“Thank you for your welcome. We are honored. My braves and I know of no better place to taste the glory of battle than at the side of the mighty leader of the Lakotas.”
There was a twinkle in Sitting Bull’s eyes as he greeted the young war chief who had raided Fort Reno and made off with rifles and horses and then devised the ambush on the riverbank that wiped out a detachment of soldiers. As he clasped Little Wolf’s arm in friendship, he studied his face intently. He saw courage and honesty in the young man’s eyes. He was curious to know more about this tall young brave who was said to have killed a grizzly while still a mere child, with little more than a knife.
“Come and sit with me a while after you have seen to your people and taken care of your horses. We will smoke the pipe and talk.”
“I am honored,” Little Wolf replied humbly, surprised and pleased to be treated with such dignity. Such courtesy as this was usually reserved for a chief or an important elder. It was rare indeed for one so young as he.
He took his leave of the great chief and moved his band upstream a few hundred yards where he instructed Morning Sky to set up her tipi beside a group of Cheyenne lodges, already a part of Sitting Bull’s camp. Left Hand and Lame Otter had their wives set up their tipis on either side of his. The rest of his band, being bachelors, were dispersed among the other Cheyenne and Arapaho lodges already there. It was a happy reunion because many of the warriors had relatives there. It was good to be back in a real village again.
Morning Sky set about her work quickly, unpacking the horses and setting the lodge poles that had served as a travois on the trip. Soon she had pulled the hides over the frame of the tipi and was busy building a fire to cook Little Wolf’s supper. By the time Little Wolf had finished tethering the horses outside the flap of the tipi, she was almost ready to feed him. He marveled at her efficiency, not failing to notice that it would be some time yet before Left Hand or Lame Otter got anything to eat.
After he had eaten and rested with Morning Sky a while, he went back to the center of the Sioux camp to sit with Sitting Bull. He found him seated before the fire with three of the elders of the tribe. The old chief welcomed him and lit a long clay pipe. After he had drawn deeply three times on the pipe, he offered it to an old man on his left who was introduced to Little Wolf as Man Who Kills Horses. When the pipe came to Little Wolf, he pulled the smoke into his lungs and closed his eyes as he let it drift slowly from his nostrils. When he opened his eyes again, he was startled to find two women of Sitting Bull’s tipi hovering over him. When they saw his eyelids open, they giggled and hurried away.
This seemed to amuse Sitting Bull, and when he saw the perplexed expression on the young man’s face, he remarked, “They wanted to see your blue eyes.”
The comment caught Little Wolf by surprise. It had been a long time since he had been reminded that he had white skin and blue eyes, so long that he had all but forgotten it himself. At first there was a slight feeling of irritation. He didn’t like being reminded of his birthright. But there seemed to be no intent to insult. To the contrary, the smiling faces of the four Sioux before him were warm with friendship. Still, Sitting Bull wanted to satisfy his curiosity.
“You have fought bravely against the white soldiers, all here know this. Tell me, my son, do you ever regret making war on the people of your blood?”
“My father was Spotted Pony, Arapaho. My mother was Buffalo Woman, Cheyenne. I know of no other family. The white soldiers killed them at Sand Creek. Longhair’s soldiers killed my friend Black Feather at Black Kettle’s camp on the Washita. There are not enough soldiers for me to kill to avenge the deaths of my family and my friend.”
Sitting Bull nodded his understanding. The three elders all grunted and nodded sympathetically. “I am glad you are with us, Little Wolf,” Sitting Bull said. “There will be much fighting and we’ll need braves of your courage. The white man has found the yellow dirt in our lands, lands that were given to the Lakota long ago by the Great Spirit, long before the white man came to this land. Already our scouts have seen their wagons coming into the Black Hills, into our most sacred hunting ground. The white father has signed a treaty saying that no white man shall come into these lands but still they come. Soon they will kill all the buffalo and the white father does nothing. The treaty is worthless . . . Lies, like all the treaties before. They would send us to their reservations to rot and die. This we will not do. There will be a bloody war. They give us no choice.”
