Wind River

by Charles G. West

  Little Wolf smiled and laid his hand on Squint’s shoulder. “You will always be my friend. Just don’t ride against Sitting Bull and you have nothing to fear from my bow.”

  “Hell, what would keep us from packin’ up right now and headin’ for Oregon? Whaddaya say? Ain’t you had enough killin’ for one lifetime? I know I ain’t got nothin’ I got to git back to Fort Lincoln for. Why, I hear tell that a man can make a livin’ off one acre of ground out there, there’s so much game. We can just hunt and trap and fish till we git so old we can’t pull a trigger no more. Whaddaya say?”

  Little Wolf did not answer but his smile was enough to tell Squint that the die was already cast. The war paint that formed two distinct vees of red and white from the bridge of his nose down across both cheeks could not merely be wiped off. They signified a commitment to a people, a commitment that ran deeper than the skin upon which they were painted. If he could have seen inside Little Wolf’s heart, he would have realized the pain that had been suffered at the hands of the army. And the one image that had come to symbolize that pain was the image of the Cheyenne’s hated enemy, Longhair. As long as Custer lived, there would be no peace in Little Wolf’s heart.

  “Well, it was just a thought,” Squint sighed and reached over to stir up the fire. After a moment, he said, “It shore would be something to see that Oregon territory though.”

  They talked until the fire died out and both were too sleepy to get more wood, eventually falling asleep beside the glowing coals. When Squint awoke the next morning, Little Wolf was gone. The Appaloosa was tied next to Joe and Sadie. There had been no mention of it in their conversation the night before but Squint knew the horse was left in payment for the little mare, Britches, that he had given Little Wolf when they parted company years before in the Shoshone village.

  “Won’t be beholden to nobody,” Squint muttered as he stretched and scratched. He looked around the empty camp. “Don’t owe your brother nothin’. Don’t owe me nothin’. Just owe them damn Injuns.” He shook his head, exasperated. “We could have made a good life in Oregon.” He got up to see to his horses and inspect his gift. “Dang, Joe, why didn’t you warn me when he left in the middle of the night?” The thought that Little Wolf could get up and steal out of the camp without waking him bothered him more than a little. “I’m gittin’ too damn old for this life.” He looked at the Appaloosa, his white-spotted coat shimmering in the first fingers of sunlight filtering through the trees. “Boy, you shore paid off with interest. That little mare weren’t half the horse you are.” He took one last look at his favorite of all campsites, the perfect spot. Reluctantly, he climbed up on Joe. Leading the Appaloosa and Sadie, he headed back to Fort Lincoln and the army.

  CHAPTER 23

  There was a great deal of anger and heated discussion among the leaders in the Sioux camp over Custer’s so-called peaceful expedition into the Black Hills. Gall, one of the most feared of the Sioux war chiefs, called the trail that Custer took the Road of Thieves, and demanded that the whites be punished for entering their sacred lands. The summer was not yet over and already there were hundreds of prospectors camping in the Black Hills. Not only had the army stopped enforcing the treaty, now the hated Longhair had actually led a huge armed force into the area.

  After reading Custer’s report on his expedition, the white chiefs in Washington decided that the Indian should give up the Black Hills so the white man could go in search of the yellow dirt. Washington called for a council with the Sioux to propose a new settlement with the Indians. It was to be held on the White River and many of the Sioux, Gall among them, argued against attending such a council. They felt there was nothing to discuss. Others, such as Snow Walker, felt it best to meet with the men from Washington to hear them out. It was rumored that the white man wanted not only the Black Hills, but the Indians’ lands along the Yellowstone and the Powder. They would offer the Indians money for these lands. If, Sitting Bull insisted, they sold these lands to the white man, there would be nothing left for the Indian but the reservation. The white man had stolen everything else. The land was all the Indian had left. The discussion among the Sioux leaders was not over whether they should sell their lands, rather it was over whether they should honor the invitation to council with the whites . . . or simply go to war. This was the atmosphere into which Little Wolf rode one clear afternoon, just as the sun was beginning to nestle into the far hills beyond the circle of tipis of Two Moon’s band of Cheyennes who had come from north and south to join Sitting Bull in his fight against the white invaders.

