Wind River

by Charles G. West

  Andy shrugged his shoulders and launched a long stream of tobacco juice in the direction of a horsefly that landed on the step below him. “I reckon I can’t argue with that. They’s gonna be war all right but I think the army’s made up its mind that it’s gonna win this one. Hell, you know as well as I do they ain’t gonna stop folks from moving in on that land.”

  There was a pause in their conversation while they watched a young officer walking in their direction.

  “Here comes one of the few good officers in this whole damn outfit,” Andy commented and punctuated the statement with a stream of brown juice.

  “What are you doing, Andy, holding that porch down so the wind won’t blow it away?” There was a wide friendly smile on the officer’s face.

  “Nah, I’m just settin’ on my brains so the army don’t see ’em and want to make me a lieutenant.” They both laughed. “Say howdy to Squint Peterson. He’s signed up to do some scouting for us. Me and Squint go way back. Squint, this here’s Lieutenant Allred.”

  The young officer smiled and extended his hand. “Tom Allred, Mr. Peterson.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant.” Squint got up to shake hands.

  “Damn!” Tom exclaimed. “You’re a big one.”

  Squint simply shrugged his shoulders, not knowing how to respond. Finally he said, “I reckon.”

  Tom placed one foot up on the second step and leaned on his knee. “If it wasn’t for ole Andy here, I wouldn’t be around today. He pulled my fat out of the fire for sure.”

  Andy almost blushed. “Hell, Lieutenant, when them bastards caught us in that crossfire, I was grabbing for anything. It just happened to be you. Tell you the truth, I thought you was dead. I was just using you for cover while I floated downstream.”

  Tom and Squint glanced at each other. Both were grinning broadly at Andy’s modesty. Both knew he was lying. Squint spoke up, “Why, I reckon the little ole runty varmint has saved my hide a time or two, like the time up on the Yellowstone when them three Crow bucks jumped me. I was up to my belly button in water with forty pounds of beaver plews in one hand and trying to keep my possibles dry in the other.”

  Andy laughed. “If you wasn’t so damn tight, I would’na had to help you.” He turned to Tom and explained. “He wasn’t about to turn loose them pelts and he couldn’t let his powder and shot go, so he was just kicking at them Injuns with both hands up in the air. He looked like a moose trying to chase off a pack of coyotes. It was hard for me to steady my aim, I was laughing so hard.”

  Tom laughed then straightened up and took his leave. “Well, Squint, glad to have you with us. I’ve got to go see if my horse is going to be ready to travel tomorrow. He picked up a bad stone bruise on that last patrol and I’m not sure he’ll be fit.”

  Andy called out after him as he walked away toward the stables. “We going out in the morning?”

  “Yeah,” Tom called back over his shoulder. “Captain Benteen said to draw rations and ammunition for ten days. He’ll call for a briefing sometime this afternoon.”

  Andy was pleased to see that Squint and Tom had seemed to hit it off pretty well. He had grown quite fond of the young lieutenant and he felt the addition of Squint would help keep them all out of trouble. He may have saved Squint’s hide a time or two but he knew that if the account was balanced, he’d be the one owing.

  CHAPTER 19

  Four days out from Fort Lincoln the patrol halted in a grove of trees near the banks of the Little Missouri. It had been a long, tedious patrol and Tom decided the men could use a little rest and the opportunity to shake some of the dust out of their clothes. He was the ranking officer on this detail, Captain Benteen having remained in Lincoln with a slight case of the dropsy. It was one of the few opportunities Tom had to command a patrol of longer than three days and fifty miles. He usually rode second in command to the captain and he was enjoying the temporary freedom to make his own decisions. There was no real anticipation of trouble of a major nature since the Sioux had been relatively quiet over the summer with no hostile activity beyond scattered raids on settlers or freighters. With both Andy and Squint along as scouts, he had little fear of riding into ambush, at least not this close to Fort Lincoln. While the men and horses rested in the shade of the cottonwoods, both scouts were out on the western side of the river, Squint to the south and Andy to the north.

