Buffalo Bill Among the Sioux OR, THE FIGHT IN THE RAPIDS

By

Colonel Prentiss Ingraham

Author of the celebrated “Buffalo Bill” stories, published in the Border Stories. For other titles see catalogue.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION

PUBLISHERS

79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1906

By STREET & SMITH

Buffalo Bill Among the Sioux

(Printed in the United States of America)

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian.

IN APPRECIATION OF WILLIAM F. CODY (BUFFALO BILL).

It is now some generations since Josh Billings, Ned Buntline, and Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, intimate friends of Colonel William F. Cody, used to forgather in the office of Francis S. Smith, then proprietor of the New York Weekly. It was a dingy little office on Rose Street, New York, but the breath of the great outdoors stirred there when these old-timers got together. As a result of these conversations, Colonel Ingraham and Ned Buntline began to write of the adventures of Buffalo Bill for Street & Smith.

Colonel Cody was born in Scott County, Iowa, February 26, 1846. Before he had reached his teens, his father, Isaac Cody, with his mother and two sisters, migrated to Kansas, which at that time was little more than a wilderness.

When the elder Cody was killed shortly afterward in the Kansas “Border War,” young Bill assumed the difficult role of family breadwinner. During 1860, and until the outbreak of the Civil War, Cody lived the arduous life of a pony-express rider. Cody volunteered his services as government scout and guide and served throughout the Civil War with Generals McNeil and A. J. Smith. He was a distinguished member of the Seventh Kansas Cavalry.

During the Civil War, while riding through the streets of St. Louis, Cody rescued a frightened schoolgirl from a band of annoyers. In true romantic style, Cody and Louisa Federci, the girl, were married March 6, 1866.

In 1867 Cody was employed to furnish a specified amount of buffalo meat to the construction men at work on the Kansas Pacific Railroad. It was in this period that he received the sobriquet “Buffalo Bill.”

In 1868 and for four years thereafter Colonel Cody[Pg 2] served as scout and guide in campaigns against the Sioux and Cheyenne Indians. It was General Sheridan who conferred on Cody the honor of chief of scouts of the command.

After completing a period of service in the Nebraska legislature, Cody joined the Fifth Cavalry in 1876, and was again appointed chief of scouts.

Colonel Cody’s fame had reached the East long before, and a great many New Yorkers went out to see him and join in his buffalo hunts, including such men as August Belmont, James Gordon Bennett, Anson Stager, and J. G. Heckscher. In entertaining these visitors at Fort McPherson, Cody was accustomed to arrange wild-West exhibitions. In return his friends invited him to visit New York. It was upon seeing his first play in the metropolis that Cody conceived the idea of going into the show business.

Assisted by Ned Buntline, novelist, and Colonel Ingraham, he started his “Wild West” show, which later developed and expanded into “A Congress of the Rough Riders of the World,” first presented at Omaha, Nebraska. In time it became a familiar yearly entertainment in the great cities of this country and Europe. Many famous personages attended the performances, and became his warm friends, including Mr. Gladstone, the Marquis of Lorne, King Edward, Queen Victoria, and the Prince of Wales, now King of England.

At the outbreak of the Sioux, in 1890 and 1891, Colonel Cody served at the head of the Nebraska National Guard. In 1895 Cody took up the development of Wyoming Valley by introducing irrigation. Not long afterward he became judge advocate general of the Wyoming National Guard.

Colonel Cody (Buffalo Bill) died in Denver, Colorado, on January 10, 1917. His legacy to a grateful world was a large share in the development of the West, and a multitude of achievements in horsemanship, marksmanship, and endurance that will live for ages. His life will continue to be a leading example of the manliness, courage, and devotion to duty that belonged to a picturesque phase of American life now passed, like the great patriot whose career it typified, into the Great Beyond.

BUFFALO BILL AMONG THE SIOUX.

CHAPTER I. WILD BILL’S CLOSE CALL.

One summer morning, in the sixties, when the Indians in the West and Southwest were still giving much trouble to Uncle Sam’s settlers and soldiers, and when the great railway lines were being pushed forward across the continent to the Pacific coast, a scout rode across country in Kansas from Fort Larned to another military post, about sixty miles distant.

