Eugene Ware - The Indian War of 1864

The Indian idea was that anybody might shoot an enemy, but it was the man who touched him first that was entitled to the glory. It was not the man who killed an enemy, or who scalped an enemy, that took the glory, but the man who touched the enemy first. One Indian might shoot and instantly kill a foe, another Indian might rush and strike the fallen foe with a riding-whip, and a third might secure the scalp, but the glory went to the Indian who made the "strike."

There was much reason in it, for a wounded Indian, like a little learning, was a dangerous thing; and the really brave Indian was he who first struck an enemy with something held in the hand. Sometimes blows were so close together that disputes arose as to who was entitled to the "coo," but these matters were settled by evidence in council. No Indian could claim and take a "coo" that be could not prove. The warriors held their "coos" by a sort of judicial determination of the tribe, or public concession of known facts.

An Indian who made two or three "coos' was a hero. When he could claim half a dozen he was a war chief. He was generally killed before he got any more.

Shan-tag-a-lisk was the greatest of the warriors of the Sioux nation, at that time,

and counted more "coos" than any other one in the nation. He said, "I count twenty-six coos." He was a quick, nervy, feminine-looking Indian of only medium size and height, and about forty years of age.

The writer had met both Shan-tag-a-lisk and Owa-see-cha before making the said trip to Fort Laramie. It was at Cottonwood Springs where two peace conventions were had, ten miles below the forks of the Platte. The object was to

pacify the Sioux nation so that our Government might draw off some of the troops on the frontier and send them to the front at Atlanta, Georgia, where Sherman, at that time, was busily engaged and needed all the troops he could get. But nothing came of our peace conventions. It was also desired that a free opening might be had to the west for the scattering, disorganized soldiers and citizens of the Confederacy, who were fleeing from the theatre of war and from places where the Rebel conscription was, in the language of Grant, "robbing the cradle and the grave." These travelers to the west, although they might not be loyal to the Government, could ably protect themselves from the savage; they formed an army of extermination, and were exceedingly valuable to the General Government for the services they could render in exploring and building up the country and getting the Indians upon reservations.

At Laramie half-breed runners were sent out to bring in the Sioux and have an adjustment of pending difficulties, but the raid upon the line west of Laramie and the warlike feeling of the young men of the Sioux made it a failure. Nevertheless, some of the Indians came in, and Shan-tag-a-lisk was said to be within a hundred miles of the Post with many lodges of his band. On consultation at the sutler's store it was considered best to issue provisions to all the Indians who came in, especially as Shan-tag-a-lisk was keeping his band and his young Indians out of the war. It was thought best to make some presents to the Indian women who came in, and the Post commander was instructed to do so from the post fund. The Indian women were presented with red blankets, bright calicoes, looking-glasses, etc., etc. The writer, as adjutant of the post, superintended by order of the post commander a distribution of provisions. All of the Indian women and children sat down in a circle on the parade-ground, into the middle of which were rolled barrels and boxes of flour, crackers, bacon, and coffee. Then from the few Indian men, two or three were selected who entered the ring and made the division with great solemnity; going around the ring repeatedly with small quantities of the several articles that were being divided. My instructions were to see that everything was fairly done and all the supplies equally divided.

