Life had not been that easy for Ska Luta. Elk Woman had been older when she took him in. Because of that, and because he was half white, he had a difficult time fitting in with the others, who often teased him. Now Elk Woman was very old, and the relationship had changed. She was no longer taking care of Ska Luta; he was taking care of her.
As word of Yellow Hawk’s raids came back to the reservation, it was the youth of Ska Luta’s age group who were most impressed. Yellow Hawk became a hero in their eyes, and many spoke openly of leaving the village to join him.
Ska Luta did not share the hero worship of Yellow Hawk, believing that what he was doing could only bring trouble to the rest of them. But, he didn’t share his opinion with the others.
“Ska Luta, if there is to be war between the red man and the white, which of your two bloods would guide you? Would you fight for the red man, or the white man?” Brave Elk asked.
“I am Shoshone,” Ska Luta said resolutely. “Never have I seen the man whose white blood runs in my veins. I was born here. I was raised here. Here are my people. Why would you ask such a thing?”
“I ask because you are of two bloods, and it is not known which blood is the stronger.”
“Do you think red blood is so weak, that the white blood will win?” Ska Luta asked, and the others laughed.
“Brave Elk thinks red blood is weak,” Beaver Tail said.
“I do not think this!” Brave Elk said, defensively.
“Then, if you know that red blood is stronger than white blood, you know where my heart will be if war comes. But I think there will be no war.”
Chapter Seven
From the Central Wyoming News:
Indian Depredations
Reports from other Wyoming newspapers bring the disturbing news that Yellow Hawk has left the Wind River Reservation with a band of no less than twenty Shoshone. Although the Indian wars are all but over, there have been, from time to time, disturbing incidents such as this, where young firebrands, seeking to emulate acts of derring-do as told around campfires by the elders, go off on their own adventure.
With no wars to fight, these young ne’er-do-wells create their own adventures to the detriment, not only of the White citizens, but to their own fellow Indians. Yellow Hawk and his band have raided some isolated farms and ranches with indiscriminate murders and robberies.
Their most recent atrocity was the murder of six men, teamsters all, driving wagons for the McKnight–Keaton freight line. The six men were killed, scalped, and the wagons looted. It is said that there were twenty rifles and one thousand rounds of ammunition being transported in the wagons, and those weapons fell into the hands of the marauding Indians.
Fort Laramie
“Have you seen this newspaper article, Sue?” Lieutenant Scott asked, thumping the article with his hand. “The one about the Indian raids?”
“Oh, yes,” Sue said. “How awful.”
“Awful? What do you mean, awful? Why, it’s fantastic! It’s wonderful,” Scott said enthusiastically.
“What do you mean, it’s wonderful?” Sue asked.
“All those people they’ve killed? Why, they murdered an entire family, a husband and his wife, and their two children, a young boy and a young girl.”
“Yes, well, it’s too bad they were killed, but you just aren’t looking at this the right way,” Scott said. “But then, why would I expect you to understand? I see this as opportunity! I’m going to see Colonel Gibbon and ask him to let me take out a troop of cavalry in pursuit of those Indians.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if he sent out Captain Kirby? After all, Captain Kirby has some experience in fighting Indians.”
“He has had his moment of glory,” Scott said. “Now it’s my time. If I pull this off, your father is sure to notice me, and he’s sure to bring me back to Washington to serve on his staff. Then I’ll not only have line experience, I’ll have battle experience.”
“I wish you wouldn’t go. I would worry about you,” Sue said.
“Ha! I’ll have an entire troop of the Fifth Cavalry with me. We’ll be going after a bunch of half-naked, untrained savages. The only worry would be if we don’t catch up with them.”
“All right, Lieutenant,” Colonel Gibbon said. “I know you have been chomping at the bit to prove yourself. And Captain Kirby is a bit under the weather now, so you can take twenty men from A Troop. Go twenty miles north and make a sweep toward the west, maintaining a distance of twenty miles from the post. Stay out no longer than two days, return tomorrow and give me a report. In the meantime, I will have been in telegraph contact with Fort Fetterman, so we can coordinate before you go out on your next scout.”
