“That she does,” Koko announced as she came into the room.
“Well, I simply feel that Uncle Bram gave me a responsibility to see to this ranch and its success.”
“But he’d also want you to relax and let others do the jobs they are capable of. Cole is a good man, the same as Bram was. He’ll make wise decisions.”
“Cole’s planning for us to go to Bozeman for the Fourth of July celebration. Will you bring the children and come too?” Dianne asked, hoping to divert the discussion.
Koko shook her head. “I don’t think so. With all the Indian trouble, it would probably be wise for me to remain here. No sense causing anyone to be uncomfortable.”
“I wouldn’t worry about making the townsfolk uncomfortable,” Dianne declared as she helped Faith with the jelly jars. She was glad to have the focus off of her treatment of Cole.
“I wasn’t so much worried about the townsfolk,” Koko admitted. “I didn’t want the children hurt.”
Dianne thought of nine-year-old Jamie and six-year-old Susannah. Both children bore some of their mother’s features, although each were more white than Blackfoot. Society surely wouldn’t see them that way, however, and Koko was right about the tensions and ugly attitudes toward those with Indian blood.
“Well, what can we bring you back?” Dianne finally said, knowing that she couldn’t make the situation right. She met her aunt’s expression and offered a smile.
Koko nodded as if sharing unspoken information with her niece. “There are several things we could use. I’ll make a list for you before you go.”
The smell of something rotten and foul was the first thing that caught their attention.
Colonel Gibbon’s forces moved forward to join up with George Armstrong Custer’s ranks along the Little Big Horn River. Their objective was to quell the Sioux and Cheyenne and see them returned to their reservation to the east, but the smell and deadly silence distressed every member of the regiment.
Zane felt a chill run up his spine. The sensation did nothing to ease his fears. For days there had been rumors and disconcerting messages from his superiors. One infantryman had come to tell them that some of Custer’s Indian scouts had been found. They spoke of a horrible battle in which every soldier was annihilated, but surely that couldn’t be true.
On the other hand, he heard more than one man complain that they were heading out on another wild goose chase, and just as the first thought didn’t ring true, Zane didn’t feel this to be an accurate statement either.
Sweat dampened his skin and ran a stream down his face. He could feel it slip beneath his collar, leaving him sticky and uncomfortable. The temperatures were near the one hundred mark. Funny how that at the first of the month they had marched in snow. Most of it hadn’t lasted much longer than it had taken to fall from the sky and hit the ground, but in places the white powder had accumulated. Zane tried hard to remember how he’d hunkered down in his wool coat chilled to the bone, but it was no use. The heat of late June now threatened to bake him alive.
He could see in the faces of his comrades that he wasn’t the only one to bear the harsh elements in discomfort. The dust and sweat made striping streaks on the faces of the soldiers, almost as if they had painted their faces Indian style, for war. Especially those in the infantry. They marched long hours in the dust. Day after day they walked in a cloud of their own making, then struggled at the end of the day to scrape the earth from their bodies.
Zane knew their misery. Infantry life had never really agreed with him. Now, however, as a newly appointed lieutenant, he was at least given the choice of riding if he wanted. Some officers rode, others did not. Zane was known to be a good hand with a horse—his background on the Diamond V preceded his transfer into Colonel Gibbon’s forces. The ranch was a good provider for army horseflesh, and his superiors seemed bent on keeping Zane happy, lest the supply be cut off.
The horses were acting strange, and that, coupled with the awful stench, made everyone uneasy. They would probably come up on a buffalo jump or some other place where a mass butchering had taken place. The smell of death always made the horses nervous. Zane tried to calm his mount, but the animal continued side-stepping, as if to avoid what was ahead.
Without warning, a pale-faced rider came flying over the ridge. His horse was lathered from the strain, and the man appeared to barely keep his seat on the animal. Zane’s horse reared slightly and whinnied loudly as the rider came to a stop not far from where Colonel Gibbon sat atop his own mount.
