Summer Warpath

by Wayne D. Overholser

  “These are little bands,” Staley said. “Probably they’re young bucks who have left the big party and are out to steal stock and pick up all the cheap scalps they can. Some of ’em are probably Cheyenne Dog soldiers.”

  “But how will Crook stop these little bands?”

  “He can’t police this whole corner of Wyoming,” Staley admitted. “All he can do is to go after the big bunch that is north of here, far as we know. Chances are, when the young bucks hear what’s going on to the north, they’ll hightail up there and throw in with Crazy Horse before the big fight starts.”

  “I thought Sitting Bull was running things,” O’Hara said.

  “He’s the one you reporters write about,” Staley said, “but Crazy Horse is the fighter. He’s a good one, too. The best they’ve got.”

  O’Hara still did not understand Staley’s bad humor. He decided to risk a feeler.

  “Did you see your girl on your way down from Fetterman?” he asked.

  Staley gave him a sharp, probing look, then said: “No, I was afraid to. Louie told me to stay away. I’d just be kicking up dust for nothing. I’m not going to see her until I’m ready to get her out of there. And that may be too late. Her brothers might trade her off to the Cheyennes before that.”

  He paused, staring westward at the setting sun.

  “I don’t know how to work it, Pat. I’m damned if I do. Even if I ain’t too late when I go after Tally, I may have to kill Louie and his boys to get her. How can you expect a girl to love you when you’ve killed her pa and her brothers?”

  O’Hara had no answer to that question. He had no answers at all today. For the first time he admitted the truth to himself. He wished he was back in Chicago. This country out here was just too damned raw for the likes of O’Hara.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Both wings of the Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition joined at Fort Fetterman, General George Crook assumed command, and on May 29 the column moved out, traveling north from Fetterman on the Bozeman Trail into the unknown.

  Crook had one thousand and two men, forty-seven officers, one hundred wagons, and two hundred and ninety-five pack mules. In the final days of the campaign the mules would be his means of transportation, giving him speed and mobility. The guides were Frank Gruard, Louis Richaud, and Baptiste Pourier. Colonel Royall commanded the cavalry, Colonel Alexander Chambers the infantry.

  Dave Allison knew few of these facts. He had not been taken into General Crook’s confidence. He would march, he would obey orders, and the day his enlistment expired he would get the hell out of the Army.

  Allison marched beside Johnny Morgan. He had stuck with Morgan ever since the hay-camp detail rejoined Company A. Fort Laramie had been stripped, leaving barely enough men to defend and maintain it. But Johnny Morgan was still his bunky, Jones his corporal, Muldoon his sergeant, and a young, green West Pointer named Linn had become his lieutenant, and sooner or later they would all be fighting Indians. The Indians called the infantry “walk-a-heaps,” which was exactly what they’d be doing, probably all the way to Montana.

  His feet hurt. He said so.

  Johnny Morgan suggested that maybe they’d be given horses to ride. Mounted infantry would be right nice, he said. And useful, too.

  “You’re a dreamer, Johnny,” Allison said. “We march. We pick ’em up and we lay ’em down. If you don’t like it, you’d better join the cavalry. In this outfit shank’s mare is the best mount you’ll ever have.”

  “Aw, they wouldn’t let me into their old cavalry,” Morgan muttered.

  Allison grinned. For once in his life the boy was right. But at least they led the column. The column stretched behind them for four miles. The wagons, each pulled by six mules, followed the infantry. The cavalry was next, fifteen companies spaced at intervals so they would not get mixed up with each other.

  Glancing back at the long cloud of dust, Allison thanked God the infantry was up front. He had all he could do to swing along in route step without laboring to breathe in that choking blanket of dust.

  Allison had been back at the tail end of the line often enough to know how it was. White powder settled on men and horses. It worked into a man’s nose and ears, made a harsh, gritting sound between his teeth, and caused his blood-shot eyes to become raw red wounds. Allison had eaten cavalry dust more times than he liked to remember. He considered the relationship today a case of tardy justice.