  He settled himself with his back against a tree and removed his hat to wipe some of the perspiration from his forehead. From his position he could see out across the muddy river to the rolling plains and the distant mountains on the horizon. The mountains looked to be no more than a half day’s ride from the tree he was leaning against, but he knew they were probably two full days away. “Everything is distorted in this damn country,” he muttered. “It sure is a long sight from Mississippi.” The memory passed through his mind of that hot summer day near Vicksburg when he lay in a muddy ditch and saw his first cavalry charge. That war was a million years removed from the war he was fighting now. Back then, it was a war with rules. A man knew who and where the enemy was because most of the time he was coming straight at you, firing volleys of rifle fire. Cannon roared and foot soldiers charged, bayonets fixed. And the cavalry was glorious, galloping into the fray with swords drawn and brightly colored sashes flying. With that thought in mind, he looked about him at the weary troopers taking advantage of the short break in their march. There was no glory to be won out here. Most of the time they never caught sight of the savages they hunted, only where they had been. It was like chasing spirits. On the occasion when a war party was actually spotted, it was usually because they wanted to be seen, hoping they could lead you into an ambush in some blind draw. Or, if you outnumbered them and gave chase, they would simply disappear in a country where you could see for miles all around you. Maybe Custer was right. Maybe the only way to fight the Indians was to attack them in their winter camps. Then the memory of Washita came to mind and he at once experienced a sour taste in his mouth. That engagement had sickened him with the aimless killing of women and children. They had even shot the camp dogs. It would be a long time indeed before he could rid his nostrils of the stench of that burning village. He took a deep breath and tried to shake the scene from his mind. He didn’t like to think too long on that battle, as Colonel Custer referred to it. It was more like a slaughter in Tom’s mind.

  He stared at the tiny cloud of dust on the far side of the river for a good thirty seconds before he brought his mind back from its meandering and realized the dust cloud had been kicked up by Squint Peterson’s horse. Squint topped a rise and headed for the river and Tom was forced to call his attention back to the present. He was still a good distance away, but even at that distance, there was no mistaking the solid figure that was Squint Peterson. Joe was a solidly built roan and big as most horses go. He had to be to carry Squint’s bulk. But Squint made him appear to be no bigger than an Indian pony from a distance. He crossed the river and headed toward the grove of trees where the detachment was resting, Joe working at an easy gallop. Tom guessed that whatever Squint had found, it wasn’t important enough to overwork Joe. Tom stood up and walked to meet him.

  “Lieutenant,” Squint said calmly. “Might be somethin’, I don’t know, but I reckon you might want to take a look.”

  Tom reached for his horse’s reins. He had been with Squint long enough now to know that as with Andy Coulter, if he suggested some action, there was usually cause to take action. “What is it, Squint?”

  “Smoke, off to the northwest,” he replied. “Could be a brush fire, too big for a smoke signal.” He paused and Tom guessed that his next suggestion was what Squint really thought it was in the first place. “But it could be some settlers’ wagons burning.”

  Tom was already in the saddle. “Sergeant Porter, mount ’em up!”

  The detachment forded the river in a column of twos. Tom sighted Andy Coulter in the distance, angling across the prairie to intercept the column. Within a half mile’s
length, he reined in beside Squint and Tom.

  “What do you make of it?” he asked Squint.

  “Pilgrims, I reckon, or freighters,” Squint replied. “Probably got hit by a Sioux war party.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I figure. You can tell by the color of the smoke that it ain’t no brush fire. That looks like folks’ goods burning.”

  They rode four or more miles before they reached a horseshoe-shaped grassy draw that appeared to contain the origin of the smoke. Tom slowed the troop to a walk while Andy and Squint rode out ahead to scout the area. He didn’t want to go charging into the draw just to find out he was badly outnumbered by hostiles who were eagerly awaiting him. Not more than ten or fifteen minutes passed before Andy reappeared on a knoll above the draw and signaled him to come on in.

  The scene awaiting him was by no means unusual to Tom. He had witnessed the same scenario a few times before, only with different wagons, different bodies. This time there were two wagons burning, the livestock gone from one wagon. The other still had a team of horses hitched, all dead. This puzzled him somewhat. It wasn’t like an Indian to leave good horses behind. The thought left him when he heard Andy behind him.