The man, really no more than a boy, leaned over the side of his horse and lost the contents of his stomach. The action took everyone by surprise. Without looking up, the man pointed behind him and shook his head. The words seemed stuck in his throat.
“What is it? What did you find?” Gibbon asked impatiently.
“They’re dead, sir. Custer. His men. Every last soldier—dead.”
CHAPTER 2
AND SO THEY WERE.
Zane could only stare in dumbfounded silence at the bleached and bloated bodies of men who were once soldiers. Where was God when Custer and his men met this fate?
Scenes from the Baker Massacre, where the slaughter of the Blackfoot tribe took place some six years earlier, came back to haunt him. Where was God then?
Zane could scarcely draw a breath. The scene was unreal, too horrible to even allow the images to settle in his mind. Burial duties were all that was left them now. There was no great battle in which to prove their bravery or manhood. Bravery this day was shown by the ability to witness the massacre at the Little Big Horn and not give in to insanity.
“Sir, how could this have happened?” the raspy voice of one of his newer recruits asked. The man paused in his construction of a litter for the wounded as Zane stepped closer.
Zane looked to the man and shook his head. “I suppose it was bound to happen.”
“Beggin’ the lieutenant’s pardon,” the man began, “but how can you say that? The U.S. Army should never have been caught by surprise like this. How could they have been ambushed without warning?”
Zane heard the disbelief and horror in the man’s voice. He felt a certain degree of it himself. If it could happen to someone like Custer, it could happen to anyone.
“I have to believe that if they’d been prepared, this would never have happened.” Zane tried hard to sound convincing. The truth of the matter was, he wasn’t that certain of his words. The territory around them was wild—untamed and unsettled. The Sioux, Crow, and Cheyenne knew it better than the soldiers could hope to. That’s why they used Indian scouts. How could he convince this soldier of something he couldn’t completely come to terms with himself? “It’s a matter of preparation—of training,” Zane added softly.
The man nodded. “I suppose the Indians are long gone now.”
“The report indicates they’ve moved on down into the Big Horn Mountains.”
“I suppose we’ll give chase.” The soldier looked at Zane, seemingly to pull the truth from him.
“I cannot honestly say. I’ve not been given any orders except to make litters for the wounded and see them safely on their way to the steamer, Far West, up on the Big Horn River.”
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Zane longed only for a bath and the ability to blot out all that he’d seen that day. The Sioux and Cheyenne had mutilated most of the dead, believing they were somehow denying their enemy wholeness for all eternity. The wounded were another story entirely. Their misery and fear seemed contagious. Zane longed for word from the couriers who’d gone out days before in search of the Far West . They were feared dead, but General Terry, the overall commander, held out hope that they would return, and because of this they were soon to move the wounded to safety.
But could safety be found on Indian land? Every man among them wondered if another ambush awaited them upstream. Every noise, every crack or snap of a twig brought men to attention, guns in hand.
For a long time Zane sat on the riverbank staring
blankly at the water. It’s senseless, he thought. I figured to be a peacekeeper, not a killer. I believed it was right to serve, to give of myself to the country that had already given me so much .
“I thought I was honorable.”
But there had been no honor on the banks of the Marias when Major Baker had led the soldiers in a massacre of innocent Blackfoot Indians. There had been no honor when they’d turned the sick and wounded out into the snow and forty-below temperatures.
Other images came to mind. Other encounters and campaigns. Other hurting, frightened people.
It’s not worth it. I can’t make this right in my own mind… . How can I defend it to anyone else?
All around him his men were eager to hunt down the Sioux and Cheyenne responsible for the Custer massacre. Men spoke the name Custer with the same reverence used for God. The man who had at one time been mocked by some and revered by others was now elevated to sainthood in the eyes of many. With every body buried and every new body found, the men saw nothing but the blood-haze of their anger.
They wanted justice for their fallen leader and comrades.
No, they wanted revenge.
