the fastest steamboat time on record. He was an excellent pilot, and
handled his boat in those swift and dangerous waters with remarkable
dexterity.

With Richard and me at our station in the pilothouse the little steamer
went flying down-stream past islands, around bends, and over sandbars
at a rate that was exhilarating, but sometimes a little disquieting to
men who had done most of their navigating on the deck of a Western
pony. Presently, far away inland, I thought I could see horses grazing,
and reported this belief to General Miles. The general pointed out a
large tree on the bank, and asked the captain if he could land the boat
there.

"I can not only land her there; I can make her climb the tree if you
think it would be any use," returned March.

He brought the boat skillfully alongside the tree, and let it go at
that, as the general could see no particular advantage in sending the
steamboat up the tree.

Richard and I were ordered to take our horses and push out as rapidly
as possible to see if there were any Indians in the vicinity.
Meanwhile, General Miles kept his soldiers in readiness to march
instantly if we reported any work for them to do.

As we rode off, Captain March, sang out:

"Boys, if there was only a heavy dew on the grass, I could send the old
craft right along after you."

It was a false alarm, however. The objects I had seen proved to be
Indian graves, with only good Indians in them. On arriving at Glendive
Creek we found that Colonel Rice and his company of the Fifth Infantry
which had been sent on ahead by General Miles had built a good little
fort with their trowel bayonets. Colonel Rice was the inventor of this
weapon, and it proved very useful in Indian warfare. It is just as
deadly in a charge as the regular bayonet, and can also be used almost
as effectively as a shovel for digging rifle-pits and throwing up
intrenchments.

The _Far West_ was to remain at Glendive overnight. General Miles
wanted a scout to go at once with messages for General Terry, and I was
selected for the job. That night I rode seventy-five miles through the
Bad Lands of the Yellowstone. I reached General Terry's camp the next
morning, after having nearly broken my neck a dozen times or more.

Anyone who has seen that country in the daytime knows that it is not
exactly the kind of a place one would pick out for pleasure riding.
Imagine riding at night, over such a country, filled with almost every
imagi