  “I count six dead, five by the wagons and one more up the rise there.” He pointed toward a lump halfway up the other side of the knoll. “All of ’ems been scalped. Three of ’em got arrows in their backs, Sioux markings.”

  “Poor bastards,” Tom replied. “Looks like a typical raiding party.” He stood looking at the smoking wagons for a long time before continuing. “But what in hell were they doing this far up in hostile territory? We aren’t that far from the old Bozeman Trail. You don’t reckon they were crazy enough to try to go through that way, do you?” His question went unanswered when Squint, who had been looking over the area pretty thoroughly, interrupted.

  “Lieutenant, there was three wagons altogether. One wagon, loaded down, set off to the south, up yonder way.” He pointed toward a range of low-lying hills. “I figure they took the team off that wagon and hitched it up with the team on the wagon they run off with.”

  “I wonder why they left these horses. You’da thought they’d have stole them too,” Andy said.

  Squint glanced at Andy. Andy nodded in agreement with what Squint was about to say even before Squint said it. “If it’a been Injuns, they most likely would have took the horses. But this weren’t the work of no Injuns.”

  Tom looked surprised. “But what about the arrows and the scalps?”

  Andy spoke up, “There ain’t no tracks around this whole place but them that belongs to the wagon teams and whoever was riding the two shod horses that was flanking ’em. Ain’t no sign of Injun ponies anywheres about.”

  “You mean you think they were murdered by some of their own people?”

  Squint answered, “Looks like that, or somebody they met up with. And whoever done ’em in wanted to make it look like Injuns done it. But they sure as hell weren’t very bright about it. Them men was kilt with guns and then whoever done it scalped ’em and stuck them arrows in their backs. Take a look at this.” He motioned Tom over to one of the corpses. “This poor devil was shot right in the face. That’s what kilt him. See that arrow stuck in his back? Hell, it ain’t in deep enough to make him grunt. I’ll bet you a plug of tobacca the bastard that done it drove it in with his hand.” He stood up. “Look at them other two. The arrows is stuck in the same spot on their backs.”

  Tom stood looking down at the unfortunate teamster. “This is some dirty business here.”

  “I’d say,” Andy answered. “And I’ll tell you somethin’ else. If they keep on the trail they lit out on, they’re heading straight into Sioux country. They ain’t thinking about taking that wagon back to Bannack or Virginia City.”

  “Could be gold from Montana,” Tom speculated. “But the Sioux don’t have any use for gold.” He studied Andy’s face. “You thinking rifles? You think they’re taking rifles to the Indians?”

  “Could be. Could be anything. But whatever it is, they got a wagon loaded down with it.”

  “Damn!” Tom swore. He was faced with a difficult decision. His orders were clear. He had provisions for a ten-day march. That meant five days out and five days back. He was to take note of and report any Indian activity he encountered. His was not an offensive mission, merely a patrol. Of course, if he encountered any small bands of hostiles, he was to use his discretion as to any action he deemed necessary, and he was to lend assistance to any civilians under attack. Had this piece of work been done by hostiles, he would have followed routine procedures and attempted to track the guilty band if possible and punish them if the hostile force was not superior in numbers to his own. Otherwise it was just another six fatalities in the war against the savages. But that wasn’t the case. Now he might be dealing with renegade civilians who were selling guns to the Indians. What would Captain Benteen do? He always went by the book. Tom thought on it for a moment and then reluctantly decided. “Well, there isn’t much we can do about it now. I haven’t got the men or provisions to start out across hostile territory. We’ve been out four days. We can follow that wagon trail for another half day to see if they change their course. Then we’ll have to abandon the search and head back. Sergeant Hale, get a burial detail and put these men in the ground.”

  * * *

  The trail led south for a few miles and then turned due west for a couple of miles until it crossed a small stream. Then it turned south again and followed the stream. They were taking no pains to cover their trail. Since they were traveling in hostile territory, this further indicated their lack of fear of attack by Indians. Tom could only guess how much lead they had on the column but he pushed his troops ahead at a canter. Darkness caught the column near a fork in the stream and Tom ordered the march to halt there and make camp. He informed his sergeant that the patrol was to be ready to circle back toward Fort Lincoln the following morning. The two scouts went out on reconnaissance to make sure there were no hostiles about. Pickets were posted and the detachment settled in for the night.