  Someone behind Allison kept trying to play a French harp, but he was getting little music out of the instrument. Pete Risdon yelled an obscene remark and the harpist obliged by putting his instrument away. But then another man started to sing, and Johnny Morgan told Risdon he didn’t see that the situation had improved very much.

  “It sure as hell ain’t,” Risdon agreed. “I never made a campaign that didn’t have a few musicians along. Right now I wish a thousand Sioux would come riding hell for leather over them hills. It would put a quick stop to the caterwauling.”

  “You’ll have your wish one of these days,” Allison said, “and the minute you see all those bucks wearing nothing but a breechclout and war paint, you’ll wish you had the harp to listen to instead of their whooping.”

  Risdon laughed. “I guess you’re right. Just goes to prove a man don’t want what he’s got no matter what it is.”

  “Or he don’t know when he’s well off,” Morgan said. “Right now I wish I was sitting in Ma’s kitchen, watching her make doughnuts. Many’s the time I sat there and wished I was having some big adventure in the Army. I always seen myself a wearing a purty brand-new uniform. So here I am in dirty shirt blues that’ll probably drop off of me before we get back to the fort.”

  “And you dreamed of being a hero,” Allison added.

  “Oh, sure,” Morgan said. “I was always a hero.”

  The command halted for two hours. Horses and mules were fed and watered, the men ate their noon meal of salt pork, hardtack, and coffee. Morgan made the mistake of mentioning his mother’s doughnuts.

  “It’s bad enough trying to choke this garbage down,” Risdon said, glaring at the greasy meat. “But having to hear about your ma’s doughnuts …” He sighed. “I’ll bet they melted in your mouth, didn’t they, kid?”

  “They sure did,” Morgan said. “I used to go down to the cellar and fetch up a crock of cold milk …”

  “Eat your dinner and forget it,” Allison said. “You won’t be seeing your ma or her doughnuts for a long time.”

  They moved out a few minutes later, blanket rolls and haversacks slung over their shoulders, the tin cups that hung from the haversacks banging and jingling down the line. Parades and ceremonies and dreams of heroism did not fit into this foot-slogging column. Cold milk and doughnuts belonged to the limbo of lost boyhood. Here was the hard reality of sweat and thirst and aching feet. The singer and the French-harp player fell silent at last.

  They marched twelve miles before making camp on Sage Creek. After the officer of the day assigned an area to Company A, Pete Risdon and Nelse Luckel took buckets and went to the creek for water. Allison and Morgan gathered wood, while others put up tents for the officers.

  Allison was squatting by the fire, drinking a cup of coffee when General Crook and an aide cantered by riding toward the head of the column. Crook’s beard was braided and tied. He wore a battered slouch hat, a disreputable-looking hunting rig, and moccasins. Allison had heard that he was the sloppiest dresser since U. S. Grant, but his manner and bearing were very military. It just went to prove, Allison thought wryly, that clothes didn’t make the general.

  Walt Staley strode along the creek, a small, red-headed man trotting to keep up with him. Apparently Staley was looking for Allison, for he moved directly toward him, calling: “How’d you make out today, Dave?”

  “I’m tired,” Allison said. “I don’t have a horse to ride like some fellow I could name.”

&n
bsp; Staley laughed and motioned toward the redhead. “I fetched a man along I want you to know. You’ll get tireder’n you are now just listening to him. Name’s Pat O’Hara.”

  O’Hara shook hands with Allison, his freckled face split by a wide grin.

  Johnny Morgan and Corporal Jones and some of the others were lounging around the fire, drinking coffee. Allison introduced them, but O’Hara seemed to be interested only in Allison himself.

  “This overgrown lunkhead was with me on the Sir Cedric Smith hunting party in Colorado,” O’Hara said, jerking a thumb at Staley. “He ran into me when my train pulled into Cheyenne, took me into a saloon on the pretext of buying me a drink, then tried to start a brawl so I’d get killed.”

