by Clay Fisher
“Well, no, I haven’t,” agreed the latter tentatively, warned by the others’ distant gaze to go slow.
“Well, Kelly,” said Miles, still quietly but eyes going even darker with the recalled thought, “I have.”
“Yes sir,” muttered the scout, and had sense enough to leave it there and wait.
“I saw over thirty widows there, Kelly, including Elizabeth Custer. I talked to every one of them, and I will tell you that no experience of war can equal the suffering I saw there. To see and talk to those women would have broken the heart of a Tartar. And do you know the only Sioux name we heard at Fort Lincoln, sir? Sitting Bull.” He paused, jaw tightening, muscular throat moving. “I don’t know about your information, Kelly, but mine tells me that he had the original creative idea for this massacre and that he sat upon the bluffs above the river all morning, directing its completing details in action. To me, as to those thirty-odd women at Fort Lincoln, that makes him my Indian and our number one campaign objective. Kelly, if you can make me see it any other way, I want to hear it.”
Kelly shook his head. He knew he could never make himself understood now. Miles had swallowed the Sitting Bull bait like everyone else who read the newspapers. The white press said Sitting Bull was the Sioux monster who had murdered the gallant, brave, and noble General George Armstrong Custer. You could parade Indian eyewitnesses to the contrary all fall, and it would not change the army’s opinion one whit. You could prove beyond any reasonable doubt that the real butchers were Gall, Crazy Horse, Hump, and half a dozen other Sioux and Cheyenne war chiefs. And that the only thing which had put old Tatanka up on top of that bluff while the fighting was going on was the fear that he might get hit by a stray bullet if he stayed down below. All it would get you from the military would be a sneer and the nasty frontier label of Indian-lover.
And then, in all inner honesty, even when you had advanced your best arguments, was not Sitting Bull still the primary villain that public opinion said he was? It did no good for a man to feel in his heart that killing Gall would start the Sioux disintegrating when all the real evidence pointed to Sitting Bull as the ruling leader of the warlike Hunkpapa.
“General,” he said defeatedly, “I’ll have to admit it. It was Sitting Bull’s vision that started the whole thing. Without that there would have been no Custer Massacre. I only ask that once we get into the field—and if any good chance to cut him down presents itself—you remember what I’ve said about getting Gall. I know he’s the present head of the Sioux sidewinder. Cut him off the main body, and your Hunkpapa snake won’t live past sunset. Don’t ask me to prove it, sir, for I can’t. But you asked me for my opinion, and that’s it.”
Again, Miles regarded him with that lingering, unhurried, penetrating look which was his thoughtful specialty. And, again, he gave his decisive nod when he had finished the examination.
“I will make a deal with you, Kelly.” He smiled faintly, showing his first and last trace of humor at the conference. “You find me Sitting Bull, and I will give you Gall.”
Kelly stood.
“That leaves only one small question of permission, sir.”
“Which would be?”
“May I start looking first thing tomorrow?”
Miles stood up, then. He eyed him quickly, nodded, turned away into the tent, asked curtly back over his disappearing shoulder, “What’s the matter with today, Mr. Kelly?”
The sun was less than an hour older. Kelly stood again in front of Miles’ tent waiting for Captain Randall to finish some supply business and be gone. Presently, the quartermaster departed, and Miles looked up, cocking a cold eye at him.
“Don’t tell me you’ve found him already?” he challenged, straight-faced.
Kelly could not read this man, took no chances with what sounded like good-natured sarcasm. “No sir, I was about to leave and needed a couple of things you will have to authorize for me.”
“All right, what’s first?”
“A horse. My Indian pony is done in. I’ve turned him out, and I’ll need as good as you’ve got in exchange.”
“And you shall have it, sir. How about my own Belshazzar? He is a thoroughbred but not too hot-blooded to handle smartly. He will go a mile or ten miles until he drops, without forcing. Will take swift water, can be hobbled, picketed, or stood on his reins. Will carry double or pack an injured man or any game and is absolutely gun-sound. What do you say to him, sir?”