  “Little Wolf!”

  The voice was familiar. He turned to see Sleeps Standing striding toward him, a smile spread across the width of his face in warm welcome. Little Wolf smiled in return. It had been some time now since he had last seen his old friend and he walked to meet him. They embraced like two bears might, with strong hugs and a lot of pounding on each other’s back.

  “I knew you would come to fight with your brothers. Bloody Claw said you would not ride against the whites again, that your Cheyenne heart had gone cold.” He beamed as he added, “But I said Little Wolf would return when the people needed him and here you are.”

  Little Wolf was touched by the warm reception. “Yes, I am here.” He smiled. “I sought to live alone with my soul, maybe forever, but my soul was not yet at peace while the man responsible for the death of my mother and father and our friend Black Feather still lives.”

  “Come,” Sleeps Standing insisted. “You must stay in my tipi. I have taken a wife since I last saw you. She is a good woman. Her younger sister lives with us. She is young and will keep you warm at night.”

  “I thank you, my brother. It will be an honor to accept your hospitality. I will stay in your tipi but I still sleep with Morning Sky.”

  Sleeps Standing nodded his understanding. It was not uncommon for a man to live with the spirit of a departed loved one. “Come. We will eat and rest and tomorrow I will take you to see Two Moon.”

  * * *

  “It is an honor to have the brave and cunning Little Wolf join us in our battle.” Two Moon placed his hand on Little Wolf’s shoulder. “We are many here. Northern and Southern Cheyenne are pledged together to fight beside our brothers, the Lakotas. You are welcome. I have heard songs of your deeds in battle.”

  Little Wolf thanked the chief for his warm welcome and expressed his desire to fight with any group of braves who made war on Custer. He and Sleeps Standing smoked the pipe with Two Moon and talked with the chief about the possibility of all-out war against the army. Two Moon told them of the discussion at the council meeting and that the elders had decided to go to the council at White River to talk to the white men. They would hear them out and then they would list their own grievances but they would not give up their lands to the white man.

  “There will be war,” Two Moon said solemnly. “The white man will not accept our decision. He hungers for the yellow dirt and he will try to drive us from our hunting grounds, just as he has always done. But this time it will not be so easy. This time he will face many, many warriors united to turn the soldiers back. This time the soldiers will face the Cheyenne, the Sioux and the Arapaho.”

  * * *

  When Little Wolf and Sleeps Standing returned to the tipi, they found Bloody Claw waiting for them. He eyed Little Wolf cautiously as he approached. “So it is true what I hear. Little Wolf has returned to the village of the Cheyenne.”

  “It is good to see you, my brother.” Little Wolf extended his arm in greeting.

  Bloody Claw clasped it. “Welcome.”

  Although they observed the polite formalities that courtesy required, Little Wolf knew he was anything but a welcome sight to Bloody Claw. They had fought side by side in many battles and should have regarded each other as comrades in arms, but Little Wolf knew that Bloody Claw did not wish to see him return. Bloody Claw had always felt a sense of jealousy that the younger man had commanded the respect of the small band of Cheyenne warriors fro
m Black Kettle’s old tribe. When Little Wolf left to go into the mountains alone, Bloody Claw assumed the leadership role. Now, he was concerned that Little Wolf had returned to regain his position. Little Wolf felt the need to reassure Bloody Claw.

  “I have heard that you are a respected leader of our warriors. I would be proud to follow you in battle.”

  Bloody Claw appeared to puff up with this compliment, somewhat relieved but not altogether satisfied. “I would be proud to have Little Wolf fight beside us again.”

  The formalities over, Bloody Claw departed. When he had gone, Sleeps Standing laughed. “Bloody Claw looks worried. He has been a war chief since you have been gone. I think he is afraid of your power.”

