He had no choice but to yield to the overpowering desire for her that suddenly engulfed him. It was dark in the thicket but the starlight sprinkled enough light to catch tantalizing glimpses of her firm, rounded breast as she lay back upon the outspread robe. She shivered slightly when his hand sought the smooth curve of her hips. As quickly as he could, he slipped out of his buckskins and pulled his robe over the two of them, making a warm tent for them. At first he was overanxious, fumbling to feel her breasts and thighs and in between her thighs, such was his inexperience. “Wait,” she calmed him and guided his entry into her, slowly and tenderly, letting him feel the warmth of her body, loving him patiently until he could hold himself no longer. Then she rose to his passionate thrusts and met his with her own and they became one.
When his passion was spent, he lay beside her and let the natural urge to sleep take him. Before she slept, she gazed at him for a long while and smiled to herself. My mighty warrior, she thought. Now he looks more like a little boy. She was pleased. She did not have to be told that this was his first time, just as it was hers.
* * *
A little before sunrise, a light snow began to fall. Tom pulled his hat down to keep the flakes from landing on his chin. Bored and tired of waiting and, at the same time, apprehensive about the attack that would be ordered at dawn, he looked around him at his men. Silent now, they awaited the order to attack. A few of them, most of the older veterans, had managed to catch a few minutes’ sleep and they were already covered by a thin blanket of new-fallen snow. They look like graves, he thought.
Restless, he pulled his Spencer carbine from its boot and checked it for at least the third time before slipping it back in the saddle boot. His assignment was to maintain the left flank of the assault, closing on the south side of the sleeping village, making sure there was no escape downriver. Custer had issued orders to kill all hostiles. He did not differentiate between male and female or, for that matter, adult and child. Tom was not comfortable with this. He thought of himself as a good soldier and a good soldier follows orders. But he could not see any threat coming from women and children. His was not necessarily a popular viewpoint so he kept his thoughts to himself. Still, he wished that the fighting took place on the open field of combat, not in the villages. Suddenly he shook his head as if to shake such thoughts from his mind. Orders are orders, he thought. Thinking is for the high brass.
First light in the eastern sky brought a messenger from Custer running down the line of stamping horses, their breath sending smoky clouds from their nostrils. The messenger found Tom and informed him that the colonel wished for him to arouse his troops and prepare to mount. The predawn stillness was broken by the sounds of groaning leather as the men stepped up into the saddle. Here and there a horse tried to shy away from its rider, its stamping hooves muffled by the snow, followed by the low sound of cursing from the rider. “Quiet!” someone whispered. A horse snorted and pranced as a trooper tried to hold his head down with the reins. Horses and men were ready to ride, tired of waiting in the cold, dark night. Tom instructed his sergeant.
“All right, Sergeant Porter, when you hear that bugle, I want you to wheel the troop around that bluff on the left. We’re going to maintain our formation till we cross the river. Then I want a sweep right through the village.”
“Yessir. Kill anything that moves?”
“That’s the order,” Tom replied with no emotion in his voice.
In the sleeping village, a dog barked. Soon it was joined by several others as the muffled noises of the regiment moving into position were transported on the wind. The snow stopped and the sun sent its first exploratory rays over the prairie. Custer, in the saddle and riding back and forth in front of his troops, realized the village would soon be aware of his presence so he gave the order to attack.
Tom, even though poised and waiting for the signal to charge, was startled by the blare of the bugle as it rent the cold November air. An explosion of men and horses immediately followed. His pistol raised, Tom kicked his horse into a gallop and led his troopers down the bluff, mud and snow flying from the churning hooves. The soldiers began firing into the village even before they had crossed the river, laying down a murderous rain of lead upon the hapless Cheyenne camp.
