In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree

by Michael A. McLellan

  Picton’s riders reached the camp first, and shot or sabered nearly half of the shocked and frightened Indians before John and his men reached the creek.

  John’s horse pounded through the creek and up the short embankment on the other side. The scene was chaos: Pistol and rifle shots cracked sharply over the arrhythmic thunder of hooves, and screams of fear and agony mingled with whoops of triumph and glee. One of the lodges caught fire and was billowing black smoke into the darkening sky. Someone burst from a lodge immediately to John’s left, and he wheeled and fired the pistol, missed, and quickly fired again. The second shot hit the fleeing woman in the center of her back. She fell forward, the naked infant she was carrying flew from her hands and lay screaming in the dirt several feet in front of her motionless body.

  John leaped off his still-moving horse. Riderless, the already frightened animal galloped off in a panic. John didn’t even notice, he ran for the screaming child. He was less than ten feet away when a rider galloped past him close enough to brush his arm. He watched in horror as the man deliberately turned the horse and trampled both the woman and the infant.

  Looking around dazedly, John recalled he’d been taught that stallions were poor battle horses. His was nowhere to be seen. He turned this way and that, the pistol in his hand held loosely at his side. There were dead and dying Indians everywhere. A man whose name he couldn’t remember was walking from body to body, taking scalps and hanging the dripping prizes from his belt.

  It was over. The whole affair had lasted mere minutes. The shots tapered to sporadic pops. He turned back toward the trampled mother and child; there was an old man standing over them. He wore only a breechcloth. His long, gray hair hung in stringy clumps about his face. He was staring at John reproachfully. John stared back, unable to look away. He wondered if the woman was the old man’s daughter.

  There was a sudden report from just behind John. The old man stumbled backward several steps. He stared down at his bleeding abdomen for several seconds before collapsing to the ground. John turned his head to see who had fired just as the shooter strode by him, holstering a pistol. It was the man who hadn’t wanted to stay behind to set up camp. John was trying to remember his name…Rogers? Yes, that was his name.

  Rogers looked down at the body of the old man, then at the woman and infant. The infant’s crushed body was partially trampled into the dirt. He smiled at John.

  “These two red-asses got a proper earth bath, eh, Lieutenant?”

  John turned and walked away.

  3

  One of the men found John’s horse a quarter mile downstream while looking for Indians who’d managed to run off. He didn’t find any, nor did anyone else. He led the big bay back to the camp where John was sitting on his haunches, pretending to listen to Frank Picton recount his part in the “battle” to the handful of men who were closest to him. John rose, took the reins, and thanked him.

  “Welcome, Lieutenant, sir.” The man said in a thick southern drawl. “You ought to get yourse’f a geldin’ ya know. Betta temperment.”

  John nodded distractedly. “I’ll consider it.”

  “Suit yourse’f, sir.”

  Picton had the men pile everything in the camp onto the smoldering remains of the burned lodge. Then, when he deemed the re-kindled blaze hot enough, he had them throw on the bodies of the thity-one Cheyenne. A few of the men grumbled about the pyre, calling it an invitation to any war-parties that may be in the vicinity. Picton, overhearing some of the conversation simply said, “Gentlemen, aren’t we here to fight Indians?”

  By ten o’clock they were riding back to their own camp under the light of a waning moon. The men were passing a jug, the conversation was animated and cheerful. John, who was riding in front next to Frank Picton, was quiet. Sensing his mood, Picton said, “Don’t allow this to weaken your resolve, John. Bitches make pups and pups grow into dogs. Those Indians were a hundred miles away from where they should have been, and the trail of the murdering bastards we’re following led right to them.

  They were guilty by proxy if not by action. Make no mistake. They were hostiles, every one.”

  John thought of the screaming baby.

  They struck out with the sun the next morning and passed the still smoking remains of the Cheyenne camp before eight o’clock. The Pawnee scouts stopped and spent several minutes sifting through the grisly remains before moving on and rejoining the vanguard. No one was sure of what it was they were looking for, and none of the men asked. Their relationship with the Pawnee scouts was strictly one of necessity. They were Indians, after all, and were looked upon with suspicion and contempt.