  Little Wolf brushed the comment aside. “He has nothing to fear from me. I come to fight the soldiers. I care not who leads who into battle.”

  “Maybe so, but I think the warriors will follow you when the fighting starts.”

  * * *

  Two weeks after Little Wolf arrived in the village, the people set out to meet with the council from Washington. A tent had been set up near the banks of the White River for the committee of white officials to confer with the Sioux chiefs. The Indians were angry and, to show their anger, they showed up in force. Some fifteen to twenty thousand in all, warriors, women and children filled the bluffs along the river. While the chiefs met with the delegation from Washington, Sioux and Cheyenne braves raced back and forth along the bluffs on painted ponies, feathers flying as they galloped, brandishing their lances. Little Wolf sat quietly on his horse, his eyes on the tent across the river, amazed at the absurdity of the situation. The delegation of civilian government representatives were escorted by a small detachment of mounted cavalry which, if called upon for protection, would be swarmed in a matter of seconds should the multitude of Indians decide to attack.

  He would learn later that the government offered the Sioux money for the use of their lands. When the chiefs refused the offer, the government offered to buy the Black Hills outright. Again the offer was refused. They were told that the Sioux would never sell their sacred lands and that the white man must leave immediately. Any white man found in the territory would be killed. Little Wolf wondered why the chiefs had agreed to meet with the delegation in the first place. He suspected it was to take the opportunity to impress upon the white men the sheer strength aligned against an invasion of the Indians’ hunting grounds. The meeting ended with no progress on the government’s proposal and the Indians returned to their villages confident that the white man had at last realized that the Indians would give no more ground.

  In the weeks that followed, the government pulled army troops out of the Black Hills. At first Sitting Bull assumed this a sign that the government had at last given up on the idea of invading the sacred Sioux hunting ground. But it soon became apparent that this was not the case. Sioux and Cheyenne scouts reported that more and more prospectors were streaming into the territory, unhampered by the army. From the Indians’ point of view, and from the treaty signed at Laramie, the only reason for the army’s presence there had been to keep the miners out. Now they were making no attempt to restrain the rush of prospectors looking for gold in the Black Hills.

  Sitting Bull was angry. After fasting for three days and nights and cleansing his mind and body in the sweat lodge, he went up into the mountains to meditate. When he returned to the village, he told the people that he had seen a vision. Man Above had appeared to him, riding a white horse. He had told him that the Black Hills were sacred and that he must drive the white man out. The time for councils and peace talks was past. The time now was for the lance and bow. There must be no mercy for any white man found in the territory.

  * * *

  Waddie Bodkin straightened up from his sluice, both hands filled with the gravel he had been sifting through. “You hear it?”

  His partner, a squarely built half-breed Crow named Sam Two Kills, nodded in agreement. They both stood silent, knee-deep in the chilly waters of Blind Man’s Creek, their ears turned into the wind to catch the sounds of rifle shots far upstream. There it was again, maybe a dozen or so shots, barely audible.

  “Damn!” Waddie swore. “That’s the second time in a week. It’s getting too damn close to suit me.”

  “Damn close,” Sam agreed.

  Sam didn’t say very much, a trait that was sometimes aggravating to Waddie since the little Irishman enjoyed a good conversation as much, if not more, than any man. On the other hand, Sam wasn’t blessed with a great deal of common sense and damn few opinions on any subject. In light of that, Waddie figured it was better if the half-breed kept his mouth shut most of the time. As they both stood motionless, listening for more shots, Waddie studied his partner as if seeing him for the first time. Sam was half-breed all right, but there was very little of his French father showing in his appearance. Although he could not have been much more than thirty years of age, he had lost all of his front teeth, giving him a somewhat vacant smile on the few occasions he found humor in something. His hair was long and wild. He never wore a headband so his dull black hair seemed to spew out of the top of his head like a dirty fountain, falling all around his face and neck. And he was bowlegged, more than any man Waddie had ever seen. Standing in water up to his knees, his legs appeared to be spread wide apart. Waddie would bet that the man’s feet were close to touching. Some partner, he thought to himself. Shows how desperate a man can get for company after a few years alone in the wilderness.