* * *
It happened so suddenly, with such impact on his sleeping brain, that Little Wolf reacted like an animal whose instinct tells it it is about to die. He tried to jump to his feet to defend himself but the heavy buffalo robe, now covered with a layer of fresh snow, caught in the branches and tripped him, making him stumble to his knees. By the time he cleared the fog of sleep from his brain and remembered where he was, the line of blue coats had already swept beyond him. The thicket where he and Morning Sky lay was too dense to gallop through, so the line of soldiers had parted and charged to either side. He looked back quickly to make sure Morning Sky was safe. She struggled to dress herself, her eyes wide with fright. The gunfire was a steady roar now; individual shots were not discernable. The terrible din of the slaughter was punctuated by the screams of the women and children.
“Black Feather!” he gasped. “I must go!” He looked again at Morning Sky. “You will be safe if you stay here.” He got up to leave.
“Little Wolf! No!” She threw her arms around his legs. “You cannot help them! It is too late!”
He hesitated for a moment while he took inventory of his situation and his ability to help his brothers. He had no weapons except the skinning knife he always wore on the buckskin tunic he had hastily slipped over his head the night before. No rifle, not even a bow—what good could he do? Still, Black Feather was in the village. He must go to his aid. Even as he thought it, he could see wave after wave of blue coats galloping through the helpless village. Sabers flashed as the morning sun caught momentary reflections of their slashing arcs. A steady din of rifle and pistol fire rumbled across the shallow river like thunder. Already, many of the lodges were blazing. The screams of the women and children pierced the din of the carnage as they fled in panic, only to be met by another line of soldiers sweeping in the opposite direction.
“Black Kettle!” he gasped when he saw the old chief and his wife scramble up on a horse and attempt to escape across the river. They made it to the center of the water before a barrage of bullets cut them both down.
Little Wolf felt helpless. This was the second time he had been forced to witness the massacre of his village while happenstance prevented him from being a part of it. His blood was hot with anger but his common sense told him once again that it was useless to offer up his own life in the hope of killing one or more of the soldiers before they killed him. Morning Sky was right. It was too late. His concern now must be to try to keep her safe and to escape this massacre.
“You are right,” he told her. “We must live to revenge our brothers for this treachery.” Although still trembling with rage, he began to think calmly, deciding what his next move should be. At the moment they were safe in the thicket but his instincts told him that as soon as the slaughter was completed, the soldiers would ferret out every conceivable hiding place along the riverbank. It would be best to escape while the shooting was still at a fever pitch.
He moved on all fours through the thicket to the edge of the river where he stopped to survey the bluffs on the far side. He desperately needed a weapon and a horse, two horses if he could find them, and his instincts told him that there was probably a rear guard of some kind behind the bluffs. The attack had come from that direction, so maybe there was a supply wagon or some form of support for the troopers there. If that was not the case, they would just have to make it on foot. “Come,” he whispered and crawled out of the bushes and down into the shallow riverbank. She followed without hesitation.
There was cover in the trees on the opposite side of the river if they could make it through the waist-deep water without being observed by the soldiers upstream. Little Wolf waded as rapidly as he could, ignoring the cold shock of the water as it cut r
ight to the bone. Quickly, he scrambled across the opposite sand shore and dived into the underbrush. Once he was safely hidden, he turned to watch Morning Sky. She had fallen behind in the icy current and was still struggling to make the shore. Hurry! he thought and was about to go back to help her when a movement out of the corner of his eye stopped him. There, on the far side of the thicket they had just come from, a soldier, an officer by the look of his uniform, wheeled his horse as he caught sight of the Indian girl struggling to crawl to the brush on the other side of the river. The soldier stopped and drew a rifle from his saddle boot. Little Wolf’s heart seemed to stop as the drama unfolded before his eyes. The soldier was too far away. He could not reach him in time. He looked back at Morning Sky. “Run! Run!” he called out. She had no chance. The soldier could not miss from that distance. Little Wolf held his breath and waited for the shot to come. There was no shot. Little Wolf looked back at the officer. He was not moving, seeming to be in a trance. He raised the rifle halfway up to his shoulder then stopped. Slowly, he lowered the rifle, wheeled his horse and galloped off in the opposite direction, back toward the village. Little Wolf did not pause to contemplate the soldier’s actions. As soon as Morning Sky gained the protection of the trees, he motioned for her to follow and ran toward the bluffs. Their only hope was to run as far and as fast as they could.
