ad of the Big Horn
River, in a country that was as nearly inaccessible as any of the
Western fastnesses. By making rapid marches we reached Crook's camp on
Goose Creek about the third of August.

At this camp I met many of my old friends, among them being Colonel
Royal, who had just received his promotion to a lieutenant-colonelcy.
Royal introduced me to General Crook, whom I had never met before, but
with whose reputation as an Indian fighter I was of course familiar, as
was everybody in the West. The general's chief guide was Frank Grouard,
a half-breed, who had lived six years with Sitting Bull himself, and
who was thoroughly familiar with the Sioux and their country.

After one day in camp the whole command pulled out for Tongue River,
leaving the wagons behind. Our supplies were carried by a big
pack-train. Down the Tongue we marched for two days of hard going,
thence westerly to the Rosebud River. Here we struck the main Indian
trail leading down-stream. From the size of this trail, which was not
more than four days old, we estimated that at least seven thousand
Indians, one of the biggest Indian armies ever gathered together, must
have gone that way. It was here that we were overtaken by Captain Jack
Crawford, widely known East and West as "The Poet Scout." Crawford had
just heard of the Custer massacre, and had written a very creditable
poem upon receipt of the news. His pen was always ready, and he made
many epics of the West, many of which are still popular throughout the
country.

Jack was a tenderfoot at that time, having lately come to that country.
But he had abundant pluck and courage. He had just brought dispatches
to Crook from Fort Fetterman, riding more than three hundred miles
through a country literally alive with hostile Indians. These
dispatches notified Crook that General Terry was to operate with a
large command south of the Yellowstone, and that the two commands would
probably consolidate somewhere on the Rosebud. On learning that I was
with Crook, Crawford at once hunted me up, and gave me a letter from
General Sheridan, announcing his appointment as a scout. He also
informed me that he had brought me a present from General Jones, of
Cheyenne.

"What kind of a present?" I inquired, seeing no indication of any
package about Jack.

"A bottle of whisky!" he almost shouted.

I clapped my hand over his mouth. News that whisky was in the camp was
likely to cause a raid by a large number of v