied his horse and sneaked up to the cabin. All this time he was out of sight from us, but we finally saw him coming out of the brush only ten feet from the cabin. We saw him jump for the cabin with Winchester in hand, kick in the door and disappear inside. Our hearts were in our mouths at this moment, but nothing happened. A few seconds later, he came on his horse across the flat and told us that no wounded Indians had ever been in the cabin, and in all probability they meant to trap us on the way back to camp. We therefore proceeded that night about six miles further up the creek to the Sixth Cavalry camp and fooled them.
Along towards January, after the Indians had killed the last estray beef and were getting hungry and consequently docile, the big drive started according to schedule from the badlands east of the Black Hills, the Standing Rock Agency in the north, and the Missouri River in the east. The day we entered the Pine Ridge Agency we had the pleasure of marching for about ten miles with that crack cavalry regiment, the Sixth, Colonel Carr in command. I see him sitting on his horse, a powerful man with flowing black whiskers, the very picture of the Civil War cavalry officer. The powwows over the treaty were dragging along day after day; the Indian refused constantly to give up his arms until finally General Miles sprung a great bluff on them, as follows: All the regiments were camping from eight to ten miles around this Indian camp in four main camps. Every outlet was closed. One night we got orders to march at daybreak and attack the Indians. We put in most of the night getting ready, for we knew it would be a fight to a finish, but there was no doubt of the outcome in our minds, in spite of the great odds. The next morning at break of day we pulled out from Wolf Creek and as soon as we got on a high mesa we could see the Indian camp some eight miles away in a cloud of dust as the ponies were driven in by the countless thousands. We could also see a cloud of dust some fifteen miles south which we knew was Colonel Stafford’s command [sic—possible reference to a command under First Lieutenant John Stafford, Company G, Eighth Infantry]. I am glad to say that when we got within shooting distance of the camp the Indians hung out the white flag everywhere. That afternoon they agreed to deliver their arms but they never did it. I saw wagon loads of guns brought [in], but they were nothing but obsolete junk and everybody knew they were better armed than the soldiers. We admired the Indian for his grit just the same.
After Miles concluded a peace treaty [an accommodation] with the Indians, we had a grand review of 3, 500 fighting men. First in line were about 500 Cheyenne scouts. They made a sight never to be forgotten. Then the famous Seventh Cavalry. This was not the usual garrison affair [with] brass buttons; as a matter of fact, no two soldiers were dressed alike. They had not shaved since they left their home garrisons, they were gaunt as greyhounds, they looked and were a fine body of fighting men of which the country had reason to be proud. We were all very sorry for General Forsyth, colonel of the Seventh Cavalry, he of Beecher Island fame [sic—Hettinger mistakenly identifies George A. Forsyth here], who was under arrest at the time for some unknown reason. He stood behind the wagon train and watched his regiment march in review. He must have felt neglected and bitter in his heart that morning. The following season, Congress decorated him with his Medal of Honor [sic—Forsyth did not receive a Medal of Honor]. I remember the first troop of his regiment was only a skeleton. The rest of the troop was either dead or seriously wounded in the hospital. A lieutenant was in command of this troop when they passed in review and he could not salute General Miles for the reason that one arm was in a sling and his head was bandaged so you could only see his eyes, but it is a safe bet he would not have traded places with Creosus. The glory of this review and the spirit which was behind it more than repaid us for the hardships we had endured. The commands soon broke camp and departed for their home garrisons and there was no more excitement until the railroad strike started in 1894. But this is another story.
On the march from Pine Ridge Agency to Chadron, Nebraska, by the Sixth and Ninth cavalry and my own outfit, all speed records were broken on account of the boys having four months’ pay which was burning a hole in their pockets. The peaceable population that night took to the hills or barricaded their homes, and the boys proceeded to decorate the town a bright red. They were so interested with the job on hand that they never noticed the eighteen inches of snow that fell during the night until they looked for their equipment the next morning, which was carelessly thrown down anywhere the night before. There was enough equipment left under the snow to equip a company of militia. I myself lost a cartridge belt and trench knife. From Fort Robinson we proceeded to Merino by rail (the end of the railroad—the present name of the station is Upton). While at Merino the thermometer registered never less than thirty degrees below. This weather was hard on everybody because our shoes and clothing were worn out. Some had socks on their feet in place of overshoes, and besides the wood was so scarce we could not dry our clothing at night.