* * *
Tom reined his horse up hard to keep from running down a bawling Indian child of perhaps three or four years of age. He then spurred his mount back toward the lodges, now engulfed in flames. This was not his idea of war, this slaughter of women and children. He wasn’t sure why he had spared the Indian woman back at the river. She was his enemy, a hostile, and she was escaping. He should have shot her. But he had found that he just didn’t have the stomach for it. There had been enough slaughter. She looked half drowned anyway, he told himself. She was not alone, he knew that. He had heard someone call to her from the trees on the far side. Still he chose to look the other way. There were enough dead already. He galloped back to join his troop.
“Lieutenant!” He turned to see Sergeant Porter charging after him. “Up on the ridge!” Tom looked in the direction pointed out.
“Damn!” he uttered. Up above the burning village, hundreds of hostiles were assembling. He immediately looked to his rear on the other side of the river. More hostiles were gathering. He wondered where they came from. Soon they would be surrounded and it was apparent the Indians would greatly outnumber them. As he thought it, he heard the bugler recalling the regiment.
Porter pulled up beside him. “The colonel said to form up the column and prepare to march.”
“March? March where?” As if in answer to Tom’s question, the bugle sounded officers’ call. He wheeled and made for the river where he could see Custer’s white horse among a circle of his officers. The colonel was already giving orders to withdraw to the opposite riverbank, no doubt sizing up the gathering force of hostiles and realizing that their position would soon be untenable. Custer had been caught by surprise. The Indians now moving to surround the column of soldiers were evidently from villages downstream. They showed no signs of an immediate attack, even though they already outnumbered the soldiers. It was only a matter of time, however, for they were obviously out for revenge for the atrocities committed on the Cheyenne village. Tom could see the young braves, riding wildly back and forth beyond the bluffs, their ponies painted, feathers flying in the wind. He figured the only thing that was saving the troops was the fact that evidently the hostiles were not organized. They must have been several different bands from different villages, alerted by the sound of gunfire on the Cheyenne camp.
“Gentlemen,” Custer announced, “we find ourselves surrounded and cut off from our supply wagons.” Tom could swear there was a twinkle in the colonel’s eye as he scanned the faces of his officers to test their reaction to such news. Then he grandly assured them that he would lead them out of this potential danger. “We will form up the column and march in an orderly fashion downstream. I want the hostiles to think we mean to advance upon their villages. When it is dark, we will double back and proceed to Camp Supply.”
“Sir,” Captain Payne said, “Major Elliott took a detachment after some of the hostiles escaping to the north.”
Custer seemed perturbed. “I know. I ordered him to cut off their escape.”
“Well, sir, he ain’t back yet. Hadn’t we better go look for him?”
“Captain Payne, it is my duty and responsibility to tend to the welfare of the regiment and that would deem it necessary to move the column out as soon as possible. Major Elliott is a seasoned officer. He’ll make his way back to the column before dark.” He raised his hand to indicate the conference was ended. “Let’s get moving before somebody organizes that mob of savages on the bluffs. It is imperative that we move out at once and in an orderly fashion.” He winked at Captain Payne and added, “Indians are like a pack of mongrel dogs. If they see you run, they’ll chase after you. We’ll show them our strength. They’ll think twice before charging this column.”
