THE 19th KANSAS CAVALRY

On the 5^th of November, 1868, twelve hundred strong, laughing, shouting, blue-clad young fellows rode through the streets of Topeka Kas., to fight the southern tribes of Indians. I had a report from the Pension Department some months ago. Of that proud array of virile young men who rode through the streets of the Kansas capital, cheered by the populace, there were, according to the report, but 131 alive. The old boys who served in the army of the plains will soon be gone. To the readers of the Winners of the West it would be surplusage to tell of what we endured. But the old men with snow white hair and impaired vision could tell stories - as they go staggering down life's highway - that would make pitying angels weep.

Will the congress of this great nation remember us, and our sacrifices in our old age? Will the senators and congressmen of the great plains states forget the men who redeemed the West from savagery? I pray God that they do not.

As I sit in my humble home and look out on the far-flung fields, orchards and vineyards of the wondrous San Joaquin valley of California, with the sunlight falling like a golden glory around me, I grow reminiscent. Fields, orchards and vineyards fade away. My years fall away from me like a worn garment. I am young again. The wild and woolly West lies around me. I see wigwams among the trees. I see painted warriors in battle order. I see more than that. I see the mutilated bodies of men, women and children. I see fair girls carried away into a captivity worse than death. Then comes before me a ruined and desolated frontier.

Then, amidst the ruin and wreck of the old frontier, I see the forms of blue-clad men. I go with them through the fierce summer heat of the plains of Texas, Arizona and New Mexico. Dying of thirst, hungry unto death, I see them following the trail of the murderous red man. I go with them into the frozen North. I hear the blizzard's roar. I see men facing the death-dealing blasts. I see men with frozen hands, feet and limbs. Oh! How they suffered. I am with Reno and Benteen, in that firey hell, where for two days a handful of men fought off five thousand Sioux warriors. I can see those brave regulars dying with thirst, famished with hunger, fighting off hordes of savages; yet, there was no thought of surrender. No white flag waved above their little half-fortified position. I can hear the wounded cry for water. There was none. The Indians controlled the space between the battle field and camp. They had the soldiers surrounded and they were doomed. The wounded would soon die of thirst. But the Sioux did not know the men they were fighting. I can see men leave that hell on the hill, and armed with revolver and camp kettle, start for the river. A leaden hail swept their ranks, but they went on and carried water back to their wounded comrades. Some fell, but others took their places, and water was furnished to every wounded man.

The scene changes. I am again an old man. I see a small band of old, discrepit men - all that are left of the army that conquered the west and made it a safe place for civilized people to live.

These old men are saying to the congress of the richest nation of the world, "Will you give us justice?" They are asking the men who make our laws, "Why do you discriminate against us? Why do we not get

the same pension that other soldiers get? Why do we not get every favor shown other soldiers?" No soldiers endured more hardship, no men suffered more than soldiers who fought the Indian and won the West.

I awake from my reverie and my lashes are wet with tears. I am sad, but somehow I feel that justice will be done soon and the old Indian fighter will be recognized as the equal of the other brave men who served the nation in her need.

Yours in comradeship,

THEODORE F. BAYLESS,
Late Co. B 19^th Kas. Vol. Cav.