  Squint unsaddled Joe and gave him a ration of oats. “You’re gettin kinds spoiled, ain’tcha, boy? Eating army grain for supper every night. I might need to take you back in the hills before you forget to eat grass.” He rubbed the horse’s neck for a few minutes before going over to the small campfire to help himself to a cup of coffee. It would be a while before the tin coffee cup would be cool enough to touch it to his lips so, while he waited, he glanced around to see where the lieutenant might be. He spotted him leaning back on his saddle, talking to Andy Coulter.

  “My ass is sore as a new bride’s,” Squint confided as he strolled over to the two men.

  Andy laughed. “You jess gittin’ too damn old. That’s your trouble.”

  “You know, you might be right. Why, I can feel my hand just a’tremblin’ trying to keep from spilling this hot coffee on your sorry ass.”

  “Set down before you give us all a bath.” Andy moved over a little, offering him a portion of the small sapling he was using as a backrest. Squint settled himself and tested his coffee.

  “Damn!” he cursed when the tin cup still proved a bit too warm. Gingerly, he approached the offending vessel with his lips pursed tightly until he managed to sip a small portion of the hot liquid. Satisfied that he was at last making some progress, he spoke, “You know, it’s a dirty damn shame to let those bastards go. We’re liable to be looking at the business end of them damn rifles . . . if that’s what they’re hauling.”

  Tom replied, “I know it, Squint, but dammit, I can’t go running off against the whole Sioux nation with a handful of men. Besides, I’ve got my orders.”

  “Oh, I know that, Lieutenant. Hell, ain’t no sense in gittin these boys kilt over some no-account renegades.” He paused to take another sip of the coffee. “But I was thinkin’ you could send me out to follow ’em in the morning, just to see what they was up to.”

  “Have you gone loco?” Andy retorted. />
  “I couldn’t do that,” Tom said. “It’s too dangerous. You’d more than likely lose your hair.”

  Squint shrugged. “Dangerous for a column of soldiers but not for one man. Hell, Lieutenant, I been traveling this country by myself for more years than you been in the army. I ain’t got no intention of losing my hair.”

  Tom thought over the proposal for a minute. “It would be helpful to know who we were trailing and where they were going with that wagon. But hell, Squint, I don’t know.”

  Andy studied his friend for a moment before asking, “Squint, what in hell do you want to go sneaking after that wagon for? Mind you, I know you can do it and I’ll go with you if you want me to. But what do you want to do it for?”

  “I’ll tell you the truth, Andy, I just feel like doing it. I just feel an itch to see what them buzzards are up to.” He turned back to Tom. “How ’bout it, Lieutenant? All right with you? I don’t want the army to say I went on vacation and cut my rations.”

  “All right, if you want to do it. But Squint, be damn careful.”

  “Mister, you can count on that.”

  * * *

  At sunup the next morning the troop broke camp and headed back east toward the Little Missouri. Squint rode out to the southwest, following the trail left by the renegades. Andy again volunteered to go with Squint but Tom didn’t think it wise to return without at least one of his scouts. It didn’t matter to Squint. Andy Coulter was a good man to have along on any occasion but Squint was just as glad to be on his own this time. “Unless you got an army with you, the fewer the better in Injun territory,” he told Joe as he wheeled the horse around and took a last look at the departing column before crossing the stream and heading deeper into Sioux country.

  Once the sun climbed a little higher in the sky, the morning chill disappeared and soon Squint pulled off his buckskin shirt and tied it behind his saddle. He had a feeling he was gaining on the wagon, but since there had been no rain for some time, it was still hard to tell how old the tracks were. He had hoped to overtake them by nightfall, but as mile after mile passed, he was not so sure. They were making good time. Of course, with a double team hitched to one wagon, they could have plowed their way across the prairie by now, he thought.