Kelly wanted to inquire if this blue-blooded wonder could also gut a deer, sew moccasins, pitch a tepee, and boil up a mess of hump ribs, but only grinned and said, “Thanks, General,” and got on with it.
“I’ll need a packhorse too, sir.”
“Good Lord! Tell Randall. Don’t bother me about packhorses, man!”
“Yes, sir. One more thing, sir. I’ll need a friend.”
“I trust you’re serious, Kelly?”
“Never more so, General. No man should go alone into that north country right now. I want another scout to go with me, and I want a good one.”
“Agreed, agreed. Who will you have?”
“Vic Schmidt.”
“Impossible. He’s Colonel Otis’ best man.”
“And mine,” said Kelly flatly.
Miles’ head moved negatively. “Otis needs him down there at Camp Glendive. He’s been getting our supply trains through where the others couldn’t.”
“I need him too. You don’t go up against Gall and Sitting Bull with second-rate help, General.”
“All right, take Schmidt. I’ll give you a note to Otis.” His pen moved quickly and he handed the scrap of foolscap to Kelly, adding as an afterthought, “By the way, speaking of Otis and our supply trains, I didn’t show you this—” He fumbled among his papers, came up with a well-thumbed piece of ruled agency school paper, handed it across to Kelly, who took it curiously.
It was Sitting Bull’s famous note to Otis demanding to know the meaning of the wagon line from Fort Buford through Camp Glendive to the Tongue River cantonment.
I want to know what you are doing on this road. You scare all the buffalo away. I want to hunt in this place. I want you to go away from here. If you don’t, I will fight you again. I want you to leave what you have got here, and turn back from here. I am your friend.
sitting bull
I mean all the rations you have got, and some powder.
Wish you would write me as soon as you can.
Kelly handed the pitiful document back to Miles without comment.
But the latter pressed him at once. “Well, sir, what have you to say to that?”
“Just one thing, General. Sitting Bull didn’t write it.”
Miles’ eyebrows went up.
“I suppose you know who did?”
“Johnny Brughière. I recognize the hand.”
“That’s the half-breed Sioux they call Big Leggins. The one who runs with the Hunkpapa.”
“Sitting Bull’s interpreter,” amplified Kelly. “And the greatest scout on the plains.”
“So I’ve heard. I’ve asked him to come in and see me, with an eye to alienating him from the Sioux. But he hasn’t shown up. Afraid to, I suppose.”
“Yes sir, but I might be able to get him to come over to our side, General. I know what he’s afraid of. It seems to be an old law charge back in the settlements. He’s a wanted man, they say. Now if you could manage to get that charge quashed and—”
“I don’t think we need Mr. Brughière at this late date,” Miles interrupted. “Why bother with getting an amnesty for him? I hadn’t caught up with you at the time I was looking for him.”
“That’s not the idea, General. You don’t want him for the same reason you’d want me at all.”
“So? Why do I want him then, pray tell?”
“Because,” said Kelly slowly, “if getting Gall is cutting off S
itting Bull’s right arm, getting Johnny Brughière is putting out both his eyes.”
For the third and final time, Miles gave the Irish scout his intent, searching appraisal. Then he nodded abruptly.
“Go find Sitting Bull,” said Miles, “and bring me his eyes.”
Kelly and Vic Schmidt were gone some five weeks. They were back in Miles’ mouth-of-the-Tongue cantonment in early October, having covered all the country north of the Yellowstone from Camp Glendive to Milk River to Missouri River to Fort Peck to Big Dry Creek Fork and back down the latter’s buffalo trail to Camp Glendive again. In all the wary miles of their three-hundred-mile compass-arc of the closed Sioux country north of the Tongue cantonment, they saw not a single hostile Hunkpapa, Oglala, Miniconjou, Sans Arc, or Cheyenne.
They reported their failure to Miles, who interrogated them exhaustively but without result and who then put Kelly to work on his famed filling-in of the blank spaces on the military maps north of the Yellowstone and south of Fort Peck. In this tedious manner, a week or ten days went by, Miles betimes working around the clock outfitting and organizing his pursuit column against the inevitable break in the hostile silence which he continued to predict would occur by mid-month at the very latest.