He was carrying the military mail and dispatches from one fort to another, and his mission was an exceedingly dangerous one, for it was known that the Indians in Kansas and the neighboring territory were on the point of rising to attack the whites, if they had not already risen.

Many reports had been received from scouts familiar with the Indians which showed that an alliance was being arranged between several of the tribes with the object of going on the warpath in numbers strong enough, as they imagined, to enable them to bid defiance to Uncle Sam’s troopers, even though the latter were armed with the quick-firing “devil guns” so much feared by the redskins.

The scout who was riding across country was, with one exception, the most remarkable man of his class at that time in the West.

He was none other than our old friend Wild Bill, and it need hardly be added that the exception alluded[6] to was his great friend and comrade, Colonel William F. Cody, better known as “Buffalo Bill,” the king of the scouts.

As he rode along, mounted upon a magnificent mustang, Wild Bill was a splendid, fearless figure that it would have done the heart of any brave man good merely to look upon.

In person he was about six feet one inch in height, and, as has been described by his friend, General George A. Custer, “straight as the straightest of the Indian warriors whose implacable foe he was.” He had broad shoulders, well-formed chest and limbs, and a face strikingly handsome. His sharp, clear blue eyes were used to looking any man straight in the face, whether that man were friend or foe. His nose was a fine aquiline, and his mouth well shaped, with lips partly concealed by a handsome mustache.

His hair and complexion were those of a perfect blond—fair as a Saxon viking. He wore the former in long, flowing ringlets, which fell carelessly over his powerfully formed shoulders. Riding his horse as if he were part of the animal, he looked a perfect type of physical manhood.

He had galloped for about twenty miles, when he stopped on a small hill overlooking a valley through which a river ran.

He cast a quick glance around the landscape to see if any foes were in sight, and his eyes immediately fell upon a band of about fifty Indians not more than a third of a mile away.

They saw him almost at the same moment, and immediately jumped on their horses, from which they had dismounted with the idea of watering them in the river, and gave chase.

Wild Bill waited until they came near enough to enable him to see what tribes they belonged to, and[7] whether they were dressed in their war paint. When he had satisfied his doubts on those scores, and found out that they were really on the warpath, he hastily turned his mustang to make a ride for life. But before he galloped off, he lifted his rifle and shot the foremost of the Indians through the head.

As the brave tumbled from his horse, his comrades gave a yell of rage. Wild Bill responded by turning in the saddle and waving his sombrero toward them defiantly.

They fired a scattering volley, but the bullets whizzed harmlessly around him. Riding over uneven ground, the Indians could not take accurate aim.

The scout was riding a splendid mustang, and the gallant animal fully understood what was expected of him. He knew that it was a ride for life, and that he must put forth his greatest speed to save his master from death and himself from an Indian owner—a fate terrible to any decent horse.

He crossed a wide ravine and tore along the valley toward Fort Larned.

Reaching a ridge beyond, Wild Bill looked back for a moment and saw that the Indians were tearing after him. They rode at great speed, and many of them were evidently well mounted.

“Their own ponies can’t travel like that,” said the scout to himself. “They must have done some raiding before this, and got hold of some of the settlers’ animals. The rising we’ve been looking for has broken out, sure. Them folks at the fort must be put on their guard, whatever happens. I guess the whole country will be ablaze in a couple of days.”

If he had been mounted on a fresh horse, Wild Bill would have had no doubt of the outcome of the race; but his mustang, splendid animal though he was, had already ridden far, and showed signs of flagging.

[8]

The Indians began to gain on their quarry for a time, and then the mustang made a spurt and shot ahead again. But the effort was too great for him, and he could not keep up his speed for long.

When he had run about three miles farther, half a dozen of the Indians had crept up to within two or three hundred yards, while several of the other braves were not far behind.

Now and then they fired at him, but their rifles were of inferior quality and their aim was bad, so that neither the scout nor his horse was touched.

The Indians seemed to be shortening the distance from their prey at every stride, but Wild Bill bent over in his saddle and whispered to his mustang: “Get up, old man!”