  At midday Frank Picton rode ahead with two men to meet up with the scouts while the rest of the men stopped to water the horses and eat a small meal. John was sitting on his bedroll a short distance from the group, attempting to write Clara another letter. For the first time since leaving West Point, however, the words simply wouldn’t come. He carried in his saddlebags upwards of thirty letters he’d written to her since being sent west. On most occasions he could fill a sheet of paper in minutes.

  But not today.

  Through all of the events since that day in Commandant Black’s office two months before, John continued to feel optimistic about the future. He believed that he and Clara being together was nothing short of preordained, and that ultimately they would triumph over their troubles. He wrote her letters knowing full well he couldn’t mail them, but he knew she would have them eventually nonetheless. When all of this was behind them they would read them together and laugh over his awkward declarations of love and inept descriptions of life on the prairie.

  Now, for the first time, John was plagued by self-doubt, and he wondered if he would even see Clara again.

  “Can we have a word, Lieutenant?” The man who addressed him was not quite old enough to be his father. John grappled for his name.

  “What can I do for you, Mister…Childs is it?”

  “Childs, that’s just right. Well…we’re here to tell you that we didn’t sign on for the likes of what happened last night.

  Mind you we ain’t no injun lovers, and I’m not happy about goin’ back on my word, but there wasn’t a single fighting man among them reds in that camp, and killin’ women and children just ain’t right no matter what cause you think you have. Now Frank here,” Childs cocked his head toward the man next to him, “wasn’t even there on account of he was one of the ones you asked to stay back with the doctor. Us three, we just laid back some when we saw what the situation was. We don’t intend to be a part of another one.” He held out a small drawstring bag. “This is the money we were advanced; every cent. I had to add a dollar of my own on account of Quincy was short—spent some of his on one of them injun whores back at the fort. Anyway, we’d be obliged if you’d give it to Colonel Picton when he gets back.”

  John looked at the offered bag. “Why did you wait until he left?”

  Childs looked at the other men, saw no help there, then looked at his feet. “We thought he might try and stop us.”

  “What makes you think I won’t?”

  “Well,” he said, looking more uncomfortable by the moment, “beggin’ your pardon, Lieutenant, I know you’re an officer and all, but you’re not much more than a boy—in deed and countenance. I saw you yesterday. Some others did as well. Your horse run off and you looked like a lost babe that didn’t know where his mama was. These men won’t follow you if you want to make trouble for us. My guess is you didn’t like what happened anymore than we did.”

  “I see.” John took the bag. “Mister Childs, none of you have been conscripted. You’re free to go any time you wish.”

  Childs looked like he was about to say more, but didn’t. Instead, he touched a finger to his sweat-stained hat and walked to his waiting horse. The other three men followed.

  Later that afternoon John and the men caught up with Frank Picton where he was waiting along with the two men he’d taken with him. The three were s
itting under the meager shade of a solitary tree. Picton was smoking a pipe and examining one of his ever-present maps.

  “Our scouts seem to have lost our quarry. We’ll camp here tonight. If they don’t locate fresh sign by tomorrow, we’ll head back up to the Platte and search for renegades elsewhere.”

  John told him about Childs and the other men. Picton was unconcerned. “It was inevitable. Why do you think they lost the war?”

  4

  The four men who’d refused to kill innocents rode back the way they’d come. They all agreed to forget the west and head back to Missouri after stopping at Fort Laramie to gather what supplies they could. Home, where we should have gone in the first place, Andrew Childs thought as the bleak and endless grassland rolled out before him. A silence fell over the group as they passed the Indian camp with its pile of charred corpses. They all tried not to look; they all did.

  It was far too late by the time they heard the pounding of hooves behind them. They spurred their horses and made a gallant run for it, but were overtaken in minutes.

  They were stripped naked, scalped, and dragged screaming behind horses running at a full gallop back to the remnants of the Cheyenne camp by the stream. There they were mutilated and left for the scavengers.

