The Mammoth Book of the West

by Jon E. Lewis

  My platoon advanced as rapidly as the brush and fallen timbers would permit until we reached the Washita which I found with steep, high banks. I marched the platoon by the right flank a short distance, found a “pony crossing,” reformed on the right bank, galloped through the right of the village without contact with a warrior, and then proceeded to round up the pony herds.

  As I passed out of the village, Captain Thompson’s and Captain Myers’ squadrons came over the high ridge on my right. Both had lost their bearings during their night marching and failed to make contacts for the opening attack.

  At the opening of the attack, the warriors rushed to the banks of the stream. Those in front of Custer’s command were soon forced to retire in among the tepees, and most of them being closely followed retreated to ravines and behind trees and logs, and in depressions where they maintained their positions till the last one was killed. A few escaped down the valley. This desperate fighting was carried on mostly by sharpshooters, waiting for a head to show. Seventeen Indians were killed in one depression.

  Lieutenant Bell, when he heard the firing, rushed his teams to join the command and while loading the overcoats and haversacks was attacked by a superior force and the greater part of them had to be abandoned. His arrival with the reserve ammunition was a welcome reinforcement.

  While the fighting was going on, Major Elliott seeing a group of dismounted Indians escaping down the valley called for volunteers to make pursuit. Nineteen men, including Regimental Sergeant Major Kennedy responded. As his detachment moved away, he turned to Lieutenant Hale waved his hand and said: “Here goes for a brevet or a coffin.”

  After passing through the village, I went in pursuit of pony herds and found them scattered in groups about a mile below the village. I deployed my platoon to make the roundup and took a position for observation. While the roundup was progressing, I observed a group of dismounted Indians escaping down the opposite side of the valley. Completing the roundup, and starting them toward the village, I turned the herd over to Lieutenant Law who had come with the second platoon of the troop and told him to take them to the village, saying that I would take my platoon and go in pursuit of the group I had seen escaping down the valley.

  Crossing the stream and striking the trail, I followed it till it came to a wooded draw where there was a large pony herd. Here I found the group had mounted. Taking the trail which was well up on the hillside of the valley, and following it about a couple of miles, I discovered a lone tepee, and soon after two Indians circling their ponies. A high promontory and ridge projected into the valley and shut off the view of the valley below the lone tepee. I knew the circling of the warriors meant an alarm and rally, but I wanted to see what was in the valley beyond them. Just then Sergeant Conrad, who had been a captain of Ohio volunteers, and Sergeant Hughes, who had served in the 4th U. S. Cavalry in that country before the Civil War, came to me and warned me of the danger of going ahead. I ordered them to halt the platoon and wait till I could go to the ridge to see what was beyond. Arriving at and peering over the ridge, I was amazed to find that as far as I could see down the well wooded, tortuous valley there were tepees – tepees. Not only could I see tepees, but mounted warriors scurrying in our direction. I hurried back to the platoon and returned at the trot till attacked by the hostiles, when I halted, opened fire, drove the hostiles to cover, and then deployed the platoon as skirmishers.

  The hillsides were cut by rather deep ravines and I planned to retreat from ridge to ridge. Under the cavalry tactics of 1841, the retreat of skirmishers was by the odd and even numbers, alternating in lines to the rear. I instructed the line in retreat to halt on the next ridge and cover the retreat of the advance line. This was successful for the first and second ridges, but at the third I found men had apparently forgotten their numbers and there was some confusion, so I divided the skirmishers into two groups, each under a sergeant, and thereafter had no trouble.

  Finally the hostiles left us and we soon came to the pony herd where the group we had started to pursue had mounted. I had not had a single casualty. During this retreat we heard heavy firing on the opposite side of the valley, but being well up on the side hills we could not see through the trees what was going on. There was a short lull when the firing again became heavy and continued till long after we reached the village, in fact, nearly all day.