History made a superior prophet of him by a scant six hours. It was nearing sunset of October 15 when the courier came in from Camp Glendive.
The news was nothing less than galvanic under the tensely anticipatory circumstances.
A strong force of Sioux, vanguarding a very large village on the move, had attacked one of Otis’ supply trains north of the river, between Glendive and the Tongue. The clash had occurred that same morning. Identifications had been unquestionable. Gall, Low Neck, and Pretty Bear had led the raiding outriders. The big mixed village which followed them was predominantly Hunkpapa, was apparently moving northeast to hunt buffalo on the Big Dry and was under the leadership of Sitting Bull.
These were the Indians. This was the camp. The big camp. The one Miles had been waiting for.
In the frosty dawn of October 17, 1876, he crossed the Yellowstone with Luther Kelly and four picked scouts far out front and 394 riflemen, a long train of winter-rigged supply wagons and an artillery piece, trailing behind.
On October 19 Kelly found the Hunkpapa village.
On the twentieth, while holding it under surveillance to make dead certain of its identity, he had the rare luck to see Johnny Brughière come in from the east, spend an hour in Sitting Bull’s big black lodge, come out, mount up, and ride back in the direction from which he had come. Moving back and around the camp in a big circle, he lay up on the trail for Brughière and nailed him, open-mouthed. With the rifle snouts of his four companions keeping the surprised half-breed honest, Kelly took him off a way and talked to him like a Pennsylvania Dutch uncle. Albeit, one who could speak very fluent Sioux.
At first the big breed was wild-eyed with suspicion, fear, and dislike. But Kelly had a rare way with red men, one which seemed to work as well with half-red men. Big Leggins began to talk. Yes, Gall still had the Crow girl. Yes, she was all right. Not too well, mind you, but all right. There had been some trouble bearing the baby. It had been a boy, very big in the shoulders, like Kelly himself, and it had come breech-to. But it had lived, and the Absaroka squaw would, too. Yes, Gall treated her fine. Even with great love. Everybody talked about how he had lost his head over the Kangi Wicasi snip.
When he had gotten what he could of personal information out of Sitting Bull’s big interpreter, he put Miles’ offer of amnesty before him, urging him strongly to accept it and come over to the Pony Soldier side.
Brughière said he would think about it, looking away evasively when he said it.
Kelly was satisfied. He was sure he had seen the signs of hesitation and doubt, yes, and of fear, in the renowned half-breed’s face. Shortly, the latter confirmed the suspicion.
Johnny Brughière had decided. He would come in, he said, but first he would have one more try at convincing Sitting Bull to do likewise. Lone Wolf would surely understand that. He must know that Tatanka had given Johnny sanctuary and had been like a father to him. Kelly had heard the story and nodded his agreement to and understanding of the half-breed’s loyalty. Brughière went on quickly.
He himself knew the true strength of the white man, he assured Kelly. He had lived in the eastern settlements. He realized that the numbers of the Wasicun were as the leaves of all the aspens, sycamores, willows, and cottonwoods along all the waterways in all the hunting lands of his red half-brothers. Sitting Bull knew that, too. But he would not believe that Bear Coat would be any different, when it came to the last minute, than Three Stars or Red Nose or Star. He would not believe that Miles meant to kill him, where Crook and Gibbon and Terry had only chased him. Johnny would try once more to make him see that; to make him see the truth. After that, he promised he would come and talk to Miles.
Kelly left the matter there, freeing Brughière after enjoining him to impress upon Sitting Bull the fact that Miles was already too close for the village tepees to be taken down and moved away again. If Tatanka would not now take this last chance to talk, there would be no other. Once Bear Coat started to fight, he would not stop.
Brughière said all the Sioux knew that and that he would give Sitting Bull the warning exactly as Lone Wolf had said it. They shook hands and parted at four p.m.
Kelly reported in to Miles at eight o’clock that night. The following morning, October 21, no word having come from Sitting Bull, the advance upon the Hunkpapa village was begun.