These thoughts haunted Zane throughout the next day and the day after that as the wounded were moved out. The irrepressible heat refused to abate. The high temperatures and searing sun made tempers flare and set the men against one another. At Times, Zane had found it necessary to break up fights, yet he couldn’t bring himself to be too hard on the men. They had seen sights such as no man should ever have to see. They had come here innocent in some ways—boys who were seeking adventure. They would never be innocent again.
“Sir! Come quick. They’ll kill her for sure!” a young private called to Zane as he ran toward him.
Zane jumped to his feet. “What is it? They’ll kill who?”
The private gasped for breath. “We found … we found a squaw and papoose. She’s Sioux, and well, you know the boys ain’t feelin’ too friendly toward ’em right now. Especially ’cause the women were the ones doin’ most of the mutilation.”
“Take me to them. Hurry!”
They turned and ran back the same direction the private had come from. What am I to do with a squaw? What is she doing here still? Her people have long since moved out . Or had they? Maybe it was a trap. What if, like Custer, we find ourselves suddenly attacked by thousands of Sioux? What do I do then? The questions ricocheted through Zane’s mind and his heart sounded a furious beat in his ears as he approached the circle of blue-coated men.
“Put a bullet in her and be done with it,” one man said.
“No, torture her. Torture her like she done to our men.”
“What’s going on here?” Zane asked in his most authoritative voice.
The men parted at the sound, and Zane stopped in his tracks to see the young woman, tiny babe in arms. She stared at him in wild-eyed fear. Her long hair was sticking out in disarray around her face and shoulders. She was filthy, caked in dust and blood. She’d been wounded, hit in the head and cut on the arms. The baby began to cry.
“She’s a Sioux, Lieutenant,” the man at his left finally answered. “We found her hiding in the thicket. Her and her brat.”
“She’s probably waiting to kill us in our sleep,” another man called out.
Zane walked forward, watching as the woman cringed and pressed herself back against a tree trunk. “She’s hurt. Get the doctor.”
“Beggin’ the lieutenant’s pardon, but the doc is busy with wounded soldiers. He can’t hardly be stoppin’ to take care of some enemy squaw.”
Zane eyed the man hard. The anger he felt inside threatened to boil over and play itself out in a fist to the man’s smug-looking face. Zane turned and looked at the men around him. “So we are to be no better than them? Is that it? We’ve resorted to openly killing unarmed women and children?”
“You saw what they did,” a grizzled sergeant reminded. “Them Sioux women picked the bones of our dead. They made it so some of the men wouldn’t even be known to their mothers. They killed wounded men if they found them still alive.”
“Did anyone catch this woman in such acts?” Zane questioned.
“No, but she’s got blood on her hands!”
“She’s got blood on her face as well. You’ll notice she has a head wound.” Zane turned to the sergeant in particular and pressed the question again. “Did you see her mutilate any bodies?”
“No, sir,” the man answered in a clipped tone. “Didn’t see her try to help any of them either.”
“From the looks of it,” Zane said, getting a better view of the baby as the woman shifted it in her arms, “I’d say she was probably giving birth during the battle. Looks to me that maybe one of our soldiers tried to kill her—maybe even while she was laboring. Takes a brave man to attack a woman giving birth.” Zane felt torn. He knew these men were angry because of their fallen comrades. He understood their rage, but it grieved him to see that they’d become nothing better than savages themselves.
“Now, I want you,” he said, turning to the sergeant, “to go get the doctor. Bring him to my tent.” Zane didn’t wait for a response but instead turned to one of the other men. “Take her to my tent; it’s just up the ridge. Put her in there and get some hot water so the doctor can treat her wounds.”
The man nodded but looked none too happy, while the sergeant trudged up the path in no apparent hurry. Zane drew a deep breath and turned back to the woman. He stepped closer, relieved to see that she made no attempt to retreat further.
“Ma’am, this soldier is going to escort you to my tent. A doctor will come and see to you and the babe. Do you understand?”
