ISO 
POREST AND STREAM. 
A Buffalo Hunt with the Comanches 
(Concluded from page 111.) 
There was no talk held to-night; we put in the first 
part of the night in eating, while the squaws were kept 
busy cooking for us, and no one cared just now where 
the Happy Hunting Grounds were or whether they were 
anywhere at all or not. 
We remained in this camp the next day, and about the 
middle of the forenoon a Cheyenne rode across the river 
and up to camp, but stopped at the edge of it and sat 
there on his pony. Our chief came out and began to use 
the sign language to question him. No two tribes here 
use the same language, but every Indian from Hudson's 
Bay to the Rio Grande can speak in the sign language. 
The chief led the way to hrs lodge, then stepping outside 
of it said to his squaw, "Feed this Cheyenne. Give him 
bread and meat for his journey, then let him go." Then 
the chief walked away. 
The Cheyenne now got ofif his pony, took off his bow 
and arms, laid them on the ground, then taking ofif his 
belt and pistol laid them down also ; then opening a 
coat he was wearing, held it so that I could see he had 
no more arms on him. "Bueno," I told him, and pointed 
to the lodge, and he entered and the squaw fed him. 
Had this been a friendly Indian, the chief and I, who 
was his guest, would have gone in now and sat down 
to eat; but he would not eat with a Cheyenne, nor want 
me to eat Avith him, either. Still he would not let this 
Cheyenne leave his camp hungry. 
When the Cheyenne had eaten, he mounted his pony 
and rode slowly out of camp, and when passing me 
stopped, and seeing my Comanche feathers, which I 
always wore tied to my button-hole where the dude 
wears his flowers, pointed to them and asked, "You 
Comanche ?" 
"Yes," I told him, "I am a Comanche," and was about 
to give him our usual information about the Cheyennes 
being dogs, when I looked in his face and saw that he 
was either sick or in trouble; so I omitted the dog part 
of the story to-day, and was glad that I did so after- 
ward. Going intO' the lodge now, I asked: "What is 
wrong with the Cheyenne, my sister?" 
"His heart is sick," she told me. "His squaw has died 
in camp* and now he is going home." 
"Oh, well, he is a Cheyenne; he can get another squaw 
for three or four ponies; anyone can; I could." 
^ /"Yes, but my brother would not want a Cheyenne 
squaw, would he ?" 
"Oh, I don't know. The Cheyennes are dogs, but their 
squaws can do much work. I have seen them." - 
We moved next day, and kept on for several days, go- 
ing about fifteen miles a day. The Cheyennes and 
Arapahoes had been burning the grass behind them and 
ahead of us. They had two objects in doing this: one 
was to give the new grass a chance to grow, the other to 
keep our ponies from getting it. I meant to stop, it. 
One morning just after we had left camp, I and the 
boys, who were as usual away ahead, saw a party of 
Cheyennes setting the prairie on fire, and I called to my 
boys to circle them. The boys started off, giving their 
Comanche yell. It resembles nothing so much as it does 
a pack of coyotes yelping. I could at that time give it 
as true as a Comanche. The Cheyennes took the alarm, 
and mounting their ponies started west, only to .run into 
a party of men the chief was bringing here to reinforce 
me. Then the Cheyennes appealed to me next. 
"Tell them by signs to put out that fire," I told our 
chief. 
"I speak English," a young Cheyenne said, "I have 
been to the school." The Carlisle Indian school he 
■ meant. 
"Yes, and much good the school seems to have done 
you. Well, tell your men to put that fire out, then come 
to me or I'll shoot." 
They took off their blankets, and after hard work beat 
it out, then came to me. 
"Now," I told this Indian who had been to the school, 
"the next time a Cheyenne starts a fire here I'll shoot 
that Cheyenne. I say it." 
"The big chief with the crooked finger [General Mac- 
• kenzie] won't let you shoot us," the boy told me. 
"He is not here ; I am, and I'll shoot you first then tell 
him about it afterward. I am his little chief; he told 
me to watch you bad Indians, and I'll tell him that the 
Cheyennes burn the grass so that' the Comanche pony 
can't live. Now go ; but start no more fires, remember." 
No more fires were started after this, either by them 
, or others. 
We had not had any rain for a long time and' needed 
some badly. The medicine man is supposed to bring 
rain, or anything else, as wanted. I told ours to get us 
some now, but he said he would have to wait— his medi- 
cine was not good just now; he would get us that rain 
i^oco tempo — after a while. 
"We don't want it poco tempo, we need it now," I told 
him. "You bring that rain or I will." If my medicine 
was good I might bring it— he did not care. "I'll bring 
it, then," I told him. I was playing him for a sure 
thing now. He saw no signs of rain, so his medicine 
was no good. Mine was. I had caught a dose of the 
rheumatism while lying out in the mud in 1862, when 
McClellan was trying to take Richmond, and had had it 
ever since, and have it yet ; and always before a rain for 
^ <}ay or two if I were gut in the open air mv sTOS 
and legs would tell me the rain was coming. They told 
me so no;W. 