From a high point at Donbary Town (near Gillette [Wyoming]) we got the first glimpse of the Big Horn range. We knew the end of our journey was somewhere at the foot of the range. From what was known as the “Corral” to Kinney crossing, a distance of only fifteen miles, it took us all day on account of the blizzard that was raging. But the main cause of delay was the road, which was so sidling that we could not keep the heavy loaded wagons right side up. I can yet see the band wagon tumble down a steep side hill with the band instruments flying in all directions. We were royally received in Buffalo, where we arrived early in the afternoon from the “Cheese Brown” Ranch, and after a few ceremonies we proceeded to Fort McKinney. The only thing that marred our happiness here was the great number of deaths we had from an epidemic of pneumonia that broke out the second day after our arrival and which was only checked by the timely arrival of Dr. George E. Bushnell in the spring. Headquarters and four companies of my own regiment were ordered to Fort McKinney. I never got back to Fort Niobrara again, but joined my company at Fort Robinson and came overland by way of the Black Hills to what was known at that time in the army as the best fort in the United States, Fort McKinney….
Incidents of Wounded Knee (By Joseph Monnett, formerly of Company H, First U. S. Infantry. From Winners of the West, May 31, 1936)
So far as I know, that [Pine Ridge] campaign may have hit other men pretty hard, but I can hardly believe any of them could have been in a worse predicament than we boys of the First U. S. Infantry. We were stationed in the warm climate of California, and in the month of October, 1890, were ordered to South Dakota with no heavy underwear or extra covering for head, hands, or feet. Notwithstanding the suffering experienced, the boys stood it well, and we were not issued heavier clothing until the last week in January, 1891.
We arrived at Fort Niobrara, Nebraska, one beautiful, cold day with the thermometer registering twenty degrees below zero and no quarters for us. We had to clear away the snow before we could set up our tents, and then we were moved into quarters after the Ninth Cavalry were ordered out into the field, but only for a stay of a short week when we were ordered to Valentine, Nebraska, to take a train to Hermosa, South Dakota. General Nelson A. Miles ordered the First U. S. Infantry to what I believe was called Fox Creek, through snow to our waists and bitter cold. Well, we finally reached Fox Creek at about 5 p.m., and the men were preparing to make some hot coffee and enjoy a grand meal of hardtack, when a man on horseback rode into camp and the next thing we heard was the drum beat call to break camp and again we were on another hard march back to Hermosa, where a train was waiting for us, which we boarded and was dumped off at Chadron.
We camped at Chadron for ten days, and one cold morning, with sleet and snow to face, we were ordered out once more and marched to White River and camped, as the men were exhausted with marching against a head wind. We had
just about settled down for the night when a rancher and family drove into camp and reported to Colonel William R. Shafter that a band of Indians was headed toward his home. One captain and five men from each company were ordered to go to the rancher’s home and remain there until the officers were satisfied that all was safe and then back to camp again. The following morning we started for Pine Ridge Agency, and there we remained until after the Battle of Wounded Knee. I had the pleasure of being in the detail to bury the dead Indians and it was a terrible sight. The dead lay around everywhere, and we took both young and old and buried them in a trench which was dug by half-breeds, sixty feet long, six feet wide, and six feet deep. Big Foot and his daughter were placed side by side at one end of the trench.
After all was straightened out, we returned to Pine Ridge and there to experience other thrills. First of all, Colonel Shafter wanted the regiment mounted and the infantry turned into cavalry. So the government ordered cow ponies for us, and as a result our men had broken arms and jaws and numerous other injuries. Those cow ponies sure could kick. A sergeant was instructing on mounting, and dismounting was left to the ponies and they sure knew how. After several attempts, I succeeded in getting on a pony’s back and quite firmly seated in the saddle. The pony started ahead for dear life and ran about 300 yards and stopped suddenly, but I did not. I went over his head into a deep snowdrift and was lucky to be able to walk back. Many other such bright stunts happened, too numerous to mention. A movie picture man would have reaped a harvest if he had been there.
Maneuvers in Montana during the Ghost Dance Crisis (By James E. Wilson, formerly sergeant, Company H, Twentieth U. S. Infantry. From Winners of the West, February 28, 1933)
It was December, 1890. There was great commotion among the soldiers in camp on the Yellowstone just above old Fort Keogh. What was it all about? Sibley tents were being hastily taken down and rolled up and with stakes [and] poles loaded into great army wagons with six mules hitched to each, with a “mule skinner” in the saddle, a jerk line in his left hand and a blacksnake whip in his right, ready for the command to go…. This was the beginning of my experience in that well-known campaign of 1890-91, known as the “Messiah Campaign,” against old medicine man Sitting Bull and Big Foot of the Sioux.