“Thank you, sir!” Scott said, coming to attention and snapping a sharp salute.
Ten minutes later, Scott was standing in A Troop’s orderly room, talking to First Sergeant Miner Cobb.
“How soon can you have twenty men ready to go?” Scott asked.
“We can be ready within the hour, Lieutenant,” Cobb replied.
“Not good enough, First Sergeant. The sloppy way this troop has been run is going to change. You will have twenty men ready within thirty minutes. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir. Thirty minutes.”
As soon as Scott left the orderly room, First Sergeant Cobb called his clerk over.
“Go find Sergeant Caviness,” Cobb said. “Bring him to me.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
After the clerk left, Cobb began making a list of twenty names. He was to number eighteen when the clerk returned with Sergeant Caviness.
“What’s up, Mr. Cobb?” Caviness asked.
“Have you heard of the band of Indians that have gone out on the prowl?” Cobb asked.
“Yeah, I read about it in the paper,” Caviness said.
“Somehow, Lieutenant Scott has convinced Colonel Gibbon to send out a scout after them, with Scott in charge.”
“I feel sorry for the men who will make up that scout.”
“Then you’re feeling sorry for yourself, because I want you to be the noncom.”
Caviness smiled, and nodded. “Yeah, I sort of thought you might be thinking of something like that.”
“Sam, you’ve had battle experience with Indians. The lieutenant hasn’t. I figure that having you along might improve the odds somewhat.”
“First, you are forgetting one thing,” Caviness said.
“What’s that?”
“Lieutenant Scott isn’t going to listen to a thing I say.”
“Do what you can. Here, I’ve come up with seventeen names. You can come up with three more. Scott wants to be ready to leave in”—Cobb looked over at the wall clock—“twenty minutes from now.”
Caviness checked over the list Cobb had drawn up for him. “Good list,” he said. “All good men.”
Lieutenant Pershing walked out onto the parade ground where Scott was standing alongside his saddled horse.
“I’m told you’re going out after a renegade band of Indians,” Pershing said.
“That’s right.”
“I wish I could go with you.”
“I just bet you do. But, being as you are a part of the Tenth Cavalry, and not part of the Fifth, there’s no way.”
“So Colonel Gibbon said,” Pershing replied. He patted the face of Scott’s horse.
“Clay, I’m also told that this will be your first encounter with Indians.”
“What does that matter?”
“No matter, really,” Pershing said. “But, as you know, I have had a few encounters with them, so, if you don’t mind, I’d like to give you just a quick word of advice. Friend to friend.”
“All right,” Scott said. “Friend to friend. What is your advice?”
“If you see the Indians . . .” Pershing started, but before he could finish his comment, Scott interrupted him.
“It’s not a matter of if I see the Indians. I will see them.”
“Not before they see you,” Pershing
replied.
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s the point I’m trying to make. Anytime you see Indians, they will have seen you first. There’s very little you can do to avoid that, but you do need to be aware of it.”
“Thank you, John, I’ll keep that in mind,” Scott said.
“Good luck,” Pershing said and, turning away from him, he started back toward the headquarters building.
“Bugler,” Scott ordered. “Sound ‘Boots and Saddles. ’”
The stirring notes of the call, “Boots and Saddles,” rolled across the parade ground and sounded throughout the post. The rest of the men were coming out onto the quadrangle then, leading their horses. Soldiers and civilians stopped what they were doing long enough to step out in front of the various occupied buildings to watch the departure.
Colonel Gibbon strolled out onto the parade ground.
“Mr. Scott, are you ready to depart?” Gibbon asked.
“I am, sir,” Scott replied, as he saluted.
Gibbon returned the salute. “Proceed, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir,” Scott replied. “Troops, to horse. Colors and noncommissioned officer, post,” he ordered.
Sergeant Caviness “posted,” by taking his place at the head of the formation, facing Scott. The soldier, who was carrying a swallow pennant version of the American flag, came up beside Caviness.