Little Wolf rose to his feet. “Together we will drive the white man from our lands.”
Pleased by Little Wolf’s response, Sitting Bull embraced the young warrior as a proud grandfather might embrace his grandson. As Little Wolf turned to leave, the old chief stayed him with a hand on his arm. “I would ask a favor of you, my son.”
Little Wolf paused.
“Do you still talk the white man’s tongue?”
“Yes, though it has been a long while.”
The chief hesitated as if still making a decision. “There is something you can do for me.” Nodding at the man next to him, he continued, “Man Who Kills Horses tells me that two white men have been captured by one of our war parties. They have been brought here instead of being killed because they say they can get many of the army’s new rifles for us if we let them live.”
“Are they soldiers?”
“No. They say they worked for the soldiers but now the soldiers are chasing them. When our warriors found them, they were crossing the Powder River, heading for the Montana territory.”
“Can they be trusted?”
Sitting Bull shrugged. “Can any white man be trusted? I think not, but still, it would be a good thing if we could get more rifles. Will you go with Man Who Kills Horses and talk to these men in the white tongue?”
* * *
Little Wolf followed Man Who Kills Horses through the village to a clearing near the banks of the river. In the center of the clearing the two white captives sat. Their arms tied behind their backs, they sat facing each other with their ankles bound together. A solemn young Sioux guarded them, his rifle cradled across his arms as he sat near a fire in front of them. At the sight of the old man and the tall young warrior, the men glanced anxiously at each other before raising their eyes to Man Who Kills Horses. Little Wolf could read the thin hope in the white men’s eyes, no doubt wondering if they had bargained for their lives or whether their fate was to be a slow death.
One of them, the big, rawboned one, spoke in the Sioux tongue. “Friend.” He nodded his head up and down vigorously. “Friend, friend.”
Man Who Kills Horses said nothing but stepped aside in order to give Little Wolf a better view of the captives. The Sioux guard watched with but a slight display of curiosity. Little Wolf stood silently studying the two men. They were dirty and shaggy. Both wore long buffalo coats even though the weather was quite warm. The big one, the one who had spoken and was now watching Little Wolf like a camp dog waiting for a bone, had deep-set eyes that seemed to peer out of caves on either side of his long thin nose. His mouth, which seemed to naturally turn down at the corners, formed a crooked grin when he attempted to make a friendly smile. The rest of his face was covered by whiskers. Part of one ear was missing. Someone had shot it away or, possibly, some animal had bitten it off. Little Wolf barely glanced at the other man, a short little man with a round belly. It was easy to see which of the two was the more dangerous.
He had to think for a moment before he formed the words in English. “You are buffalo hunters.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Oh, nossir,” the big one hastened to reply. “We ain’t buffler hunters. Nossir!”
“You smell like buffalo hunters,” was Little Wolf’s stoic reply.
“Oh, we mighta kilt one or two,” he allowed, “jest to keep from starving.” He looked at his companion for confirmation. “But we ain’t done no real buffler hunting, not in these parts nohow.”
Little Wolf remained expressionless as he s
tudied the two of them. They were liars, of that he was certain. There was no doubt they were two of the scores of buffalo hunters who killed off thousands from the herds every year, taking only the hides and the heads and leaving the rest to rot on the prairie. The policy of the Cheyenne and the Sioux was the same when it came to dealing with vermin of this kind: kill them whenever and wherever they were caught. He turned to Man Who Kills Horses and spoke to him in the Indian tongue.
“These two are clearly buffalo hunters. Why is it they were not killed?”
“Guns. They say they can get many rifles, the new rifles that the soldiers carry.” When Little Wolf did not respond right away, he added, “They were not killing buffalo when we found them. They were merely crossing through our lands.”
Little Wolf considered this for a moment, then shrugged. “What is it you wish me to ask them?” He didn’t like their looks and he questioned the wisdom in dealing with them at all. But, they were not his prisoners. It was not for him to make judgment.
“Guns,” Man Who Kills Horses answered. “How many guns and what they want in return.”