  Eight

  1

  Henry found Standing Elk forty miles northeast of Fort Laramie. It wasn’t the first place he looked, or even the second, but Henry considered himself fortunate anyway. There were many places Standing Elk could have been. In this particular spot there was a small, shallow lake which nearly dried up in the summer. Thousands of blue flowers bloomed around it for a very short period of time during the spring. Standing Elk claimed the dried blooms had healing properties, and he made a point to collect some every year.

  What Henry didn’t expect was the one hundred or more braves who were camped around the lake as well.

  He rode in under watchful eyes on the same gray mare Standing Elk had gifted him four years earlier. Henry and the mare had seen a lot of miles together in the interim. After some deliberation he’d named her Harriet, after the woman who had raised him. He’d briefly considered naming her Eliza, but knowing that chances were pretty good he’d outlive the horse, he’d decided against it.

  Henry spoke to a Northern Cheyenne brave he’d met on one of his scouting expeditions. The brave told Henry that Standing Elk could be found on the far side of the lake, where the flowers had not been trampled as badly. He also stopped and spoke to a Southern Cheyenne man named Flying Hawk, who was from Black Kettle’s band, and about Henry’s age. When Henry had still lived with the Cheyenne he’d taught Flying Hawk how to make snares, and Flying Hawk in turn showed Henry how to make fish traps in the stream.

  “Mo’ohnee’ėstse said you would come,” Flying Hawk stated solemnly.

  Henry could only nod.

  He rode the mare around the lake, keeping to the water’s edge so as not to crush any of the delicate flowers. Standing Elk was there, bent over the flowers with a small, hide bag in his hand. He straightened up and watched Henry dismount and walk toward him.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said in English as Henry approached. “The Hotamétaneo’o wished to leave, but I told them Nótaxemâhta’sóoma would be coming, and here you are. You must bring William Bent and the Soldier Chief—”

  “I’m not a warrior.”

  “This is what they call you,” Standing Elk said dismissively, then bent down and began picking flowers again.

  “Tell me what happened,” Henry said, switching to Cheyenne. He squatted and began picking flowers too.

  Standing Elk told Henry what happened at Big Sandy Creek. How the Soldier Chief had told Chief Black Kettle and Chief Left Hand that the Indians were to live there. The Chiefs did as they were bidden, but then soldiers came and attacked the camp without cause. Standing Elk was away on a hunt with most of the other men when it happened. His wife, Walking Woman, was killed, and so was Henry’s friend, Spotted Paw, who’d stayed behind because he’d fallen attempting to break a horse, but had broken his arm instead. Supposedly Spotted Paw had been shot four times and still killed three white soldiers and led several children to safety before dying of his wounds. The old Cheyenne Chief, Yellow Wolf, was killed as well. All together almost one hundred fifty Cheyenne and Arapahos died; mostly women, children and old men.

  Standing Elk told the story matter-of-factly—which was his way—but Henry knew the loss of his wife and the others affected him deeply.

  He also told Henry he’d participated in one of the attacks on the white soldiers during the previous months—that he could no longer tolerate them. They would have to go back to where they came from and take their people with them. Henry knew that would never happen, and he knew Standing Elk did as well.

  For Henry, the hatred which had slowly been fading over the last four years tried to return. He suddenly wished that he was a warrior like the name Nótaxemâhta’sóoma implied. He didn’t fully understand the word; it meant Shadow Warrior or possibly Spirit Warrior. He guessed the former as shadow could refer to his skin color. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t a warrior. He wasn’t anyone. He was a man without a place, without a nation.

  He’d been accepted by the Cheyenne, even respected, though he was still unsure why. But he would never truly be one of them. And he would never belong with the whites, though there were some he could almost call friends; and one, years before, who had most likely saved his life with a few kind words and a canteen of water.

  Standing Elk asked Henry in Cheyenne to bring William Bent and the Soldier Chief, Major Anthony, north to the Powder River to speak of returning all of the lands the whites had taken with their tricks and lies four winters before. He said that otherwise, he, along with the Dog Men and other Cheyenne, Arapaho, and Sioux warriors, would continue trying to force the whites out.

  “I don’t think Major Anthony is the Soldier Chief anymore. At least not the one you want. I’ll bring William, though, if I can. He could be out east already for supplies.