  “But seeing as it didn’t work out,” Staley said, “I had to fetch him along. I figured that if he didn’t get killed in Cheyenne, the Sioux would take care of it up here. They’re always looking for red-haired scalps.”

  “I’m with the Chicago Herald,” O’Hara said. “I’m going to make Staley the hero of my next article and tell how he saved the entire Yellowstone and Big Horn Expedition by his great personal bravery.”

  “Then he can go East and start a show,” Allison said sourly. “That’s how Bill Cody got his reputation … and his fortune.”

  “I’ve heard that,” O’Hara agreed. He studied Allison closely, then said: “I wanted to talk to you because Walt told me you went with him after some Cheyenne horse thieves early this month. Or maybe it was last month.”

  “He can tell the story better than I can,” Allison said. “Johnny here was along.” He motioned to Morgan, who stared at the ground, his face turning red. “So was Pete Risdon.” He glanced inquiringly at the men around the fire. “Where did Pete go?”

  “He went back to the creek for more water,” Luckel said. “I guess he ain’t back yet.”

  “I was curious about why you were in the infantry,” O’Hara said. “Walt told me you rode pretty well. After all, a man on foot can’t catch Indians.”

  “That’s true,” Allison said mildly.

  “Of course it’s true,” O’Hara said. “The Sioux are the best light cavalry in the world.”

  Very deliberately Allison pulled his pipe out, filled it, and lighted it with a burning twig from the fire. Then he said: “Did you ever hear of the cavalry catching up with the Indians?”

  “I reckon he didn’t,” Staley said. “That’s something you ought to inform your city readers about, Pat. The cavalry always takes a load of stuff along, but the Sioux travel light. They outrun the horse soldiers every time.”

  “Well,” O’Hara said, “if that’s true, why is this expedition in the field?”

  “That’s a real interesting question,” Staley said. “One thing the cavalry can do is keep the Indians on the move. Or go out in the winter and burn their villages and kill women and children and destroy their grub so they’ve got to come in or starve. That’s the way the yellowlegs whip the Indians, Pat.”

  O’Hara frowned at Staley, then glanced at Allison. “Sorry, Mister O’Hara,” Allison said, “but that is the standard cavalry procedure. Custer did it on the Washita.”

  “He was obeying orders,” O’Hara said sharply.

  Another Custer man, Allison thought, and he considered the difference between Crook, who paid no attention to his appearance, and Custer with the long yellow hair, Custer the vain, Custer the cavalier. But it was as useless to discuss Custer with a Custer worshiper as it was to discuss religion with a preacher or politics with a politician. You just wasted your wind and made the other man angry.

  “And another thing about your cavalry,” Allison said, “which makes me prefer the infantry. We camp, we cook supper, we smoke a pipe, and go to bed. What’s your cavalryman doing all this time? He’s on the line, taking care of his horse.” He shook his head. “I’m satisfied to be a dog soldier until I get my discharge. On the First of July I’ll leave the Army and go home.”

  O’Hara started to say something, but Staley, apparently sensing a growing irritation, said quickly: “We’d better mosey back to Captain Hanson’s tent or he’ll eat your supper.”

  “I guess so,” O’Hara said reluctantly. “Looks like we’ll be together on this campaign for a long time, Allison. I want you to know that I’m just as interested in privates as I am generals. More privates get killed than generals. We’ll talk again. If you have any ideas about this expedition that you want to pass on, let me know.”

  “You can write about the rations,” Allison said. “We’ll be lucky if we don’t all come down with scurvy before we get back to Fort Fetterman.”

  “I’ll fetch in a deer for you tomorrow,” Staley said, and walked off with Pat O’Hara.

  Allison stared after the two men, his irritation fading. After all, a reporter did have to write about something. Most of the war correspondents slept in the officers’ tents and messed with the officers and seldom mentioned a private unless he was a casualty. Still, Allison had no intention of talking about himself to Pat O’Hara. He didn’t want to share the story of his private life with people from Maine to Oregon.

  Suddenly he realized that Pete Risdon was squatting beside him.