Little Wolf turned back to the two men before him. “How many rifles?”
“Oh, thirty or forty anyway,” the big one answered.
“New rifles? Repeaters?”
“Yessir, brand-new army carbines, and maybe some other goods you might be interested in.”
“What do you want in return?”
Kroll thought for a moment before answering, his confidence increasing when it began to look as if he might ride out with his hair after all. “Why, we’ll take it out in hides’d be all right, I reckon. We jess wanna be friends with the Sioux, that’s all.”
Little Wolf turned again to Man Who Kills Horses, speaking once again in the Indian tongue, “They say they have many rifles they want to trade for buffalo hides. I think they are liars and not to be trusted but it is not for me to say. I think as soon as you release them, you will never see them again.”
Man Who Kills Horses nodded soberly, weighing Little Wolf’s words. He motioned for Little Wolf to walk with him and started back toward the council lodge. “I will talk to Sitting Bull. Then we will decide. Perhaps you are right and they want merely to save their scalps. On the other hand, it would be good to get the rifles.”
Behind them, the two white men whispered together. “Gawdamn, Kroll, what the hell are you doing? We ain’t got no gawdamn rifles.”
“Shut up! That damn Injun might understand English too,” he whispered, indicating the guard. “You wanna get out of here with your hair, don’t you? ‘Sides, it might be a good idea to trade with these red sons for hides instead of havin’ to work fer ’em.”
“But we ain’t got no gawdamn guns!”
“Well, dammit, we can get some, maybe trade ’em some other stuff too. And I know where we can lay our hands on a whole wagon-load of goods. I’m gittin’ damn tard of workin’ them damn buffler anyhow. Maybe me and you’ll just go into the tradin’ business. We’ll jess find us a spot in the shade this side of the Platte and wait till the next train comes along, cut us out a wagon and then we’ll be in the tradin’ business.”
“But these damn Injuns want guns!”
“I know that, but hell, they’ll trade for whatever we got.”
* * *
The elders evidently decided that it was worth the risk to release the captives in hopes of gaining some rifles because early the next morning Little Wolf saw them riding out of camp. He watched them until they disappeared over the bluff, not really interested for it was of no concern to him whether they lived or died. His personal feeling was that they were not to be trusted and would probably hightail it for the goldfields where they were no doubt headed when captured by Sitting Bull’s scouts.
CHAPTER 18
Squint nudged Joe gently with his heels when the horse hesitated on the bank of a small stream, unsure if they were crossing or just drinking. “Let’s go, Joe. I’m tired too, but we ain’t got more’n a couple of hours’ ride. Then you might get a little grain tonight before you bed down.” He had been making good time for the last two days since he had left Waddie Bodkin in the Black Hills and headed for Fort Lincoln. Waddie had done his best to talk him into staying on to prospect for gold but Squint had made up his mind that it was time to try something else.
Thoughts of Waddie made him laugh. “Damn crazy little Irishman,” he chuckled. Two years in Montana and they didn’t raise enough color to pay for the whiskey Waddie drank. Well, he thought, I wanted to try my hand at panning for gold and I reckon I got that notion out of my head. The work was too hard to suit him. After a year, he found himself staring at the mountains in the distance and wondering what was beyond them. He and Waddie had tried their luck at the Grasshopper Diggings before they moved on to Alder Gulch where they raised a little color, but not enough to make two men rich. So, when word came that there was gold discovered in the Black Hills, Waddie made up his mind to go there. Squint decided to go with him that far but then to continue on to Fort Lincoln and go back to scouting for the army. He’d had his fill of prospecting but he was also aware that the Black Hills were smack-dab in the middle of Sioux hunting grounds and that fact didn’t appeal to his sense of self-preservation. So he took his share of the small amount of dust they had collected, bade farewell to Waddie and pointed Joe toward Lincoln.
* * *
“Hey, you old muskrat! Are you lost?”