It was the first effort he had made to urge the animal to greater speed, and immediately he exerted himself to the very utmost, drawing slowly away from the Indians for the next three or four miles.

But there was a limit to the mustang’s power of endurance, if not to his will.

The Indians were nearly as well mounted as Wild Bill, and their steeds were comparatively fresh. One of them in particular—a spotted animal—kept gaining all the time. The others were strung out behind in a long line for a distance of more than a mile, but they were all riding as hard as they knew how, for they wanted to be “in at the death.”

The brave riding the spotted horse was armed with a rifle, and as he drew within a hundred yards he occasionally sent a bullet whizzing unpleasantly close to Wild Bill.

The scout saw that this Indian must be stopped, or a stray shot from his gun might do fatal harm to his mustang or himself.

Suddenly reining up his horse and wheeling him[9] around, Wild Bill raised his rifle to his shoulder and took a quick aim at the brave.

The Indian was not more than sixty yards off, and as Wild Bill’s rifle cracked he reeled and fell from his saddle.

Without waiting to see whether his enemy was dead or only wounded, the scout wheeled his horse around and fairly flew in the direction of Fort Larned.

He would have liked to stop and take a few shots at the other Indians as they came dashing toward him, but he realized that his first duty was to carry a warning to the fort. He had no right to play with his life when such a duty as that was placed upon him.

It was true that fifty Indians could do nothing against the strong body of troops stationed at the fort, but, if they succeeded in killing him, they would certainly not ride on for that place.

They would wait until reënforced by a much stronger party, and then perhaps carry the fort by surprise if the garrison had not received a timely warning.

Wild Bill realized these facts, and resolved that he must curb his natural propensity to fight, and run away instead—a thing he always hated to do, however great might be the number of the enemies opposed to him.

While he was engaged in shooting their leader, the other Indians had gained upon him, and they sent several shots whizzing after him as he resumed his flight. Now and then he turned in the saddle and returned their fire, shooting two of the foremost horses as they drew near him.

“Buffler Bill would shoot the blamed varmints through the head if he was here,” muttered the scout, “but I’m not sure as how I could do that with a snap[10] aim at a gallop. Anyhow, I can’t run the risk, so I’ll shoot the durned cayuses instead.”

The redskins kept up the pursuit until they were within about three miles of the fort. One of the outposts saw them chasing the scout over the prairie and promptly gave the alarm, for a vigilant watch was being maintained at that critical time.

As Wild Bill rode up, several of the soldiers mounted in hot haste and rode to his rescue. The Indians saw this, and promptly turned on their trail to ride back as quickly as they had come.

A lieutenant, with thirty or forty men behind him, galloped in pursuit, while Wild Bill rode into the fort to make his report to the commandant.

[11]

CHAPTER II. AT FORT LARNED.

The officer in charge of the fort was a colonel named Mathers, who had had much experience in Indian fighting, and had taken part in several campaigns with Buffalo Bill and Hickok.

As Wild Bill entered his quarters, he rose from his chair and grasped him heartily by the hand.

“Thank Heaven, they didn’t get you, Bill!” the officer exclaimed. “I saw them through my field glasses chasing after you, and I immediately ordered out the men, but the outposts had done the work already.

“We shall need you badly before this business is over, for it looks as if it is going to be one of the most serious Indian wars we have had for years. You did not find it possible to get through to Fort Hays?” he concluded.

“I believe I could have got through,” Hickok replied. “I guess I could have ridden round the Injuns, and maybe got to Fort Hays all right. But it occurred to me that this fort might get surprised and rushed if ye didn’t know the Injuns had broken out at last.”

The commandant nodded his approval. If Wild Bill had been a soldier, he would have expected him to carry the message without exercising his own individual judgment. But a noted scout like Hickok was expected to think for himself, weigh the situation, and act for the best accordingly. That, indeed, was the very reason of his employment.

“Could you tell me who the Indians were—what tribes they belonged to?” the colonel asked.

[12]

“Yes, of course; I took care to find that out,” Wild Bill replied, almost in an injured tone of voice. “I waited till they got near enough so as I could find out from their feathers and war paint. They was mostly Sioux, but there was a few Cheyennes and Crows, and I shot an ’Pache. He was the only one in the bunch, so fur as I could see.”