  “We just had visitors, Pete. Staley brought along a reporter. He wanted to talk about that little fight we had with the Indians back at the hay camp.”

  “The redhead with Staley is a reporter?”

  “Yes, his name’s O’Hara.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Chicago. Why?”

  “I thought he looked familiar,” Risdon said. “But I guess I was wrong.”

  Allison watched him walk away.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The command marched twenty miles the second day, camping that night on the South Cheyenne River. Staley made good his promise and brought in a deer. He and Pat O’Hara dined on venison with their hosts, Private David Allison and friends, Company A, Ninth Infantry.

  O’Hara had recovered from his early stiffness. He rode with Captain Hanson and Company E of the Third Cavalry and would have enjoyed it if the weather had not turned cold. Officers and men wore overcoats. O’Hara decided he made quite a picture, all bundled up, with his black derby tipped forward over his forehead, his short-stemmed pipe clamped in his teeth, and his carbine canted across his saddle.

  That evening O’Hara heard that a private in Captain Meinhold’s Company B, Third Cavalry, had accidentally shot himself in the thigh. The news depressed O’Hara. It was such a waste. He wrote about it that night beside the campfire. The man had come so far to fight Indians, but he might not live long enough to see a Sioux brave.

  Early the following morning General Crook sent Walt Staley back to Fort Fetterman with dispatches. He took O’Hara’s articles along with the news stories of the other correspondents. This day, June 1, was worse than the previous day. Black clouds hung low, giving the sky an ominous, constantly threatening appearance. Snow or sleet fell through the morning, and the cold held on all afternoon.

  In spite of bad weather and mud, the command moved twenty-one miles that day, the road following a spine that lay above a series of ravines. O’Hara saw almost no timber except a few stunted junipers that somehow sucked life out of a forbidding land.

  They continued to move in a northwesterly direction until they reached the site of old Fort Reno. Here Crook had expected to meet a large band of Crows, but they were nowhere in sight. The Crows were to serve as scouts and add strength to the command. Crook hesitated to push deeply into a country swarming with hostiles until the Crows joined him, so he sent three scouts to locate them and bring them into camp.

  O’Hara had not seen Dave Allison since the venison feast. He wanted to know the man better, so he searched the camp until he found Allison, sitting beside a fire with several other soldiers.

  As he approached the group, a big soldier got up and walked
away. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, but O’Hara shrugged it off. After all, why should he run into anyone he knew in this camp of more than a thousand men gathered from all parts of the country?

  Allison offered O’Hara a cup of coffee. So he squatted beside the fire with the soldiers and drank from the tin cup while Allison and Jones hoorawed him about getting bored with the cavalry. If you wanted excitement, they said, you had to come to the infantry.

  O’Hara grinned and said he guessed that was right. And then, finishing the coffee, he said: “Allison, let’s look over the ruins of the fort. This is the only place I know where Uncle Sam took a beating. I’ve always been interested in these forts along the Bozeman Trail. That old chief, Red Cloud, sure did raise hell.”

  Allison chuckled and stood up.

  As they walked away from the fire, O’Hara remembered something.

  “Who was the big man who left just as I arrived?”

  “Pete Risdon.”

  O’Hara frowned, repeated the name, and shook his head. “Guess I don’t know him. He looked kind of familiar when he walked off, but it must have been my imagination.”

  “He was the one who went chasing the Indian horse thieves with me and Johnny Morgan and Walt Staley,” Allison said.

  “I remember you mentioned him,” O’Hara said. “He’s a tough one, Staley says.”

  “He’s tough with a man he can whip,” Allison agreed, “but he looks up to a man who can whip him. He bullied Johnny Morgan until we had a set-to with some soldiers from Company K. Since then he thinks Johnny’s all right because Johnny kept getting off the floor and never quit fighting.”

  “A lot of men are like this fellow Risdon,” O’Hara said.

  They climbed a hill to the fort’s cemetery, which was on a lonely bluff overlooking Powder River. O’Hara stopped and looked around, and a lump formed in his throat.