the prisoners.  I told him they could not have them, and that in the morning I would send them to Colonel Brown, at McPherson, as was my duty.  Springer, who was a non-commissioned officer, communicated this message to the Indians, when the yelling and howling redoubled.  In a short time, Springer came in again, and said he could do nothing with the Indians, and that they were determined to have the prisoners, at the same time advising me to give them up.  I again refused, when the Indians rushed into the ranch, and, seizing the prisoners, dragged them out.  Seeing they were frenzied I made no resistance, but followed them closely, keeping concealed, however.

        They took the Sioux to an island on the Platte, below the
        ranch, and there, tying them to a tree, gathered a pile of
        wood and set it on fire.

Here follows a description of the unspeakable tortures which the unfortunate prisoners suffered, and which are too horrible to be told in these pages.

        The Sioux uttered not a complaint, but endured all their
        sufferings with that stoicism for which the Indian is so justly
        celebrated, and which belongs to no other race in the world.

Sick at heart, I crept back to the ranch and went to bed, leaving the Indians engaged in a furious scalp-dance, and whirling the bloody scalps of the Sioux over their heads, with long poles to which they had them fastened.

Next morning, when I awoke, I found the Indians wrapped in their blankets, and lying asleep all around me.  The excitement of the night had passed off, and brought its corresponding depression.  They were very docile and stupid, and it was with some difficulty I could arouse them for the duties of the day.  I asked several of them what had become of the Sioux prisoners, but could get no other answer than, “Guess him must have got away.”

I was sorely tempted to report the affair to the commanding officer at Fort McPherson, and have the Indians punished, but believing it would do more good in the end to be silent, I said nothing about it.  After all, the Omahas and Winnebagoes had treated the Sioux just as the Sioux would have treated them, had they been captured, and so, it being a matter altogether among savages, I let it rest where it belonged.

I was for a time, in 1865, on duty at Fort Cottonwood, Nebraska, as adjutant of my regiment, the First Nebraska Volunteer Cavalry, when the scarcity of officers at the post made it necessary for the commanding officer to detail me, with thirty Indian soldiers, to proceed to, and garrison Jack Morrow’s Ranch, twelve miles west of the fort, on the south side of the Platte River.  The Sioux were very hostile then, and it was an ordinary occurrence for ranches to be burned and the owners killed.

Morrow’s Ranch, unlike the little, low, adobe ranches everywhere seen,