First published in a full version in the first edition of Lomax's "Cowboy Songs" in 1910, "Sioux Indians" was popularized for folkies partly by a Cartwright Bros. 78, re-released about 1965.
A rather different text was published by Robert W. Gordon in 1927 with some quite interesting information:
“The best version I have yet seen of one of the favorite old plains songs came in not long ago from Oregon. Mr. W. S. Charles, who sent it in, tells in his letter something about the text and where he obtained it:
“ ‘I have heard snatches of this old song by old timers for years, but never was able to get it in total, in any form, until I met Mother Dorcas Lorana Hambleton, an old pioneer of Auburn mining days in Eastern Oregon. Her maiden name was Elliott. Her father was wagon master of a ’48 wagon train which crossed the plains during Oregon Trail days. His name, I think, was William Elliott.
“ ‘Mother Hambleton is not sure of her own age. But she does remember, as a young girl, the hardships of that trip. This was the train from which the Sioux Indians took a young man and skinned him alive for the wanton killing of an inoffensive Sioux squaw.
“ ‘From Mother Hambleton’s information the song was composed in 1861 or 1862. A member of their wagon train wrote it after their arrival at Pocahontas, Baker County, Oregon, a small pioneer settlement, now deserted.’”
SONG OF THE IMMIGRANT TRAIL
I will sing you a song, e’en though a sad tale, Of hardships we met on the immigrant trail; When parting from kindred, our friends and our home, We westward o’er valleys and mountains did roam.
They told us of Indians who harassed the plains, The killing of drivers and burning of trains, Of people they’d slaughtered with arrows and bow, Of cruelties practiced when striking the blow.
We crossed the Missouri and joined a large train, Which crawled slowly onward o’er boundless wide plain; While rambling and travelling we ofttimes would go To hunt antelope or the wild buffalo.
By short daily marches we reached the North Platte, Made camp by its waters, a green shady flat; There circled our wagons ‘mid trees on a mound And herded our horses and oxen around.
In the midst of our labor we heard a low wail, The war-cry of Indians who followed our trail. Men sprang to their rifles in flash of an eye, - Exclaimed our bold leader, "We'll fight till we die!"
We drove in our cattle, made ready to fight. As painted red devils dashed plainly in sight. They charged on our wagons with fierce whoop and yell— At crack of our rifles six red warriors fell!
We killed their bold leader at head of his band; He died like a warrior, his bow in his hand. A moment they halted when he fell to ground; Then screeching with hatred they circled us round.
With trusty long rifles we gave them cold lead Till many Sioux warriors lay on the ground dead. They whooped and they hollered, then fled in dismay With their chieftain’s body when we won the day.
We had other combats; three brave men were slain Defending their loved ones while crossing the plain. We laid them at rest in a green shady dell — Fond mem’ries there guard them — they fought true and well!
We traveled by day, guarded camp during night, Till Oregon’s mountains looked high in their might. Now at Pocahontas beside a clear stream Our journey is ended in Land of our Dream." [sic]