  In rounding up the pony herd, I found Captain Barnitz’ horse, General saddled but no bridle. On reaching the village I turned over the pony herd and at once reported to General Custer what I had done and seen. When I mentioned the “big village” he exclaimed, “What’s that?” and put me through a lot of rapid fire questions. At the conclusion I told him about finding Captain Barnitz’ horse and asked what had happened. He told me that Captain Barnitz had been severely and probably mortally wounded.

  Leaving the General in a “brown study” I went to see my friend and former Captain, Barnitz. I found him under a pile of blankets and buffalo robes, suffering and very quiet. I hunted up Captain Lippincott, Assistant Surgeon, and found him with his hands over his eyes suffering intense pain from snowblindness. He was very pessimistic as to Barnitz’ recovery and insisted that I tell him that there was no hope unless he could be kept perfectly quiet for several days as he feared the bullet had passed through the bowels. I went back to Captain Barnitz and approached the momentous opinion of the surgeon as bravely as I could and then blurted it out, when he exclaimed, “Oh hell! they think because my extremities are cold I am going to die, but if I could get warm I’m sure I’ll be all right. These blankets and robes are so heavy I can hardly breathe.” I informed the first sergeant and the men were soon busy gathering fuel and building fires.

  In the midst of this, the general sent for me and again questioned me about the big village. At that time many warriors were assembling on the high hills north of the valley overlooking the village and the General kept looking in that direction. At the conclusion of his inquiry, I told him that I had heard that Major Elliott had not returned and suggested that possibly the heavy firing I had heard on the opposite side of the valley might have been an attack on Elliott’s party. He pondered this a bit and said slowly, “I hardly think so, as Captain Myers has been fighting down there all morning and probably would have reported it.”

  I left him and a while later he sent for me again, and, on reporting, told me that he had Romeo, the interpreter, make inquiries of the squaw prisoners and they confirmed my report of the lower village. He then ordered me to take Troop K and destroy all property and not allow any looting – but destroy everything.

  I allowed the prisoners to get what they wanted. As I watched them, they only went to their own tepees. I began the destruction at the upper end of the village, tearing down tepees and piling several together on the tepee poles, set fire to them. (All tepees were made of tanned buffalo hides.) As the fires made headway, all articles of personal property – buffalo robes, blankets, food, rifles, pistols, bows and arrows, lead and caps, bullet molds, etc. – were thrown in the fires and destroyed. I doubt but that many small curios went into the pockets of men engaged in this work. One man brought to me that which I learned was a bridal gown, a “one piece dress,” adorned all over with bead work and elks’ teeth on antelope skins as soft as the finest broadcloth. I started to show it to the General and ask to keep it, but as I passed a big fire, I thought, “What’s the use, ‘orders is orders’” and threw it in the blaze. I have never ceased to regret that destruction. All of the powder found I spilled on the ground and “flashed”.

  I was present in August 1868, at Fort Lamed, Kansas, when the annuities were issued, promised by the Medicine Lodge Peace Treaties of 1867, and saw the issue of rifles, pistols, powder, caps, lead and bullet molds to these same Cheyennes.

  While this destruction was going on, warriors began to assemble on the hill slopes on the left side of the valley facing the village, as if to make an attack. Two squadrons formed near the left bank of the stream and started on the
“Charge” when the warriors scattered and fled. Later, a few groups were seen on the hill tops but they made no hostile demonstrations.

  As the last of the tepees and property was on fire, the General ordered me to kill all the ponies except those authorised to be used by the prisoners and given to scouts. We tried to rope them and cut their throats, but the ponies were frantic at the approach of a white man and fought viciously. My men were getting very tired so I called for reinforcements and details from other organizations were sent to complete the destruction of about eight hundred ponies. As the last of the ponies were being shot nearly all the hostiles left. This was probably because they could see our prisoners and realized that any shooting they did might endanger them.

  Searching parties were sent to look for dead and wounded of both our own and hostiles. A scout having reported that he had seen Major Elliott and party in pursuit of some escapes down the right side of the valley, Captain Myers went down the valley about two miles but found no trace.

