miles. We got into camp at old Fort Phil Kearney about noon, and were located in a most delightful valley, at the foothills of the Big Horn mountains. This is a celebrated spot. Here it was that Colonel Carrington founded the fort made bloodily famous by the slaughter of Fetterman, Brown, Grummond and eighty-three soldiers on December 22, 1866. The world has heard the story how the wood party was attacked down Piney creek, half a mile from the post. How Fetterman and the rest, being signaled, went to their relief. How a party of Indians decoyed them beyond the bluffs and then fell upon them like an avalanche, killing every man and mutilating everybody except that of Metzker, a bugler, who fought with such desperate valor that the Indians covered the remains with a buffalo robe as a token of their savage respect. They attempted to take this brave bugler alive, but be killed so many of the warriors that he had to be finished. This much lied Cloud's people subsequently told our soldiers. From our camp we could plainly see the fatal ravine on the old Fort Smith road, where those brave but hapless soldiers fell. They call the
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place surrounding it " Massacre Hill." Alas, for glory! I visited the cemetery near the site of the fort that afternoon. The humble railing around it was torn down by the Sioux. The brick monument above the bodies of the officers was half demolished, and a long, low mound, upon which the grass grew damp, rank and dismal, indicated the last resting place of the unfortunate men who met their dreadful fate at the hands of the very Indians who were then being fed on government rations at the Red Cloud agency. Red Cloud, now old and half paralytic, was a prime mover in that butchery. The event closed Colonel Carrington's career, although the court of inquiry acquitted him, chiefly on the ground that he positively ordered Col. Fetterman not to pursue the Indians beyond the bluffs.
We passed, on our road to Phil Kearney, Lake De Smet, called after the famed Jesuit,—a sheet of salt water without visible outlet, about two and one-half miles long by about half a mile average width.
Somebody came into camp in the afternoon and told General Crook that there were buffalo grazing beyond "Massacre Hill." Acting on the information, he, with Captain Dickerson, of his staff, and Major Chambers, of the infantry, mounted his horse and rode out in pursuit. They went far beyond our lines, saw a dozen deer, one grizzly bear, but no buffalo. Crook, however, shot a cow elk.
Whosoever selected the site of Fort Phil Kearney, did not do so with an eve to the safety of its garrison. It was commanded by high wooded bluffs, within easy range, on every side. Indians could have easily approached within a
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couple of hundred yards of the stockade, without much fear of discovery. A dozen better sites could have been selected in the immediate neighborhood.
It was said that the officer who made the selection—Colonel was influenced thereto by his wife, a lady of some will. He used to delight in sounding the bugle calls himself. One morning, it is related, he was proceeding to sound reveille, when his wife asked him: "Where are you going with that bugle ?" He explained briefly.
"You may march all you please," said she, "but here I will remain. This is as good a place for your fort as any other."
The colonel, who desired domestic happiness, gave in right away, and so Fort Phil Kearney, of bloody memory, came to be built.
Crook wanted to establish his permanent camp at a place called Goose Creek, reported to be only eight miles from Phil Kearney. The whole command—wagons and all— started out to find it early on the morning of June 6th. We crossed the " Great Piney," a rapid mountain torrent, and marched through the fatal ravine in which Fetterman's column got cut to pieces. So perfect a trap was never seen. There was no way out of it. A small party had no more chance of escaping those 1,500 Sioux, in such a position, than an exhausted fly has to break away from the strong spider who has it fast in the web. Fetterman, it is said, was in bad humor with las commanding officer when he left the fort, and hence his rashness and the tragic result thereof. "Not unavenged he died," however, for 180
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Indians, by their own acknowledgment, were killed or wounded. Every man of the expedition looked with interest at a spot scarcely second to Fort William Henry as a gloomy memorial of Indian warfare.
Our road lay through one of the richest grass ranges that I have ever seen. It is capable of high cultivation. The air was laden with perfume, the ravines being filled with wild flowers of many species. We marched on for hours, but no Goose creek appeared. Crook had evidently changed his mind, for we diverged to the northeast somewhat abruptly, following the course of a stream called Beaver creek. It ran at the base of a range of red hills, scraggy and wild, and we were not long in leaving the beauteous scenery of the morning far behind us. We found out that we were on the old Bridger trail, and marched five and twenty miles before halting at the desired point. En route we struck a buffalo herd and our men killed six of the animals—all in prime condition. We saw a number of deer, and wild fowl sprang up at almost every step. The plain was indented with buffalo tracks, showing that we had struck a belt of the hunting grounds. The veterans said where you find the buffalo there you find the Indians too. But we saw no red hides that day. A heavy thunder-storm, accompanied by fierce rain, made our camp rather dreary. At the camp-fires an adjutant told us that Crook was marching on Tongue river.
The continuous marching over rough roads told severely on our stock. Many of the pack mules were half flayed alive, their loads having galled them dreadfully. Several
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cavalry horses looked worn out, and not a few of the men were suffering from inflammatory rheumatism — a disease quite prevalent in Wyoming. We had only one cavalry and four infantry ambulances, and three doctors looked after the whole command. "Put the sick in the wagons," was the order, the ambulances being full. A sick man might as well be stretched upon the rack as in an army wagon. But a man has no business to be wounded or taken ill while engaged in that kind of enterprise. In the words of Marshal Massena, before Torres Vedras, the soldier on an Indian campaign must have " the heart of a lion and the stomach of a mouse."
We reached the Prairie Dog branch of Beaver creek early on the morning of the 7th of June, and we followed that creek over hills and rocks for about eighteen miles. It was an execrable road, the stream being of a winding character, and we had to cross and re-cross it several times, drawing our knees up on our saddles, and shouldering our carbines to save them from being wet. The wagons also had a hard time in keeping up, and it was quite late when they and the rear guard finally reached camp at the junction of Prairie Dog creek with Tongue river. It was a point where few white men had been previously, and was situated about half a dozen miles from the Montana line, in the very heart of the hostile country. Tongue river wound around the neck of land on which our tents were pitched, like a horse shoe. Prairie Dog creek bounded us on the south ; a low ridge rose to our left, and in front, beyond Tongue river and commanding it and our camp, there stood
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a bold, steep bluff. The bottom lands were well covered with timber. Some of the officers found fault with the position, on account of its rather exposed situation, but others treated the matter lightly, and said there was nothing to be apprehended.
At that period General Crook seemed to be a man of iron. He endured heat, cold, marching and every species of discomfort with Indian-like stolidity. If he felt weariness, he never made anybody the wiser. While apparently frank to all who approached him, he was very uncommunicative except to his aides. He was also a born Nimrod', and always rode far in advance of the column, attended by a few officers and an orderly or two, chasing whatever species of game he might happen to find. Looking back at his conduct of that time, I cannot help thinking that luck was greatly on his side,
