Winners of the West
Vol. XIII No. 9
ST. JOSEPH, MISSOURI
AUGUST, 1936
THE MEEKER MASSACRE AND UTE JACK'S DEATH
AN OLD INDIAN FIGHTER'S REMINISCENCES
Capper's Weekly, March 5, 1921
Mr. Capper even thinks of the old Indian fighters like myself. How soon we were forgotten after those rough old days. I subjoin a few reminiscences which may prove interesting to your young readers, at least.
I enlisted 2 years after Custer's massacre; got to my troop, H, 3rd Cavalry on December 22, 1878 and into an Indian fight just 27 days after joining and 46 days from the day I enlisted. There were 14 of my troop killed besides the wounded. My captain, H. W. Wessells, Jr., received a scalp wound. I believe he is still living and is now in Washington, D.C. In that campaign, the Captain asked for a volunteer to go with him across a dangerous strip of land to another small command. So dangerous was it that not a man in the whole troop would volunteer. It made me feel so bad to think that not one of his soldiers - all older men than I - would risk his life, that I said I would go. "Don't you think you are too young?" he asked.
I wouldn't admit it.
He ordered the best horse for me that we had, told me what to do in case he was killed in our attempt, which was just to let him die, as nothing can be done to help a dead man, and make a charge back of the hill where the other command was. But if he was wounded, to do all in my power to hold him on his horse and get back of the hill with the other troops. He assured me he would do the same for me.
We started off on a fast trot. We knew we would be fired on and that the bullets would come thick. We soon had to take up a fast run as it was getting pretty hot. About 40 to 60 shots were fired at us by the Indians from the mountainside. But we reached safely the place we started for. Just as we got there and before we dismounted, the last shot that was fired at the captain and me struck another soldier and killed him.
In my 5 years' enlistment I was in two other campaigns to say [ ] thru while in the mountains of Nebraska, Wyoming and Colorado. In the campaign of 1879 my legs were frozen hard while we were asleep on armfuls of brush we had cut and fixed for a bed so as to keep out of the snow. We had but one blanket each. Canvas of any kind was not in the command. So three of us had three blankets to sleep on and under. It fell to my lot to lie on the north side from which the cold wind came. During the night the wind blew the cover from me and on to the other two men. I woke about 4 o'clock and found I could not move from my hips down. I had a hard time to convince them I was frozen stiff below my waist and that I could not get up to walk around. They stood me on my legs and then let go of me. I fell like a log, full length.
The men picked me up again, took all my clothes off from my waist down, exposed the frozen parts to the cold wind and rubbed the hard legs with snow for at least 20 minutes. Several times four men with both hands and with all their might pinched my legs at the same place to find if I had any feeling. Not a speck of fire could be had, as the Indians could pick us off by the light of it. While my two hunkies were rubbing my frozen legs with ice and snow I told them what I was going to do when my legs were amputated. "I am going to sell needles and thread and pins," I said, "I'm going to make more money than you fellows." But by the help of the Almighty and the hard work of my two hunkies, I was spared this misfortune. And this was only an incident of the hardships that I and others went thru for less than $13 a month.
In another campaign in which several of our men were killed, I spoke to an officer about the condition of a squaw's leg, which had been shot to pieces and amputated and left without any dressing. I saw the bare stub. It was covered with maggots. I was not very careful of the words I used about the doctor who happened to be with us on this trip and who had left the wounded squaw in such a condition. Within half an hour the leg was nicely dressed. It turned out that the man I talked to about the carelessness of the doctor was Lieutenant Scott, the same Scott who is now a retired general.
We camped at this place one night. It should have been called stony camp, as scarcely an inch of ground could be seen for the stones. We had to shovel, scrape and roll them out of the way for our blankets. Tents on these trips were not known, except for the officers and wounded. The last stone I took out from under my blanket left a nice hole in the ground just suitable for my hip bone to fit in. Here I would have had a good rest, had it not been for the moaning and groaning of the two wounded officers in a tent a few feet away.
In another campaign in Colorado in 1879, when General Meeker and all the rest were killed at the Ute Indian Reservation on White River, I helped bury General Meeker the second time, as the wolves had dug up the body. I placed suspenders on his grave for a cross. The Indians took Mrs. Meeker and Rose, her daughter, with them as hostages, but later released them. In that campaign 15 were killed. Major Thornburg, ex-army paymaster, was the first one shot and killed. All the horses and mules of the 5th Cavalry were killed. I saw at least 276 dead in one place.
Ute Jack was the head Indian in that time. About a year late he came
to Fort Washakie, Wyo., and attempted an uprising
mong the Indians there. While we were trying to capture Ute Jack, he
shot and killed Sergeant Casey of K Troop, 3rd Cavalry, the
best built man and the best liked sergeant in the army. That same day I
helped to kill Ute Jack. His body was riddled, as we did not know we had
him killed until the tent in which he had taken refuge among the bales
of buffalo robes, was shot down. He was so literally shot to pieces that
one leg was the only part of him that was left intact.
