The men left behind finally followed on.  The temperature fell below zero, and the night was one of suffering and horror.  At last they gained a point in the mountains about twenty-five miles distant from Crook’s command.

Halting in a sheltered cave, they got a little sleep and started out just in time to escape observation by a large war-party which was scouting in their direction.

At night the jaded party, more dead than alive, forded Tongue River up to their armpits.  Two were so exhausted that it was not considered advisable to permit them to plunge into the icy stream, and they were left on the bank till help could be sent to them.

Those that got across dragged themselves over the trail to Crook’s camp.  The rocks had broken their boots, and with bleeding feet and many a bullet wound they managed to get within sight of the camp, where two men of the Second Cavalry found them and brought them in.

Sibley’s men threw themselves on the ground, too exhausted to go another step.  Hot food was brought them, and they soon were strong enough to go to Camp Cloud Peak, to receive the hospitality and sympathy of their comrades.  The two men who had been left behind were brought in and cared for.

This expedition was one of the most perilous in the history of the Plains, and the fact that there were any survivors is due to the skill, coolness, and courage of the two scouts, Grouard and Pourier.

CHAPTER X

My work on the Plains brought me many friends, among them being some of the truest and staunchest that any man ever had.  You who live your lives in cities or among peaceful ways cannot always tell whether your friends are the kind who would go through fire for you.  But on the Plains one’s friends have an opportunity to prove their mettle.  And I found out that most of mine would as cheerfully risk their lives for me as they would give me a light for my pipe when I asked it.

Such a friend was old “Buffalo Chips,” who certainly deserves a place in these memoirs of mine.

One morning while I was sitting on my porch at North Platte, playing with my children, I saw a man limping on crutches from the direction of the Post hospital.  He was a middle-aged man, but had long, flowing white hair, and the most deeply-pitted face I have ever beheld.

Noticing that he seemed confused and in trouble, I sent the children out to bring him to me.  He came up haltingly, and in response to my questioning told me that he had been rejected by the hospital because he had been a Confederate soldier and it was against their rules to accept any but Union veterans.

I turned the stranger over to my sister, who prepared a meal for him while I went over to the adjutant’s office to see what could be done.  I met General Emory in the adjutant’s office, and on my promise to pay the ex-Confederate’s bills, he gave me an order admitting him to the hospital.  Soon my new protege, who said his name was Jim White, was duly installed, and receiving the treatment of which he stood in sore need.