the natives of New Mexico, that the governor of that
province offered a reward of five hundred dollars for him alive or dead,
but fear of the Cheyennes was so prevalent that his capture was never
even attempted.

During Sheridan's memorable winter campaign against the allied tribes
in 1868-69, the old man, for he was then about sixty, was my guide and
interpreter. He shared my tent and mess, a most welcome addition to the
few who sat at my table, and beguiled many a weary hour at night, after
our tedious marches through the apparently interminable sand dunes and
barren stretches of our monotonous route, with his tales of that period,
more than half a century ago, when our mid-continent region was as
little known as the topography of the planet Mars.

At the close of December, 1868, a few weeks after the battle of the
Washita, I was camping with my command on the bank of that historic
stream in the Indian Territory, waiting with an immense wagon-train of
supplies for the arrival of General Custer's command, the famous Seventh
Cavalry, and also the Nineteenth Kansas, which were supposed to be lost,
or wandering aimlessly somewhere in the region south of us.

I had been ordered to that point by General Sheridan, with instructions
to keep fires constantly burning on three or four of the highest peaks
in the vicinity of our camp, until the lost troops should be guided to
the spot by our signals. These signals were veritable pillars of fire
by night and pillars of cloud by day; for there was an abundance of wood
and hundreds of men ready to feed the hungry flames.

It was more than two weeks before General Custer and his famished
troopers began to straggle in. During that period of anxious waiting
we lived almost exclusively on wild turkey, and longed for nature's
meat--the buffalo; but there were none of the shaggy beasts at that time
in the vicinity, so we had to content ourselves with the birds, of which
we became heartily tired.

For several days after our arrival on the creek, the men had been urging
Uncle John to tell them another story of his early adventures; but the
old trapper was in one of his silent moods--he frequently had them--and
could not be persuaded to emerge from his shell of reticence despite
their most earnest entreaties. I knew it would be of no use for me
to press him. I could, of course, order him to any duty, and he would
promptly obey; but his tongue, like the hand of Douglas, was his own. I
kn