  A while before sunset, as the command was forming to march down the valley, the General sent for me to ride with him to show him the place from which we could see the village below. There was no attempt to conceal our formation or the direction of our march. The command in column of fours, covered by skirmishers, the prisoners in the rear of the advance troops, standard and guidons “to the breeze,” the chief trumpeter sounded the advance and we were “on our way,” the band playing, “Ain’t I Glad to Get Out of the Wilderness.” The observing warriors followed our movement till twilight, but made no hostile demonstration. Then as if they had divined our purpose there was a commotion and they departed down the valley.

  When we came in sight of the promontory and ridge from which I had discovered the lower villages, I pointed them out to the General. With the departure of the hostiles our march was slowed down till after dark, when the command was halted, the skirmishers were quietly withdrawn to rejoin their troops, the advance counter-marched, joined successively by the organizations in the rear, and we were on our way on our back trail. We marched briskly till long after midnight when we bivouacked till daylight with the exception of one squadron which was detached to hurry on to our supply train, the safety of which caused great anxiety. I was detailed to command the prisoners and special guard.

  At daylight the next morning, we were on the march to meet our supply train and encountered it some time that forenoon. We were glad that it was safe, but disappointed that Major Elliott and party had not come in. After supper in the evening, the officers were called together and each one questioned as to the casualties of enemy warriors, locations, etc. Every effort was made to avoid duplications. The total was found to be one hundred and three.

  The Washita “battle” was one of many controversies which trailed in the wake of George Armstrong Custer. The village attacked was that of the unfortunate Black Kettle, whose tipi flew a white flag. Black Kettle and his wife were shot in the back as they tried to flee across the Washita, and died face down in the water. Contrary to the claims of the 7th Cavalry, the soldiers killed not 103 warriors but eleven. The rest of the dead were women, children and old men.

  The destruction of Black Kettle’s village was a Western tragedy, but it was not another Sand Creek. Black Kettle was the leading peace chief of the Cheyenne, yet his camp harboured warriors. The chief had also been informed that he would be attacked unless he surrendered to Sheridan. Black Kettle’s village was a mixture of Indians who wanted war and Indians who wanted peace. It was the Indian nation in miniature.

  Sheridan applauded Custer for the Washita battle, which appeared to have ended Indian resistance on the central and southern plains. All winter long, straggles of Indians appeared at Fort Cobb wanting to surrender. To encourage the recalcitrant, Custer summoned Cheyenne chiefs to a peace council – then seized three of them and threatened to hang them on the spot unless the tribe carried out his demands. More Indians surrendered and moved onto reservations. When the Comanche arrived at Fort Cobb, one of their chiefs introduced himself to Sheridan. “Tosawi, good Indian,” he said. Sheridan replied: “The only good Indians I ever saw were dead.”

  In March 1869 General Philip Sheridan was able to report to the War Department that the tribes assigned to the Indian Territory were living quietly on their reservations.

  Custer’s victory at the Washita was not, as Sheridan thought, the end of the Indian war on the central and southern plains. But it was the beginning of the end.

  The Struggle for the Staked Plains

  Always Against Us

  There was something about the Comanche and the horse. They were uncannily conjoined. Writing in the 1830s the frontier artist George Catlin, who regarded the Comanche as “homely”, remarked that as soon as one of the tribe “lays his hand upon his horse, his face, even, becomes handsome, and he gracefully flies away like a different being.”

  All who witnessed the Comanche on horseback were amazed and scared in equal measure by their skill. A favourite Comanche feat was to hang under the neck of the horse to fire arrows or throw 14-foot lances. Some Comanche warriors could hang under the belly of the horse to shoot their bows. While many plains tribes rode to war and then got off and fought on foot, the Comanche disdained any form of pedestrian warfare or hunting. Raids and the taming of mustangs made the Comanche enormously rich in horses. An ordinary warrior often owned 250 horses, a chief a thousand.

  Their equine prowess aside, the Shoshoni-speaking Comanche were originally mountain dwellers from the north (“Comanche” is derived from the Ute kohmachts, “always against us”), who arrived on the south plains as late as 1700. Yet as nobody took to the horse like the Comanche, their ability to fight a highly mobile warfare won them a huge 240,000 square mile empire on the high plains, from which they evacuated the eastern Apache, the Navajo and others. The five main Comanche bands also blocked the northward expansion of the Spanish, confining them in the bulk to southern Texas. At the peak of their power, in the early nineteenth century, the Comanche were 20,000 strong. Their horses were almost countless.

