CHRISTMAS SHADOWS. 



CAPT. J. G. LEEFE, U. S. A. 



Christmas, 1868, found me at Fort Cobb, 

 Indian Territory. This forlorn post, which 

 was established before the war, was within 

 hailing distance of the Wichita river and 

 midway between the 98th and 99th merid- 

 ians, if the directions given to the people 

 who were obliged to go there were correct. 

 After a soldier found the place all he had 

 to do was to wait a few years for some 

 other man, who was not on speaking terms 

 with the War Department, to come and 

 relieve him. 



In the stirring days of 1861 the post was 

 abandoned and was not reoccupied by our 

 people until 1867, and, in 1868, there re- 

 mained of its former grandeur only a few 

 cottonwood huts with mud roofs, yet the 

 place was somewhat livelier than it had 

 been in the old days " befo' the wah," for 

 General Sheridan, with Custer's cavalry, 

 which had just polished off Black Kettle's 

 band of Cheyennes, were in bivouac close 



While waiting in an aimless, military way 

 for something to appear above the line of 

 duty, a chance presented itself. I was to 

 carry a dispatch to Fort Gibson, in the 

 Cherokee Nation, a ride of 250 miles across 

 • country. The route was along the remains 

 of a trail made 3 years before, and as the 

 country it traversed had no inhabitants of 

 whom one might ask the way, I sought 

 information from the Chief of Scouts, Jacob 

 Jones, a semi-aboriginal person of Indian- 

 mealy complexion. 



I resist the temptation to reproduce the 

 words with which he tried to make me 

 understand the devious meanderings of the 

 almost obliterated trail that would lead me 

 across the Wichita, and beyond the Cana- 

 dian to Choteau creek, where dwelt one 

 Dave Ballou, an obliging Cherokee, of 

 whom I was to obtain shelter and food 

 and a knowledge of the remainder of the 

 road. 



On the morning of December 30th, 1868, 

 off I rode on the route laid out for me by 

 Mr. Jones, escorted by one Murphy, a 

 silent soldier who obligingly fell into my 

 wake, and lent an air of dignity to the pro- 

 cession. It was late in the day when we 

 forded the Wichita and made camp beneath 

 a bluff. It had rained a good deal and no 

 dry wood could be found. No fire, no 

 coffee. We made our horses comfortable, 

 having packed a feed of oats on our sad- 

 dles, and then partook of a collation of 

 soggy bread, damp meat and cold water. 

 Murphy then suggested going to bed, and 

 at once coiled up in a buffalo robe. I sat 

 up with a cigar, and watched the river. If 



it should betray any sign of a rise, we were 

 to saddle quickly and make for the Cana- 

 dian, an inconstant stream, dry to-day, and 

 a raging flood to-morrow. But the water 

 got no higher, and while Murphy, in 

 dreams, revisited his native bogs I puffed 

 the cigar and listened to the querulous 

 cackling of a million or so of geese who, 

 notwithstanding they had retired to the bed 

 of the stream, wouldn't go to sleep. 



At 4 o'clock Murphy, who had been in- 

 duced to get up, fed the horses. Then we 

 saddled and resumed our journey. The 

 wind, which had risen about midnight, was 

 blowing a gale and the cold was so intense 

 that I shook in the saddle and I fancied I 

 could hear the chattering of Murphy's 

 teeth. But it was only the clattering of the 

 horses' hoofs on the frozen ground. It was 

 so dark that I was obliged to bend low 

 over the pommel to see the trail, which now 

 took us into a depression that looked as if 

 the surface had sunk suddenly — not a bad 

 sort of crater, for in it was good, green 

 grass, heavy timber and an ice fringed 

 stream of brightly flowing water. Things 

 were so inviting, the cold so intense, that 

 we were impelled to halt. I sat down 

 against the bluff with my back to the wind, 

 a huge pecan tree in front. It seemed warm, 

 a delightful sensation of comfort floated 

 over me, and I stretched forth my shaking 

 hands toward the cheerful fire which I fan- 

 cied was blazing at my feet. Then I seemed 

 to emerge from my dream, and things were 

 disagreeably real. Again came upon me 

 the soothing, balmy warmth of a fire, the 

 roaring of which was musical in my ears, 

 and again I came to myself, this time to 

 rise with an effort, remount my horse, and 

 get away from a spot, the hallucination of 

 which might have been fatal. Murphy was 

 asleep, of course! It took a few kicks to 

 make him sufficiently awake to understand 

 that if he didn't get up and come along, he 

 would soon freeze to death. As it was, he 

 was too benumbed to evince any feeling at 

 this rude treatment, but followed silently. 



At about noon, the trail crossed the 

 " divide " and we were now on the water- 

 shed of the Canadian, which treacherous 

 stream I was anxious to reach before dark, 

 for the volume of water which was flowing 

 that way was portentous of flood, washed- 

 out fords, and all sorts of uncomfortable 

 things. For many a weary mile, for many 

 a dreary hour, the silence was unbroken 

 save by the splash, splash of our horses* 

 hoofs, and the boom and whirr of the 

 myriads of quail that rose out of the grass 

 as we plodded along. 



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