Tom glanced back at the burning village as the column started out downriver. The picture of that engagement, as Custer called it, would live in his mind for a long time. They had left no one alive in that camp. Bodies were strewn everywhere. The dead were left where they fell; men, women, children, horses, even dogs were not allowed to escape Custer’s scythe. Black Kettle’s band was no more. They had been annihilated. Custer would refer to that day’s encounter as a dangerous battle and a glorious victory in the war against the hostiles. As for Tom, he thought himself a good soldier but he was not proud of that day’s work. There was one disappointment for him, however. The information that the Cheyenne war chief, Little Wolf, was in the camp was evidently false. At least none of the bodies was identified as that of Little Wolf’s. When Tom asked if anyone had seen the man before, Captain Payne said no, but the scouts said that Little Wolf was really a white man raised by the Cheyenne. Tom remarked that he had seen him at a distance and he didn’t look like a white man to him.
Colonel Custer had been correct in guessing the column would not be attacked as long as they were on the march downriver. Many of the hostiles that surrounded them surmised that their villages might be the next target and departed to alert their people to the impending danger. When darkness descended, they doubled back to pick up their supply wagons in the Antelope Hills and then retreated to Camp Supply. Major Elliott’s detachment never rejoined the column. Word came back some time later that the entire detachment had been cut off and surrounded by a large force of hostiles from one of the villages downriver. The troopers were forced to take up a position in a tall grassy draw where they were eventually slaughtered. Custer dismissed the unfortunate incident as the price of war but vowed to avenge every brave soul who gave his life that day.
CHAPTER 15
Trapping was only fair the spring after Squint and Little Wolf had parted company. Maybe the streams were getting trapped-out in his valley. Maybe his heart just wasn’t in it anymore. Whatever the reason, Squint decided it was time to head back to civilization for a spell. It was getting too damn dangerous for a lone white man in these parts and he was getting tired of looking over his shoulder, half expecting to see some damn fool Injun coming for his scalp. Maybe part of the problem with his attitude was caused by just having had someone to winter with. He’d gotten out of the habit of living alone. Squint missed having Little Wolf to talk to.
“The damn army has got the Injuns all stirred up,” he confided to his mule, Sadie, while he drew the rope down tight over the furs on her back. He had taken to talking to Sadie and Joe, his horse, more and more lately, another sign that told him it was time to come out of the mountains for a while. “We’ll just head on back east a’ways, maybe to Laramie, see what’s going on.”
The packing done, he looked around his camp to make sure the fire had died and everything looked right. It was the best camp he had ever made and he expected to re
turn someday to this secret hideout in the rocks. Satisfied that everything was tidy, he bade farewell to the tiny stream and the mountain fortress and thanked them for their hospitality, a custom he had picked up from the Indians. He stepped up on Joe, took one last look around and led Sadie through the opening in the rocks.
* * *
As it turned out, Squint didn’t make it as far as Fort Laramie. After three days of cautious traveling, being careful not to cross paths with any Sioux scouting parties, he struck the North Platte at Deer Creek Station. This was a major crossing for folks heading west on the Emigrant Trail to Oregon and Squint found that the number of log buildings had grown since he had last seen it. The trading post, owned by a French Canadian named Bisonette, looked about the same except for some telegraph wires strung up on the side of the building. That would explain the small detachment of soldiers Squint noticed camped down below the corral. He had to admit to himself that he was surprised. He would have thought the Indians would have burned Bisonette out by now. Off to the side, about fifty yards from the building, a train of thirty or forty wagons was circled up. From the looks of things, Squint estimated the wagons had been waiting there for five or six days. The livestock were bunched off toward the river, grazing, and there were clothes hanging on lines strung up between the wagons, like folks had camped for a while.
He sat for a moment while he took all this in. “Pilgrims,” he muttered. Joe snorted in reply as if he shared his master’s disgust for the torrent of settlers cutting across the prairie. He nudged Joe’s ribs with his heels, guiding him around the wagons and toward a large rough structure bearing a hand-carved sign that proclaimed it as Mott’s. There were several horses tied up to the hitching rail and Squint tied on, making sure Sadie was on the far side of Joe at the end of the rail. Sadie was getting cranky and Squint was afraid she might decide to take a nip out of a strange horse if it got too close.
Wind River Page 21