Willard Middle School - Target Yearbook (Berkeley, CA)

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passed, but nearer to them than the rest of the Indians. Lieutenant Hard, one of the officers in charge of the scouting party, said to his companion: The next time that fellow passes I ' m going to get him. It went down the line that Lieutenant Hard, who was known as a dead shot, was going to kill the Indian on the pinto horse. When the Indian appeared around the bluff the soldiers stopped firing in his direction and waited to se what would happen. Lieutenant Hard climbed out of the slough and, dropping on one knee, took careful aim, and then slowly and deliberately pulled the trigger. Both horse and rider fell. When Lieutenant Hard had appeared above the bank the Indians concentrated their fire on him, but he rolled over the bank and into the slough to safety. Hardly pausing in their gallop, some of the braves circled around the fallen Indian, picked him up and carried him from the battlefield. Several months later Lieutenant Hard boarded a steamer bound down the Mississippi River. There were also some commissioners on board who were taking a Crow Indian chief and some prominent men of the tribe to Washington, D. C, to see about a reservation for their tribe. In the evening spent on the boat the white men and Indians would gather in the smoking room. The Indians, squatting about the room, did little conversing themselves, but with the aid of the interpreter, listened to the tales the white men told. It came to be Lieutenant Hard ' s turn and he told about the fight at Pompey ' s Pillar and of the Indian on the pinto pony. The interpreter repeated it to the Indians almost as fast as Lieutenant Hard told it. When he had finished, a fine stalwart Indian brave walked up to him and said, How. Then, with the interpreter ' s help, he told of his third ride on the pinto pony of which Lieutenant Hard had spoken. He showed the scars where the bullet had passed through both legs. In doing this it had passed through the backbone of the horse, which accounted for its fall and the ride ' s narrow escape. This is a true story, told to me by my uncle, Lieutenant Hard. IRENE FISH.

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I won ' t, replied Peggy, her fiery nature aroused again. Back and forth the battle raged for quite a while, Peggy pleading the kitten ' s cause and Miss Preston loudly declaring it a pest. Tired out, Miss Preston finally said, if you ' ll eat prunes, I ' ll let you keep it. Peggy struggled between her love for the kitten and her hatred for prunes. At last she feebly guessed she could eat prunes. Miss Preston departed wearing a victorious smile. The kitten curled up in its new mistress ' lap and went to sleep. ELEANOR WELLS. THE PINTO PONY SITUATED in a large horseshoe bend of the Yellowstone River is Pompey ' s Pillar, a rocky formation, which rises from the river bottom. On one side of the bend was a slough in what had been the old river bed. Toward the north and a little to one side rose the bad land bluffs from fifty to one hundred feet. The rest of the bend was prairie, dotted here and there with sage brush and clumps of wild grass. It was in this bend that two companies of cavalry, under the com- mand of Captain Baker, had made camp in the late spring of 1 877. It was a year after Custer ' s Last Stand, and the people in that section ot the country were afraid of Indian raids. The wagon trains were at this time bringing provisions to the many mining towns and these must be pro- tected. So the cavalry were out scouting the country. Early one morning the pickets came running into camp with word that the Indians were coming. Instantly every man in camp was astir. The horses were driven among the cottonwood trees that followed the bank inside the bend, for protection against bullets and stampede. The soldiers lay down in the slough With their guns by their side, ready for instant action. Then above the bluffs the Indians appeared, creeping from bush to boulder and firing down on the soldiers. As the fight progressed, the Indians grew bolder. To be brave is part of the Indian ' s religion and the Crow Ind ans were very brave. On their ponies they would come at full gallop down the line of solders for a half or three-quarters of a mile, yelling and waving their war bonnets and guns, then they would disappear behind the bluffs. One Indian, in particular, the white men noticed. He was a finely built brave riding a pinto pony. Twice he had

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The Battle of Wil son ' s Creek WHEN I read in my history about some fearful battle, where great numbers of brave soldiers are killed, it seems very dreadful for the time, but it is so soon forgotten. As soon as grandmother tells me about the things she actually saw, it is so much more real and exciting. When the war was raging in Missouri between the North and the South, great bands of men, not really belonging to the Southern army, but who were on the Confederate side, carried on constant Guerilla warfare. These lawless bands of men were also called Bush-whackers, by the Federalists. They were a constant source of terror and danger to all Northern sympathizers. Any family who lived m Missouri and was known to favor the anti-slavery cause was marked by them for death. A gam and again they terrorized tow ns and villages by means of frequent raids and surprises. There were many of them in Missouri and the other border states, especially on the Confederate side. The Guerillas had a curious way of signaling to their own men. All through Missouri the sumac grows wild along the roads. It is a bush with a dark leaf — the under side of the leaf is almost white. The Guerillas, as they drove along the paths, would break two branches of sumac and cross them so that the white side of the leaf would show. This was the signal that some member or band had passed by, and pointed the way to anyone following. Night after night, my grandmother says she has heard the frightful cry, or war whoop that these men would give, and the hideous sound would echo from one high hill, where some of these Guerillas would be, to another group on another hill far away. They plundered stores, stole horses, burned houses, and never hesitated to kill a Northern man on sight. My great grandfather was well known as a Northern sympathizer. Because of the training he had had in England as a doctor and surgeon, he was called repeatedly to care for the wounded. There wasn ' t a night, however, that he was safe. His life was constantly in danger. The family owned a large dog called W atch. He was the de- voted friend and playmate of all the children. One dreadful night, when the wild war whoops were continually heard, poor Watch was killed by a band of Guerillas. He ran under the house and howled all night before he died. No one could go to him because it meant certain death to do so. The very night that Watch was killed, the Guerillas drove to the house and demanded that my gr eat grandmother tell where great grand- father had gone. There had been no chance for escape, except to the attic of the house. There was a roof below one of the attic windows, so