“Then there has been an alliance made between the tribes, and we will have to meet the attack of a strong confederacy,” muttered the commandant.

He rang a bell and an orderly entered the room, saluted him, and stood at attention.

“Ask Colonel Cody to oblige me by stepping in here for a moment,” the colonel said.

The soldier left the room, and in a few moments returned, announcing the famous king of scouts, Buffalo Bill.

He had been making a tour of inspection to see that the horses of the soldiers were in good shape, and that all necessary preparations had been made for a long ride and a hard campaign, if the need should arise.

The famous frontiersman was an even more striking and handsome figure than his friend Hickok. At this time he was in the zenith of his vigorous manhood.

It was only a short time before that he had earned his sobriquet of Buffalo Bill by shooting a record number of buffaloes to supply fresh meat for the workmen engaged in the construction of the Kansas Pacific Railway.

Every line of his face and every movement of his body showed force, courage, and determination such as are rarely seen even among the bravest men.

The border king greeted his friend Hickok warmly, and said:

“So they couldn’t get you, old pard! I wish I’d been with you to help you put up a little bit of a fight.”

[13]

The colonel briefly explained the position, and Cody was not surprised to hear that several tribes had joined in the rising.

“The Sioux are at the bottom of it,” he said. “Unless we strike hard and swiftly, the rising will spread not only over Kansas, but over all the territory round about.

“I received a message from my friend and blood brother, Red Cloud, the war chief of the Navahos, only two days ago. He sent one of his braves to tell me that the Sioux had sent their messenger even down into New Mexico to try to persuade the Navahos to join with them in a grand uprising against the whites.

“Red Cloud is a good friend to us, and he promised me once that whenever his tribe had trouble with the government he would send to me, and get me to help him straighten it out without war.

“He tells me now that some of his young men want to dig up the hatchet. He is doing his best, with the help of the old men, to keep them back; but he wants me to come to him.

“I think I’d better go, for if the Navahos join the rest the matter will become very much more serious even than it is now.”

The colonel nodded his head, but remarked:

“You will be putting your head in the lion’s mouth, Cody. You will probably arrive there just about the time the bucks are doing their war dance and putting on their war paint. The peacemaker generally has a hard time of it, and if you ask them to bury the hatchet they are very likely to bury it in your own skull.”

“Of course, that is the risk one is always taking in this business,” replied the border king, laughing lightly, “but I know the Navahos, and they like me pretty well. I had the good luck once to help them save[14] their chief, Red Cloud, from some dangerous enemies.”

The colonel rested his head on his hand, and was absorbed in thought for a few moments. Then he straightened up, and said, with decision:

“Go to the Navahos, and Heaven send that you reach them safely and persuade them not to dig up the hatchet! But first I must have a message sent through to Fort Hays. Maybe they are not on their guard at that post, and even if they are I must let the commandant there know my plans, so that we can work out a joint plan of campaign.

“I have five hundred brave men in this fort, but there is not one among them whom I can trust to take this message when thousands of hostile Indians are riding over the country.

“I know they would all do their best, but there would not be a chance in a thousand of any one of them getting through.

“I can only trust that message to you two men, for you will know how to dodge the enemy as no other would.”

The two scouts immediately signified their desire to make the dangerous trip.

“I think you had better go together,” said the colonel, “for the carrying of the message is vital for the success of our plans.

“I want the commandant at Fort Hays to march to meet me at Fork River, about midway between the two forts. He must not only leave enough men to garrison his fort, but bring along all that can be spared to join my force.

“It is no use for us to skulk behind walls and let the Indians ravage the country as they like. We must strike at them swiftly, even if they do outnumber us[15] by ten to one. That is the only way to nip the rising in the bud.”

Cody applauded this brave resolution, for his knowledge of Indian character told him that the colonel was perfectly right.

“We will saddle our horses and ride at once,” he said, rising to leave the room.

“No, don’t go until after dark,” urged the officer. “You will have a much better chance of getting through then, and it is better to delay a few hours than run the risk of not having the message delivered at all.”

The border king agreed, and the colonel then took up a dispatch which was lying on the table beside him, and asked: