When I arrived at Larned, I found the scouts under command of Dick Curtis, an old-time scout of whom I have spoken in these reminiscences.  Three hundred lodges of Kiowa and Comanche Indians were encamped near the fort.  These savages had not yet gone on the warpath, but they were restless and discontented.  Their leading chief and other warriors were becoming sullen and insolent.  The Post was garrisoned by only two companies of infantry and one troop of cavalry.  General Hazen, who was at the post, was endeavoring to pacify the Indians; I was appointed as his special scout.

Early one morning in August I accompanied him to Fort Zarrah, from which post he proceeded, without an escort, to Fort Harker.  Instructions were left that the escort with me should return to Larned the next day.  After he had gone I went to the sergeant in command of the squad and informed him I intended to return that afternoon.  I saddled my mule and set out.  All went well till I got about halfway between the two posts, when at Pawnee Rock I was suddenly jumped by at least forty Indians, who came rushing up, extending their hands and saying, “How?” “How?” These redskins had been hanging about Fort Larned that morning.  I saw that they had on their warpaint, and looked for trouble.

As they seemed desirous to shake hands, however, I obeyed my first friendly impulse, and held out my hand.  One of them seized it with a tight grip and jerked me violently forward.  Another grabbed my mule by the bridle.  In a few minutes I was completely surrounded.

Before I could do anything at all in my defense, they had taken my revolvers from the holsters and I received a blow on the head from a tomahawk which rendered me nearly senseless.  My gun, which was lying across the saddle, was snatched from its place.  Finally two Indians, laying hold of the bridle, started off in the direction of the Arkansas River, leading the mule, which was lashed by the other Indians who followed along after.

The whole crowd was whooping, singing, and yelling as only Indians can.  Looking toward the opposite side of the river, I saw the people of a big village moving along the bank, and made up my mind that the redmen had left the Post, and were on the warpath in dead earnest.

My captors crossed the stream with me, and as we waded through the shallow water they lashed both the mule and me.  Soon they brought me before an important-looking body of Indians, who proved to be the chiefs and principal warriors.  Among them I recognized, old Satanta and others whom I knew.  I supposed that all was over with me.

All at once Satanta asked me where I had been, and I suddenly had an inspiration.

I said I had been after a herd of cattle or “Whoa-haws” as they called them.  The Indians had been out of meat for several weeks, and a large herd of cattle which had been promised them had not arrived.