We were camped at the foot of a rather high mountain 
that I had tried to climb when here several years ago, 
but I had been stopped when half way up by a wall of 
rock. I afterward saw a place where I might have gone 
up the whole way, but had not time then to try; but I 
had the time now. This afternoon, taking the boys, I 
tried to climb the mountain again, and got up on , it this 
time. While up here I could see at least sixty miles to 
the southeast, and saw a rain cloud away off there so 
far off that the boys did not notice, it. "I'll bring the rain 
now," I told the boys. "Sit here in a circle, cover your 
heads and don't look." 
- They squatted down in a circle and those of them who 
had on blankets pulled them over their heads ; a few who 
wore coats poked their heads under other boys' blankets. 
Their heads were covered, but I knew they were watch- 
ing me closely. ' Stepping into the middle of the circle, 
I took off my pistols, laid them down, then laid my hat 
on top of them, then taking my note-book scribbled a 
page of it, then laying it at my feet, open at the page 
I had written on, I faced to the east and repeated all the 
Latin phrases I could think of just now, commencing 
with Pax Vobiscum and winding up with In Hoc Signa 
l^iiices. Then tearing out the page I had written on, I 
struck a match and burned the paper. 
"Come now," I said, "let us go. The medicine is good, 
the rain comes. You see it?" They saw it now. 
Hurrying down tO' camp I had the squaws cover their 
packs; then finding that the chief was away, I sent out 
men and boys to round up the pony herd and hold it. 
In a short time the rain came in torrents, accornpanied 
by thunder and lightning and it kept up for an hour. 
The chief came in while it was raining, and he was wet 
through. 
"I did not know you were out, chief," I told him, "or else 
I should not have made it rain just now." 
"It is good," he said, "I don't care for a wetting. My 
ponies need rain." 
The boys told their fathers that I had brought the 
rain; they had seen me make the medicine up on the 
mountain. I had talked to the Great Spirit in a language 
that they could not understand ; it was neither Americana 
nor Comanche. 
They had an idea that I could do anything. One day 
a man brought me two old pistols that had been picked 
up somewhere; one was a Colt's, the other a Remington; 
one had lost its cylinder and mainspring; the other 
needed a hammer and a few other parts. He wanted me 
to make him one good pistol out of the two. Had they 
both been of the same make I could have done it, as then 
all parts would be interchangeable; but it would take a 
better mechanic than I to make anything but scrap iron 
out of these. I had to explain, though, why I could not 
do it. 
We got back into the Indian Territory long after the 
first of February. I had no almanac now and had to 
guess at the time ; and at last, one evening late in March, 
I landed the band in the camp we had left over six 
months ago. , : 
I got ready to leave next day, and while I was bidding 
them good-by, the chief came in from the herd leading 
mv white pony, and handing his lariat to me said, "Take 
him." 
"I will," I told him; "but you must keep him for me. 
Let him run in your herd until I come again, and let the 
boys ride him." ,/ 
"No Comanche shall ride him. He is yours, but I will 
watch him closely." 
He never would allow a bOy to mount him. I rode him 
the next winter, then left him there; and the last time 
I ever saw this band in 1881 the pony still ran with the 
herd. He had never had a saddle on him since the win- 
ter of 1879, when I rode him the last time myself and 
helped the chief to kill his and my last buffalo. He prob- 
ably ran loose this way until he died of old age. 
. When I got to the agency I reported my band present; 
then taking my horse to the stable turned him out a big 
feed of corn, the first he had seen in months, and then 
going to the dining room got my own dinner. 
The agent was anxious to know if we had got many 
robes. 
"All we could carry home," I told him. Then I said 
to myself, "Enough to pay your bill and a few more be- 
sides. I have a notion to audit that bill of the chief's 
and see if I can't cut it down a little for him." I did 
that the next winter, though, and after I had overhauled 
the chief's account, this agent suddenly discovered that 
the chief only owed him $100 instead of twice that 
amount, as it appeared here on his books. This was a 
mistake of his clerk, the agent explained. His clerk kept 
books by doiible entry, I suppose. This agent was not 
sent out here to conduct a trading business with Indians, 
but to look after their moral and temporal welfare. The 
only time I ever knew him to concern himself about their 
moral welfare would be when he saw some of us talking 
to a squaw. 
My horse had lost all his shoes months ago, and I 
meant to shoe him here, so I asked for an order on the 
blacksmith. He was sorry, but his blacksmith had left 
him. 
"Well, he did not take the shop with him, did he?" 
"Oh, no, but I have no one who can use it." 
: /'I can, then; \ always ghof my o\yn horsp; j^Il ^ \|r^t 
is a set of shoes and the use of the shop." 