36
Brughière must have been watching the column’s bivouac, for no sooner had Miles begun to move his troops out of it than the half-breed appeared. With him were two agency Sioux bearing a white flag of truce. Sitting Bull, it appeared, wanted to talk after all.
Kelly, who had been riding with Miles, saw through the situation and so informed the latter. “They’ve been watching us all night, General, waiting to see if you really meant to come after them. Be very careful talking to this Brughière. He is quite intelligent and may have had others with him who have already been sent to warn Sitting Bull while Big Leggins delays us. We have about ten miles to the village.”
“All right, Kelly. Come along. Let’s see what they want.”
Miles, Kelly, Captain Snyder, and Captain Frank Baldwin, Miles’ principal subordinates and prime camp favorites, rode forward. What the Sioux wanted was soon enough discovered. Sitting Bull wanted to talk to Bear Coat. He asked Bear Coat to come and see him right away. He would wait for him. He hoped Bear Coat would give him an answer as quickly as he could. He would appreciate it, as his warriors were nervous and might make trouble if held too long.
Miles looked at Brughière a long hard moment, then turned to Kelly. “Does this sound straight to you?”
“Yes, sir. It may be a bluff about the warriors being nervous, but I doubt it. They get pretty hard to handle when any sizable body of troops is upwind of them.” Miles nodded briefly, turned back to Brughière.
“All right, you tell Sitting Bull I will not come to see him. If he wants to talk, he must come to see me. I am going to continue my march right away. Is that clear? Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yes,” said Brughière. “I will tell him. He will come. We will meet you in the trail ahead.”
He wheeled his horse to go, but Miles’ imperious voice checked him. “Brughière—”
“Yes.”
“Kelly told you of my offer?”
“Yes.”
“Well—?”
“I am still thinking about it.” The half-breed paused as he saw the angry lightning flicker in the white officer’s eyes. “But I am thinking very hard about it,” he added hastily.
Kelly grinned. Miles saw the smile and relaxed a little. But not much. Or for long.
“I’ll give you twenty-four hours to make up you
r mind,” he said to Brughière. “If we don’t have your answer by this time tomorrow, you may consider yourself a hostile.”
The half-breed bobbed his head but did not reply. He and his two companions were out of sight in five minutes. Miles told Snyder and Baldwin to keep their commands close up but not moving over the regulation three-mile pace. The order was superfluous. The thin blue line of troops had no more than begun to snake into motion than the two agency Sioux were back with the flag of truce but without Johnny Brughière. This time they had a concrete proposal, making it clear that the crafty Sitting Bull had foreseen all contingencies.
The Hunkpapa leader would meet with Miles between their commands. Each would bring six companions; an officer and five men for Miles, a chief and five warriors for Sitting Bull. What did Bear Coat say to that? Was he afraid, or would he come?
Kelly saw the danger in the proposition, but Miles would not listen to his suspicions of a trap. The officer of course saw the risk involved but belonged to the school of white thought which believed that “face” was everything in treating with the savages. Kelly argued briefly that face with a man like Gall was indeed everything and with a Siouan Machiavelli like Sitting Bull precisely nothing. Miles would not have it that way. Kelly thereupon suggested the only insurance which came to mind. Would the General permit him to be one of his five men?
“Why not?” agreed Miles, not displeased with the idea. “After all, he has his interpreter. Please ride back and tell Lieutenant Bailey to pick his four best riflemen and mount them up.” He turned away, calling up his first sergeant. “Meyers, please inform Captain Snyder that Lieutenant Bailey and myself are going forward to meet with the Sioux. He and Captain Baldwin are to retire upon the camp, secure it, and be ready for trouble.” The noncom saluted, following Kelly down the halted line. The little truce group was formed up and ready in five minutes. Kelly waved to the waiting agency Indians in guttural Sioux. “Hookahey, tahunsa. Hurry up now, cousins. Get out of here fast. Go tell Tatanka we will meet him as he has suggested. And tell him we will then see who is afraid and who is not afraid.”