  And then the Anglo-Americans started to appear in east Texas. The Comanche had a reputation for belligerence, but the Whites matched it. A long and venomous war between the Anglo-Americans and the Comanche began shortly after Texas won independence from Mexico in 1836. Massacres and reprisals became commonplace on both sides.

  One of the first Comanche victories in 1836 was at Parker’s Fort, a stockaded cluster of homesteads in east-central Texas. The Comanche raiders killed and scalped the men, and ripped their genitals out. Some of the women were raped, and five were borne off as captives, a practice the Comanche adopted to offset their low birth rate. They included the nine-year-old Cynthia Ann Parker. When she was 18 Cynthia Ann became the wife of Chief Peta Nocona of the Nocona band. Early in the marriage she bore him a son Quanah (“Fragrant”). Another son, Pecos, and a daughter, Topasannah (“Prairie Flower”), followed.

  In December 1860, while the Nocona band were camped near the Pease River and the men were off hunting buffalo, a force of 40 Texas Rangers and 21 US cavalry struck. Cynthia Ann was recaptured and taken, with her daughter, back to the settlements. Cynthia Ann was welcomed by her brother and her uncle. But she mourned for her sons and several times tried to ride away to join them. When her daughter died in 1864, Cynthia Ann starved herself to death.

  Meanwhile, her sons, Quanah and Pecos, had suffered other tragedies. Their father had died from an infected arrow wound. Then Pecos died of disease, probably in one of the cholera epidemics that repeatedly decimated the Comanche.

  With no ties to hold him Quanah joined the Quahadi, a particularly warlike and anti-White band of the Comanche. When the Civil War stripped Texan forts of US soldiers and sent 60,000 Texan men flocking to the Confederate colours, the Quahadi Comanche were in the forefront of the devastation of central Texas. Hundreds of settlers were killed, their homes burnt to the ground.

  In the course of these Comanche Wars of the 1860s, Qu
anah rose to become a war chief of the Quahadi band, second only to Bull Bear, the main Quahadi leader. Quanah was famed for his exploits in war, and his unbending opposition to the Whites. During a debate with other Comanche chiefs he declared: “My band is not going to live on the reservation. Tell the White chiefs that the Quahadi are warriors.”

  Refusing to attend the Medicine Lodge peace talks of 1867, Quanah instead marauded Texas, always afterwards retiring to the Quahadi sanctuary of the Staked Plains, a hostile arid land in the Texas Panhandle in which the Whites showed little interest. There the Quahadi were joined by other holdout bands of Comanche and Kiowa who refused to take the White road offered at Medicine Lodge, such as that of Woman Heart. On the remote Staked Plains the Indians still had freedom to live in the old ways.

  It was about the last place on the southern plains where they could do so.

  Jumping the Reservation

  Occasionally news of the Comanche and Kiowa who had signed the Medicine Lodge Treaty came to the Texas Panhandle. The news was not good.

  Government rations on the barren Comanche–Kiowa reservation in Indian Territory were pitiful. The inhabitants resented the attempts to teach them to farm, and the intrusions of Whites and eastern Indians onto their lands. Most of all these free-riding hunters of the endless plains were unable to accept confinement, or forsake the calendar joys of the buffalo hunt. Before long, Kiowa and Comanche alike were jumping the reservation to hunt. Outside reservation limits they came into violent conflict with White settlers.

  In spring 1871, Satanta (White Bear) led a hundred Kiowa and Comanche off the reservation. Some of their annuity goods had been diverted to Texans, and they decided to make up the loss with a raid. They also wanted to stop a railroad being built across their old and beloved hunting grounds. On the prairie they spotted a luckless mule train and swooped down on it. Seven teamsters were killed. The Indians then plundered the train and made off with 41 mules.