Telegraphic
Redskin Raids and Murders
in Wyoming
THE INDIANS
Redskins Raiding in Wyoming.
CHEYENNE, October 14.—Last night two head of horses were stolen from a camp near Custer. A detachment of soldiers followed the trail and found the animals in possession of two Mexicans and whites, who resisted arrest and both were killed.
The Indians drove into the station a wood party working seven miles from Sage Creek. A number of Indians are reported as having left this agency at noon to-day and twelve horses were stolen by them from McIlvain’s ranch near the Chugwater. Parker, with a detachment of the Second Cavalry, who arrived at the last named place to- night, came in contact with a large body of Indians at 12 to-day, ten miles from Hunton’s ranch on the head of Richard Creek, and a fight ensued. Private Tasker was killed and left on the field. The Indians have about 1,000 head of stock and are heading for Buger’s Ferry
William Jackson stirred restlessly within his blankets before first light. It was the coldest time of the day, and he could tell the fire at their feet had all but gone out. With the buffalo robe pulled over his head, he half listened as the muffled sounds told him Robert had kicked his way out of his bedroll and was stomping around, stirring embers and punching life back into the tiny pit fire. William finally stuck his head out and peered into the coming of dawn, blinking at his brother.
The eldest said, “Tomorrow—you start the morning fire.”
He was nodding to Robert … at the very moment the first gunshot awakened the rest of the camp. All around them officers bawled orders and men scurried cold and stiff-legged toward the perimeter pickets. Swearing and stomping life into their feet, teamsters rolled out from under the wagons and scrambled for their weapons. But in those scant few moments it became plain to see the camp was not being attacked by waves of horsemen. Instead, the threat proved to be nothing more than a few distant warriors gathered atop the far hills pitching long-range shots at the soldiers in the gray light of that autumn dawn.
Otis got them moving about with the morning routine as he rotated the guard one last time, bringing in the last watch to have their cold breakfast of salt pork and hard bread, washed down with what they had taken on yesterday afternoon in crossing Clear Creek. Watering the mules cost the men a good piece of that early morning, dipping the oiled-canvas nose bags into the kegs, forced to laboriously water each of the hundreds of animals one at a time. Just past seven A.M. Otis formed them up, putting the wagons in four long columns that would rumble along between the infantry escort, then slowly marched away from that scorched campsite.
Across the next anxious hour the Lakota kept their distance in the van of the wagon train, and far on either flank—watching. Sitting atop their restive ponies in the early cold. Watching. Occasionally firing a random shot at the soldiers now and then. Always watching as the wagons jostled and creaked, heading west along the Tongue River Road.
“Maybe they’ve learned their lesson,” Otis thought to boast to the men around him after they had been on the trail for more than two hours.
“Perhaps, Colonel,” agreed Lieutenant Oskaloosa M. Smith. “We unhorsed our share yesterday.”
“Maybe they want to talk instead of fighting,” William suggested, pointing into the gray distance.
Around him the soldiers grew quiet. Upon suddenly spotting the lone, far rider who reined up atop the low rise in their front, Otis threw up his arm. Down the column went the order to halt as everyone grew all the more wary. On either side of them sat hundreds of warriors. But in their front, only the lone horseman.
As William watched, the warrior slipped from his pony, dropping the single rein to the ground. At the end of one arm he waved what looked to be a white cloth back and forth over his head, then knelt, taking a long wooden stake from the belt that held the blanket around his waist. It appeared as if the warrior hammered the stake into the ground, then tied the white cloth to it before taking up his rein again and vaulting back atop his pony. There on the crest of the hill, the Indian circled three times, then kicked the pony into a gallop, disappearing on the far side of the slope.
“What you make of that, Jackson?” Otis asked, turning to his scout.
“Like I said: I think they want to talk.”
The lieutenant colonel straightened, squinted at that hilltop where the white flag fluttered from that tall stake, then said, “All right. Have your brother go up there. Let’s just see what Sitting Bull has to say for himself.”
As much as he had wanted to go fetch that message himself, William realized Robert was Otis’s scout. Sitting there with the rest of the headquarters group as his brother trotted forward, alone and wary, William studied either flank, back and forth, for some sign of betrayal. Something to confirm his unspoken fear that this was some kind of trap. In the distance he watched as Robert reached the crest of the far hill, circled the stake twice as he peered this way and that into the far valley of Cedar Creek, then leaned off the side of his horse to rip the stake out of the ground.
After untying the white cloth from the stake, Robert sat motionless for a moment, then hammered heels into the horse’s flanks and set off at a gallop on the return trip. He skidded up before the lieutenant colonel, handing over the message.
From what William could see, there were English letters put together to make English words on that scrap of white cloth no bigger than a bandanna.
“What’s it say, Colonel?” Lieutenant Smith asked. “Is it meant to be a message for us?”
“It most certainly is meant for me,” Otis replied gruffly, snapping out the cloth he held in his gloves. “Here, you read it aloud to the rest.”
Smith took the cloth, then said:
“YELLOWSTONE.
I want to know what you are doing traveling on this road. You scare all the buffalo away. I want to hunt on the place. I want you to turn back from here. If you don’t I will fight you again. I want you to leave what you have got here, and turn back from here.
I am your friend,
SITTING BULL.
I mean all the rations you have got and some powder. Wish you would write as soon as you can.”
“By gonnies!” Lieutenant William Kell exclaimed. “We’ve been fighting Sitting Bull!”
“Yes,” Otis sighed, his eyes taking on a faraway look as he regarded the distant hill in their front, then gazing again at the stoic, motionless Indians on their left flank. “The same bastard who wiped out Custer’s men.”
Lieutenant Smith cleared his throat and asked, “Are we going to leave the son of a bitch powder and rations—like he asked for?”
“No, Mr. Smith,” Otis replied acidly. “The only thing I’ll leave him is the bullets we’ll use to kill more of his warriors if he stands between us and Tongue River here on out.”
At that point the lieutenant colonel took the cloth back from his adjutant and stuffed it inside the front of his coat. “Jackson,” he said, looking at Robert once more, “I want you to ride back up there. Show them you have some word from me to deliver to Sitting Bull—and get it across to him in no uncertain terms that I’m taking this train on through to the Tongue River. Tell him that if they wish to stand in our way, I will be most pleased to accommodate them with a fight. In fact, I’ll bloody well fight them for every goddamned foot if I have to. You understand all that?”
“Perfectly,” Robert answered, his eyes darting to William before he reined his horse about and kicked it away, moving at a lope back to the far hill.
Otis turned in the saddle, looking down at the other officers who were without horses and said, “Let’s get the