  Standing Elk said that he would wait with his relatives, the Northern Cheyenne, at the Powder River for William Bent. He also said he would ask that the other Indians not attack any more whites until then. He was doubtful he’d be listened to.

  “They are growing more restless and angry.” He flapped his hand toward the other side of the lake. “Short Bull took a white woman. I’ve spoken with her. She will have a child when the snows fall. He took her to show that he can take from the whites like they take from us.”

  Henry gazed across the shallow lake. “What’s he going to do with her?”

  “I do not know. I do not like these things. We need more flowers.”

  Henry suddenly felt uneasy. He’d heard stories of the Sioux taking women, but had never been witness to it. Short Bull was a Cheyenne; one of the Dog Men, and this was a white woman, not a squaw from a rival tribe. Henry met Short Bull once while scouting for some traders. He was proud and, like Standing Elk, a man of few words. Henry wanted to ask more questions but let it go. He’d known Standing Elk long enough to know when a conversation was finished.

  He departed only three hours after he’d arrived. Normally he would have given Harriet a longer rest, but he knew Standing Elk

  wished him to hurry. Henry felt the underlying tension in his friend’s outwardly calm demeanor. Standing Elk didn’t even offer to smoke with him, which was a first.

  The news of the abducted woman awoke something in Henry that had lain dormant for a long time. He made it less than a mile out of the camp before memories of Eliza consumed him. He stopped Harriet, stared up into the early afternoon sky, and began to weep. The tears began as a trickle, then Henry let out a wail of loneliness and despair so loud that it caused a crow roosting in a lone cottonwood to squawk indignantly and take flight. He began to sob uncontrollably.

  The tears eventually subsided. Henry dismounted and walked Harriet over to the cottonwood the crow had recently vacated. He sat
against the tree and looked out across the plain; it’s lush green already showing the faintest signs of fading, foreshadowing the stark grays and browns that would soon dominate its vastness. A colorless mirror into his own emptiness.

  2

  Dusk.

  Henry lay in the knee-high scrub looking through his field glasses at the Cheyenne camp by the lake. He’d purchased the valuable binoculars from a discharged Union soldier in St. Joseph for ten dollars—less than half of what they were worth. The soldier, who reeked of whiskey and was minus his left arm, claimed he’d taken them off of a fallen Confederate officer. Ten dollars was a lot of money, but Henry jumped at the chance to own the glasses. They had proven themselves useful on more than one occasion since.

  He was searching for the abducted woman. He figured it would be easy as there were no lodges; the camp was only a temporary stopover for the constantly moving war party. Earlier, when he’d visited with Standing Elk, there’d been a large group of Oglala Sioux at the camp. This was Sioux land, after all, and the Cheyenne were only here by the Sioux’s leave. Standing Elk had indicated that the Sioux had joined them in some of the retaliatory attacks after the affair at Big Sandy Creek. There was no sign of them now.

  Apparently the Sioux had moved out since Henry had departed earlier in the day. He guessed there were still sixty Cheyenne and a handful of Arapahos in the camp.

  There was a large stand of mixed pine, cottonwood, and hackberry trees near the lake. It was the first place he looked and he wasn’t let down.

  The woman—the very young woman—was sitting against a tree on top of a blanket with her knees up to her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs. She looked to be about Eliza’s age when… She also looked only partially dressed.

  Pushing the thought away he lowered the field glasses, backed a little further into the scrub, and rolled over onto his back. He was overwrought with indecision. He considered trying to bargain with Short Bull for the woman but knew the inquiry would be viewed with suspicion. What would Henry want with the white woman, after all? Short Bull would be angry if he knew Henry intended to return her to the whites. Did the whites know she was captured? There was no way for him to know. Henry did know that if the army found out she was taken, and where she was, things could go badly for the Cheyenne. He also had Standing Elk to think about. He didn’t want to shame his friend, to whom he owed his life. He thought William Bent would know what to do, but he didn’t know where Bent was or how long it would take to locate him. If he’d gone east for supplies, which he was known to do this time of year, it would be a long time before Henry could bring him up to the Powder River. And what if Short Bull and his band of Dog Men separated from Standing Elk and the other Cheyenne warriors?