She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. The soldier approached and looked back to Zane. He appeared hesitant as to what he should do.
“Go with him, ma’am.”
For several seconds no one moved, then finally the woman stepped out. She held the baby tightly and let her gaze dart from man to man, looking ready to fight anyone who dared to approach.
Another lieutenant reached out to touch Zane’s arm. “Zane, do you really know what you’re doing?”
The woman’s head snapped up and she eyed them both hard. Just as quickly she looked away and clutched the child ever closer.
“I’m doing what any decent Christian man would do. No one touches her,” Zane commanded, looking to his men. “Do you understand? We will not lower ourselves to the standards of savages. I will personally deal with any man who breaks this order. Understood?”
The men grumbled affirmation. A couple of them cast disgruntled comments to the air, but Zane wasn’t sure who had spoken and decided to let it go. He could comprehend their anger—their frustration. But he also knew these men and knew that most of them would never be able to live with themselves if they harmed this unarmed woman. He wanted more than anything to tell them that. To explain that he knew their hearts were burdened because of the previous days. He wanted to let them know that he understood their anguish and the need to avenge their fallen comrades. But he couldn’t. In that moment, Zane knew they would not hear him—they would not respect him. And right now, he needed their respect.
“Get back to your duties,” Zane commanded in a gruff tone. “If you have trouble following my orders, try to imagine telling your wives and mothers of your desire to murder a new mother and her baby. Try to picture how they would react to such thoughts.”
He turned and walked back up the path to where his tent had been erected. He wondered if the doctor would refuse the request to help. He worried that the woman would die in spite of their care. Then he worried that if she lived, someone would seek to kill her and the baby.
He waited outside his tent, hearing the baby cry from within. The doctor finally came some thirty minutes later, looking apprehensive as he approached Zane.
“I understand you have found a wounded squaw and her infant.”
“Yes, Captain. I would appreciate it if you would attend to them. They’re i
nside my tent.”
The man, older than Zane by a decade, looked at the tent momentarily. “Wouldn’t it be better to just let them die?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Zane replied. “Would it? Is that what Christian men are called to do?”
“This hasn’t been an easy situation. I’ve treated Indians before. I’m not averse to it. However, I have wounded soldiers To deal with and no one is going to take this interference kindly.”
“I’m asking you to see to her. I think she just gave birth. That baby didn’t look very old. She may well die anyway, but at least we will have done the honorable thing.”
“Even if they didn’t—is that it?” the doctor questioned.
“Exactly. I can’t help what they did or didn’t do. I can only stand before God with my own deeds.”
“Very well. I’ll see her.”
Zane waited outside the tent for what seemed an eternity. He could hear the captain talk to the young woman in broken Sioux and slow, methodic English. Her answers were muffled and Zane had no way of understanding what she might be saying.
Pacing back and forth in front of the tent, Zane tried not to notice the men who watched him. They were curious to say the least, but they were also angry. Angry at him for interfering with their chance for revenge. Still, Zane couldn’t imagine the barely-eighteen-year-old Thom Martin taking a gun to the woman, even if she were Sioux. He couldn’t see Sam Daden scalping the squaw—especially after he’d spent his first day helping the wounded by throwing up every time he ate something. Then there were Joe Riddle and Will Vernon. They both talked tough and held a great deal of anger for the losses on the battlefield, but Zane didn’t think killing a woman and baby to be in their capabilities.
“Lieutenant, I’d like to speak with you,” the doctor said as he emerged from the tent.
“Yes, sir?”
Zane could see that the captain looked perplexed. He rubbed his jaw and shook his head. “You were right. The woman gave birth just a few days back. Her head wound is more superficial than dangerous, and the baby is in good shape, although born a bit early.” He glanced back at the tent and then returned to eye Zane. “I’m not sure what to think. I guess I’d rather you take a look for yourself.”
To Dream Anew Page 2