Squint turned in the direction of the voice. There was a familiar ring to the voice but he couldn’t identify it immediately. His face lit up with a wide smile when he spotted the short barrel-like body coming around the corner of the stable on legs so bowed he looked like a duck out of water. “Well, skin me if it ain’t Andy Coulter!” He slid down off of Joe. “Hell, pardner, I thought you was kilt long ago.”
“I thought your hair was decorating a lance up in the Wind River country,” Andy returned. “What brung you into Lincoln?”
Squint tied Joe and his mule Sadie to the hitching post and walked around to shake Andy’s hand. “I reckon I’m looking for a job,” he said. “Thought I’d see if the army’s hiring any scouts.” He grinned and added, “But I reckon if they got you, they likely don’t need any more.”
Andy laughed. “I reckon I’m the only one they got. They got about fifty more on the payroll that calls theirselves scouts but I reckon if they hired you, then they’d have two. Come on, I’ll take you to see Captain Benteen. I could dang shore use some help.”
There was very little hesitation on Benteen’s part after Andy’s recommendation that Squint Peterson was probably the best dang scout in the whole territory with the possible exception of himself. He and Squint had trapped the Yellowstone country before the first prospector’s wagon had made it to Montana so he was damn sure qualified to scout the area. Benteen seemed glad to have another experienced scout so Squint was welcomed to the regiment and turned over to Andy to get himself settled in.
“You can throw your bedroll in with me if you want to,” Andy told him as they walked across the parade ground. “They let me have a little room next to the quartermaster. It’s a little ways away from the soldier boys so it ain’t so dang noisy.”
“Who’s the head man of this outfit?”
Andy chuckled before answering. “Colonel George Armstrong Custer,” he announced.
“Custer? Hell, I thought he was shipped back East a while back for disobeying orders or something.”
“He was. But he’s back now, struttin’ bigger’n ever. Says he’s gonna clean all the Injuns out of the Yellowstone country.”
“He’s a mite ambitious, ain’t he?” The news was not especially pleasing to Squint. He had had no personal relations with the man, but he didn’t like some of the things he had heard about him. Of course, he had to consider that some of the stories might be just that, stories, and he reckoned he would have to see for himself. “What’s the job like?”
“Patrols mostly, chasing Sioux raiding par
ties”—he paused to spit a stream of chewing tobacco at a lizard scampering up a pole on the porch—“and burying prospectors.”
Squint threw his pack up on the porch and turned to Andy. “Correct me if I’m wrong, ’cause I’ve been up in the mountains for a spell. But last I heard, there was a treaty that guaranteed all that country from the Black Hills to the Big Horns was Injun territory.”
Andy snorted. “Hell, Squint, you know as well as I do them treaties don’t mean nothin’. Besides, I reckon you heard there’s some talk about finding gold up in that country—and where there’s talk of gold, there’s plenty of damn fools to risk their hair to git it.”
“I can guarantee that. I just left a little Irishman back up in the hills.”
After they had settled Squint’s belongings, they walked back outside and sat down on the edge of the porch to have a smoke. Squint took out a well-worn cherrywood pipe he had carved four winters before in the Wind River Mountains. He watched as Andy tore off part of a twist of tobacco and stuffed it in his mouth then handed the twist to him. Taking his time, Squint tore off a piece of the twist and slowly ground it up in his hand. When it was right, he filled the pipe with it. He reached up and struck a match on a porch post and lit the pipe, drawing deeply until the tobacco was burning well. After a few puffs, he tamped the load down and relit it. Satisfied that it was working right, he leaned back against the post to talk.
“Andy, things might be fairly peaceful with the Injuns right now, but if the army don’t quit letting settlers and prospectors go anywhere they damn please, it’s gonna be more than a few killings here and there. It’s gonna be all-out war. I’m satisfied the Sioux ain’t gonna stand still for it much longer. Hell, look at what old Red Cloud did to the army. He damn sure closed up Bozeman’s trail. And already old Sitting Bull is calling all the Sioux and Cheyenne together up in the Big Horns. Part of Red Cloud’s people have joined up with him. At least that’s the story I hear.”
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