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and the dainty top boots (they and their spurs tipped the beam at less than 14 ounces when made) cost money that I could ill afford; but when even my general, Emory, said, "It's your duty, sir, to ride for the regiment,” the matter was settled. The ninth of April was a gorgeous day. The crowd was big and the ladies' stand was filled as I never saw it before or since. I had had just three weeks in which to train-rising each morning at 3:30, walking briskly the six miles out to the track, mounting and riding two or three thoroughbreds, practising starts, etc., and training down to a weight a good five-year-old racer would not find too burdensome for the mile and eighty yards prescribed. The race was a beauty, and I won it against my belief, for both the Kentucky filly, Rapidita, and General Buford's beautiful Kentucky four-year-old, Nathan Oaks, had beaten my Natchez-bred Templo before and beat him after our contest. But what made that event something more than a mere episode in my life was the fact that two New Orleans girls were brave enough to wear a Yankee officer's colors that day. There were many who appeared in the gorgeous hues of Crenneville's and Rosenlecher's "casaques," and not a few were out in Stuart's cerise and blue, as well as a dozen in the green of the Emerald Isle; but it was too soon after the war, and Columbia's colors (my college before West Point) of bright blue and white, were worn, as I say, by only two.

The dainty, gold-mounted prize whip was presented by General Hebert immediately after we dismounted, and in less than five minutes thereafter it was laid in the lap of one of those two-the only daughter of old Captain Louis S. Yorke, of Carroll Parish, La., a famous sailor in his day-and within another year it had come back to me, with its new owner. It is here in Milwaukee now-so is the lady. We were married in late November, '72, and a year or so thereafter I had to leave her and our baby

daughter at the old plantation, all because the Apache were raising the mischief in Arizona. My troop was in the thick of the fighting, and I forsook staff duty in New Orleans; hurried over by way of San Francisco, then the quickest way, and from that time on it was Indian campaigning or Indian fighting for five memorable years.

There was service that called for everything a soldier had to give. In that warfare, whether officer or man, he had nothing to gain and everything to lose. There were no honors, no rewards, and in the actual fighting we had to win or die, mercifully if killed outright, by slow and fiendish torture if taken alive. I have written very much on this subject, and will not weary the reader with details. In command of thirty-five troopers and a pack train of hardy little Mexican mules, with a dozen Indian scouts, our young officers were sent into the mountains after the renegade Tonto Apache, and I had three or four lively brushes with them, in which we came out ahead, for my men were veterans by the time I reached them, and I eagerly sought and took the advice of the senior sergeants until sure of the ground myself.

By the autumn of '74 I felt quite at home in northeastern Arizona, and when one afternoon messengers came riding in to Camp Verde, with the news that a band of Tontos had driven off a herd of beef cattle from near the Agency, twenty miles north, I was glad to receive the orders of the post commander to take one lieutenant and thirty men, all he could spare, follow the trail, get the cattle and punish the Tontos. We started that evening, groping through the cañons up into the Black Mesa, hiding by day and trailing by night, and on the fourth evening, away up at Snow Lake, recovered the herd, after a brisk little skirmish, and the next day fought it out with the Tontos, away up in Sunset Pass.

This proved to be my last fight in Arizona, for one arrow nearly ripped out the left eye, and a bullet smashed the saber arm close to the shoulder. That is why baseball, boxing, rowing, and the sports I delighted in came to an end, and why even golf and tennis have proved impossible. For eight long years that was an open suppurating wound, discharging fragments of bone and proving a severe drag upon the general system; yet in spite of it, I managed to go all through our greatest Indian campaign, that with the Sioux and Cheyenne in 1876, in which Custer and so many of the Seventh Cavalry lost their lives, and even to be very active, for I had command of the advance guard the morning we surprised the Southern Cheyenne, near the War Bonnet Creek, close to the Wyoming, Nebraska, and South Dakota line, on the seventeenth of July. This was the fight in which Bill Cody, our chief scout, killed the young chief Yellow Hand, and we had to do some sharp riding and charging to save him from the vengeful dash of the chief's enraged followers. We had just got the news of the great Indian victory over Custer's command, and the Indians were in their glory. They fought with superb skill and confidence at first, but it ended in a general rout and stampede back to the shelter of the Agency, our seven troops (companies) close at their heels.

Two weeks later we marched clear to the Big Horn Mountains and reinforced General Crook, who had found the enemy far too numerous on the seventeenth of June. Later still we pursued to the Yellowstone and east to the Little Missouri, where our horses began to starve, and then came our turn, for the Indians-Sitting Bull's entire array— headed south toward the Black Hills and the unguarded settlements, and Crook led us, ragged and starving, after them. We had to eat our horses, three a day to each battalion or squadron, until we pounced on an outlying camp, with a big herd of fat ponies, near Slim Buttes, Sep

tember 9, and fought all Crazy Horse's band and many of Sitting Bull's people, but had no more to eat our poor scarecrows. Fat, grass-fed Indian pony isn't half bad when men are hungry, as we were, without a hardtack or a slice of bacon left in the entire command.

At the close of that campaign General Merritt made me regimental adjutant, and as such I rode with him through the Nez Percé war the next year; that was as joyous as the other had been exhausting, for we had abundant supplies and gorgeous weather and marched through a most picturesque and beautiful country. But in '78 the surgeons said it was useless to try to keep up the fight. I could never pass the physical examination for promotion, could never swing a regulation saber again. The War Department was most kind and let me hang on until I reached my captaincy, and then placed me on the retired list for "disability from wounds in line of duty." The next year I was back in Wisconsin and its University took me in as professor of military science and tactics.

(To be continued)



Thirty years ago last August died a man to whom Wisconsin owes much, yet of whom many of its sons and daughters have never heard. None the less, with the passing of the generation to which he belonged his fame among scholars has grown clearer and his benefactions are more appreciated than they were during the half century of his residence in Wisconsin. Lyman Copeland Draper, the secretary of the State Historical Society from 1854 to 1886, was a singularly quiet man, almost a recluse in habit, modest and unpretentious in manner, with no capacity for selfadvertisement, but with unmeasured ability for hard work, and a self-sacrificing determination to render service both to the past and to posterity.

Wisconsin was fortunate in securing him to reorganize the Historical Society, to become the founder of its fame, and the first architect of its great library. "The whole Society," wrote Judge Walker of Detroit fifty years ago, "is a monument to him." Like Sir Christopher Wren in the Cathedral of St. Paul, we may declare of Dr. Draper"If you wish a memorial of him, look around you."

It is not with the purpose of enlarging his fame that this account is written; it is with the desire of unfolding to the newer generation the elements of his character and the nature of his services, that we push back the curtain of memory and look deeply into those distant days when the State Historical Society of Wisconsin was a vision and a hope, and its success a problem to be solved. The fulfillment into which we of the present enter is a complex of many forces, of unselfish effort and communal interest

1 Address delivered at the sixty-ninth annual meeting of the Society, Oct. 20, 1921.

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