The day was beautiful. The sun shone bright, the snow had melted, the air felt warm. Just at noon the head of the column topped the ridge below which lay Camp Supply. The glad firing of rifles, by the Osages, who led, announced that the camp was in sight.
Over the crest of the ridge, and down the long sunny slope into the tent-dotted valley marched as for review the victorious eight hundred. General Sheridan and his staff, in full dress, were waiting, posted on their horses where the column would pass.
First rode on their prancing ponies the Osage scouts. They and their ponies were brightly painted and fluttered with strips of red and blue, with feathers and trinkets; they had donned their gayest finery; from their spears dangled scalps—the spear of young Koom-la-Manche waving the scalp of Black Kettle. As they rode they brandished their weapons, they fired their guns, and sung wild songs of triumph. Little Beaver led. He tried to sit stiff and proud; but once he must beat his swelling chest and cry loudly: “They call us Americans. We are more. We are Osages!”
Behind rode in a line the white scouts, they also proud, but California Joe on his old mule smoking his black pipe as usual.
Then came the Indian families, gazing curiously, some of the squaws and children three on a pony, many in blankets scarlet and blue.
Then rode the general and his staff. After them marched the band playing “Garryowen.” In columns of platoons followed the troops, rank by rank, their officers in command.
Higher rose the yells and chants of the Osages; faster California Joe puffed his pipe; more stirring played the band. Weapons sparkled, the bright blankets and the Indian ornaments of silver and copper gleamed, the sabres flashed in a “present,” as rank after rank the victorious column passed in review before General Sheridan, repeatedly lifting his cap.
Not the least prominent in the ceremony were Ned and the other wounded, who felt themselves heroes all.
When the Seventh had gone into camp, here at the rendezvous again, there was a great time of congratulations and shaking of hands. That night the Osages gave a tremendous scalp dance, which lasted until morning and kept many people awake.
The Seventh went into camp about half a mile up Beaver Creek from the log stockade of Fort Supply. On the third day after, the body of Captain Louis McLane Hamilton was laid to rest under some cottonwoods on the bank of the creek. It was a solemn and tender military funeral; with muffled drums and slow march by the band, and in the ambulance a rude board casket covered with the American flag, and behind the ambulance the captain’s horse, draped with a black cloth, and bearing the empty saddle and the cavalry boots upside down. Over the grave were fired three volleys; Odell sounded “Taps.”