As I came up to the ring, on the day of the first division, an Indian girl was standing outside of the ring, looking on. She was tall and well dressed, and about eighteen years of age, or perhaps twenty. As the distribution was about to begin I went to her and told her to get into the ring, and motioned to her where to go. She gave no sign of heed, looked at me as impassively as if she were a statue, and never moved a muscle. A few teamsters, soldiers and idlers were standing around and looking on from a respectful distance. I shouted to Smith, the interpreter, to come. He came, and I said to him, "Tell this squaw to get into the ring or she will lose her share." Smith addressed her, and she replied. Smith looked puzzled, sort of smiled, and spoke to her again; again she replied as before. "What does she say?" I asked of Smith. Smith replied, "Oh, she says she is the daughter of Shan-tag-a-lisk." "I don't care," said I, "whose daughter she is; tell her to get into the ring and get in quick." Again Smith talked to her, and impatiently gestured. She made a reply. "What did she say?" I asked. "Oh, she says that she don't go into the ring," said Smith. 'Then tell her," I said, "that if she doesn't go into the ring she won't get anything to eat." Back from her, through Smith, came the answer: "I have plenty to eat; I am the daughter of Shan-tag-a-lisk." So I left her alone, and she stood and saw the division, and then went off to the Indian camp. Several times rations were distributed during the week, and she always came and stood outside of the ring alone. During the daytime she came to the sutler's store and sat on a bench outside, near the door, watching as if she were living on the sights she saw. She was particularly fond of witnessing guard-mount in the morning and dress-parade in the evening. Whoever officiated principally on these occasions put on a few extra touches for her special benefit, at the suggestion of Major Wood, the Post Commander. The Officer-of-the-guard always appeared in an eighteen-dollar red silk sash, ostrich plume, shoulder-straps, and about two hundred dollars' worth of astonishing raiment, such as, in the field, we boys used to look upon with loathing and contempt. We all knew her by sight, but she never spoke to any of us. Among ourselves we called her "the princess." She was looking, always looking, as if she were feeding upon what she saw. It was a week or ten days that Ah-ho-appa was around Fort Laramie. At last she went away with her band up to Powder River. Her manner of action was known to all, and she was frequently referred to as an Indian girl of great dignity. Some thought she was acting vain, and some thought that she did not know or comprehend her own manner. There was no silly curiosity in her demeanor. She saw everything, but asked no questions. She expressed no surprise, and exhibited not a particle of emotion. She only gazed intently.

One evening in the sutler store the officers of parts of three regiments were lounging, when Elston was asked if he knew Ah-ho-appa. "Very well indeed," he said; and then he proceeded to say:

"I knew her when she was a baby. She was here in the squaw-camp eight or nine years ago, and must have stayed with her relatives here two or three years. She is very much stuck up, especially in the last four or five years. She won't marry an Indian; she always said that. Her father has been offered two hundred ponies for her, but won't sell her. She says she won't marry anybody but a 'capitan',' and that idea sort of pleases her father for more reasons than one. Among the Indians every officer, big or little, with shoulder-straps on, is a 'capitan'.' That's a Spanish word the Indians have adopted, Every white man that wears shoulder-straps is a capitan. With her it's a capitan or nobody. She always carries a knife, and is as strong as a mule. One day a Blackfoot soldier running with her father's band tried to carry her off, but she fought and cut him almost to pieces – like to have killed him; tickled her father nearly to death. The young bucks seem to think a good deal of her, but are all afraid to tackle her. The squaws all know about her idea of marrying a capitan; they think her head is level, but don't believe she will ever make it. She tried to learn to read and speak English once of a captured boy, but the boy escaped before she got it. She carries around with her a little bit of a red book, with a gold cross printed on it, that General Harney gave her mother many years ago. She's got it wrapped up in a parfleche [piece of dressed rawhide]. You ought to hear her talk when she is mad. She is a holy terror. She tells the Indians they are all fools for not living in houses, and making peace with the whites. One time she and her father went in to Jack Morrow's ranch and made a visit. She was treated in fine style, and ate a bushel of candy and sardines, but her father was insulted by some drunken fellow and went away boiling mad. When he got home to his tepee he said he never would go around any more where there were white men, except to kill them. She and her father got into a regular quarrel over it, and she pulled out her knife and began cutting herself across the arms and ribs, and in a minute she was bleeding in about forty places, and said that if he didn't say different she was going to kill herself. He knocked her down as cold as a wedge, and had her cuts fixed up by the squaws with pine pitch; and when she came to he promised her that she could go, whenever he did, to see the whites. And she went; you bet she went. She would dress just like a buck and carry a gun. White men would not know the difference. They can't get her to tan buckskin, or gather buffalo cherries. No, sir. There was a teamster down at Bardeaux ranch that wanted to talk marry to her, but his moustache was too white." (In the old folk-lore of the plains a man's liver was supposed to be of the color of his moustache. So the speaker meant that the teamster was white-livered, hence cowardly.)