Oh, I could have that and shoe the horse and mule 
also. I shoed the horse, but let the mule run barefooted. 
I had not forgiven him for the trick he had played on 
me when he and I were hunting turkeys. When I got 
home I had to make my report to General Mackenzie, 
He wanted to know how the Indians had treated me. 
"As one of themselves, sir." 
"I sent you alone as an experiment." 
"I am ready to repeat it with those Indians, sir, at any 
time." 
"Well, I shall send you again next winter if we are 
still here." 
I had been out six months on eighteen days' rations, 
and thought this a good time now to try and get pay 
for the rations I had not got. I should not have men- 
tioned it at all, as there was an order then forbiddiiig 
the payment of back rations in kind, even much less in 
money; but the General might get them for me; they 
would come to about $50. 
"I am going to try and get the money," he told me, 
"you should have it." He did try hard, but did not get 
it. The paymaster had been around twice since I had| 
been out and was about due again. I went to our firsttj 
lieutenant and he handed me two months' pay he hadl 
drawn for me, $33.75 ; I got $18 a month, veteran pay J 
a recruit got $13 then. On my going next to the captain 
he turned me over another two months' pay that he hai 
drawn for me; and the paymaster came in a few da^ 
and paid me two months more. 
I took the Comanches out again the following wintel 
and we hunted this year up in the Wolf Creek country 
doing as well as usual. This was the last year that In: 
dians had a separate escort. The_ following two year 
they were sent out without one, while our troop watche< 
them from a central camp. And now the buffalo wer 
done. The last one had been killed off. The last gen 
eral hunt had been made in the winter of 1878. Tha 
winter the Indians came near starving; we had to fee( 
some of them on our horses' corn; they could not ge 
buffalo. 
In the winter of 1879 I got a pass and going dowi 
from Fort Reno, where we were then stationed, I gd 
the old chief and a few of his boys out on a hunt o 
our own, and here we shot our last buffalo. 
It was just as well, perhaps, that the buffalo wer 
killed off; for while there were any we could not kee; 
Indians on the reservation; they knew that there wa 
plenty of meat on the plains, and when rations got shor 
they went out to get it. Then we would have a sun: 
mer's job driving them in and disarming them. ' 
But soon after the buffalo were all gone we left tha 
country also and went to fight Indians over in Arizonj 
I had no compunctions about shooting Apaches, but 
should have hated to have to fire on a Comanche. 
Cabia Blanco. 
Camp Medicine. 
1/, 
\ 
The coinments on this subject in Forest and Strea 
have been of value as well as interest. May I add m; 
mite? • _ _ 
Did you ever notice how awkward one always is wit 
his hands the first two or three days on a trip in thei 
woods. Fingers seem to get in the way of every ax| 
knife, fire, splinter or thorn encountered, and the result isi 
a pair of hands more or less damaged. Adhesive plaster 
is found useful, but I have found a compound made asi 
follows most useful and comforting: Equal parts by 
weight of Japan wax, mutton tallow and vaseline, melted 
together. While warm add half as much glycerin. Fil |, 
a metal primer box with this, and at night rub it wel| 
into the hands. It is neither sticky nor unpleasant, and 
will cure damaged hands or chapped lips very quicklyi 
I have never tried to do so, but if ra\v linseed oil wilf, 
mix readily with this compound, it will be found ad-' 
vantageous. Rubbing it alone on the hands is a goof' 
plan; but while it heals quickly, all surplus must bi 
rubbed off or it will ruin any fabric with which it come 
into contact, and can never be removed in any ordinarj 
way. 
Tincture grindelia should never be omitted, as it is i [ 
rapid and certain cure for ivy poison, and will alleviate ; 
the suffering induced by the bites of chiggers, sand flea; 
and mosquitoes. I consider it the most valuable item ir 
one's ditty box for summer trips. A three-ounce bottU 
of equal parts linseed oil and lime water is worth it.' 
weight in gold for sunburn and for ordinary burns a: 
well. An ounce bottle of chloroform will surely drivt 
chiggers and ticks away. Lacking this, use grain 01, 
wood alcohol. Either one must be applied locally, fo! ' 
these pests are not removed by ordinary means. A tin] 
tin box of mercurial ointment will prevent rust in firearrr 
barrels in which nitro powders are shot if the barrel i; 
cleaned thoroughly before applying the ointment on J 
cloth patch. In places where sand fleas and ticks ar< 
bad, it will prove the right thing for the occasion, thougl 
not pleasant to apply to one's person. Shellac or spa 
varnish will keep a cut closed if covered with a bit 0 
muslin. A reserve supply of matches, the heads of whicl 
have been dipped in shellac and dried, should be kep 
handy in a vaseline bottle. These are "good medicine' 
when everything jg wet. And don't forget a tiny bottl 
of Sun cholera ctjre. Jt may gave your life. 