  It had been fully five years since he had parted company with Squint Peterson and packed off up into the Black Hills. He had tried his luck at several spots before finding this little creek. Sam had wandered in two years ago looking for something to eat. Waddie needed help and was hoping for some companionship so he offered Sam a share in the diggings. Sam had no place else to go so he accepted the offer. Waddie got the help he needed but failed to get much in the way of companionship. Still, Sam was a little better than a dog, Waddie figured. In fact, Sam was almost like having a dog around, a dog that could say a few words in English and could use a shovel and pan.

  “Some poor devils are catching hell.” Waddie finally broke the silence. He knew full well what the gunfire meant. Sioux and Cheyenne war parties had been raiding and killing all through the territory. He had been lucky so far, but he knew it was just a matter of time before his little claim was discovered by the scouting parties. He knew that he was living on borrowed time. But he had finally struck a little color that looked worthwhile, so he kept gambling one more day at a time in an effort to accumulate enough dust to at least show something for the years invested in this wilderness. He had long ago given up hope of returning to civilization a wealthy man. Now he was working day after day to go back to the settlements with enough to keep from being a beggar. Now, as he stood chilled to the bone in the icy waters of Blind Man’s Creek, he decided it was time to pull up stakes and get out before either the Indians caught him or the heavy snows trapped him.

  “Sam, it’s time to cut bait while we still have some bait to cut.”

  Sam only grunted in response but Waddie could see by the expression on the half-breed’s face that he was in full accord. Sam was only half Indian, but that half was Crow, and neither the Sioux or Cheyenne were overly fond of Crows.

  They spent the rest of that day preparing to leave their claim. The Indian war parties might have caused them to quit their diggings a little sooner than they wanted, but Waddie was satisfied that they had gotten the better part of any dust there. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough to split and provide a start at something else down in one of the settlements. He might even head toward Fort Lincoln to see if his friend Squint Peterson was still there. He wasn’t figuring on Sam going with him. He didn’t know or care where the half-breed was going. He’d probably just go drink it all up anyway. As far as Waddie was concerned, their partnership was at an end.

  They packed up everything they planned to carry out with them and loaded the
mules with everything but the gold dust. They decided to keep it in its hiding place until first light, when they would abandon the camp. The first year Waddie made this camp on Blind Man’s Creek, he dug a cave up under a high bank of the stream to stash his gold dust. He wasn’t about to work his hind end off for that gold only to have some outlaw steal it from the tiny cabin while he was down at the stream working the sluice. The entrance to his treasure cave was well disguised. In fact, it was necessary to wade into the creek to approach it.

  That night a glow could be seen in the northern sky. Waddie figured it was the stockade a group of fourteen prospectors built on the fork of French Creek. There was no doubt the shots they had heard that afternoon had come from there. That glow indicated to Waddie that the miners at French Creek had gotten the short end of the fighting. It would be the second time the fort had been burned. Waddie had a feeling it would be the last. It also meant the war party that attacked the stockade was a sizable one. Chances were they would be content to dance around the fire and celebrate their victory for a while which would assure him and Sam plenty of time to get a head start in the morning. He couldn’t be positive the war party would head this way but, on the chance it did, he was damn sure he wasn’t going to be there to greet them.

  “Sam, you take the rest of that dried jerky. You might need it with winter setting in and game getting scarce. I’ll be in Fort Lincoln in four or five days. I got enough to last me till then.” Sam grunted his thanks and got up from the fire and wrapped the dried meat in a skin pouch. He walked over to his mule and stuffed the pouch into his pack. Waddie watched with amusement. “Well, partner, one thing I’ll say for you, you sure as hell haven’t worn out the language in the last two years, but you’re a damn good worker.” Sam grunted in response. “You haven’t said where you’re heading in the morning.”

  “Canada,” Sam replied. If Waddie expected any elaboration on that, he was to be disappointed.