“Prepare to mount,” Scott said. Then, “Mount.”
As one, the men mounted.
“Right, by column of twos. Forward, ho!”
At his command, the mounted soldiers began moving out at a swift trot, following Lieutenant Scott. Sergeant Caviness and the color bearer were just behind Scott.
A couple of the post guards opened the gate to allow the riders to exit the fort. One hundred yards later, the horsemen were on the banks of the wide, shallow Platte River, riding quietly, with the only sound being the dull thud and brush of hooves in the dirt and dry grass, the twist and creak of leather, and the subdued clink of bit chains.
Lieutenant Pershing was standing alongside Colonel Gibbon as the two men watched the troops depart the post.
“Tell me, John, what do you think of Scott?” Colonel Gibbon asked.
“He was a classmate, sir.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. What do you think of him as an officer?”
“Colonel, I’m really not in position to answer that question, having never served in the field with him.”
“I understand, and forgive me for asking the question. I have no right to put you on the spot like that. And, he may turn out to be a fine officer. He is the son-in-law of General Winfield, you know.”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant Scott and Miss Winfield had a chapel wedding on the very day of graduation.”
“General Winfield is a fine man. Maybe Scott will turn out all right. How are you and Lieutenant Holbrook coming with the writing of the TO&E?”
“The lieutenant and I are making very good progress I believe, sir,” Pershing said. “We should be finished by the end of the month.”
“It’s about time the table of organization and equipment was updated,” Gibbon said. “The way it is now, you can go from the Fifth to the Sixth, to the Seventh Infantry and it’s almost like going from one army to another.”
“Yes, sir, well, you should try in the Ninth and Tenth Cavalry. We are last in line for everything. But I think a standard TO&E will take care of that.”
“I’m sure it will. By the way, if you don’t have anything else planned, Mrs. Gibbon and I would love to have you as our guest for dinner this evening,” Colonel Gibbon said.
“Thank you, sir. It would be a great honor to attend.”
With Scott’s detachment
It was midway through the afternoon, and the column was moving slowly but steadily, a symphony of sound with jangling equipment, squeaking leather, and the dull thud of hoofbeats. As the horses proceeded through the dry grass, they stirred up grasshoppers to whir ahead of them in long, wing-augmented hops. The dusty grass gave up a pungent but not unpleasant smell.
“Lieutenant,” Sergeant Caviness called. “With your permission, sir, Trooper Jones and I will go up on the ridgeline there and have a look.”
“Very well. We’ll take a short break here to give the horses a blow,” Scott said. “You may give the order.”
“Troop, halt! Dismount, take ten!” Caviness ordered. “Trooper Jones, with me.”
Jones didn’t dismount, but rode up to be with Caviness. There, he dismounted, and leaving their horses behind, Caviness and Jones started up the hill. Below and behind the two men, the other soldiers took advantage of the break, some of them stretching out to rest on the ground, while others walked around to stretch out the kinks of saddle weariness.
Caviness and Jones climbed the hill to have a look around. When he got there, Caviness saw only dusty rocks, shimmering dry grass, and more ranges of hills. He started to drop the glasses when he noticed something that looked a little different. He examined it more closely, then dropped the glasses. “God in heaven,” he breathed.
“What is it, Sam?” Trooper Jones asked. Like Sergeant Caviness, Jones had been with Crook in Arizona, where he was awarded the Medal of Honor. He had been a sergeant several times, but a penchant for alcohol prevented him from keeping his rank. Jones was just a private now, but there had been times during his career when he had actually outranked Caviness. As a result, the two men were close friends, and on a first-name basis.
Caviness handed his field glasses to Jones. “Take a look,” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s a burned-out wagon.”
“Yeah, it is,” Jones said. “Oh, damn. Damn, damn, damn,” he exclaimed. He was still looking through the glasses. “Damn!”
“What is it, J.C.? What do you see?” Caviness asked.
“Bodies, Sam. I see bodies.”
“We’d better tell the lieutenant,” Caviness said.
Caviness and Jones hurried down the side of the hill.
“Lieutenant, we seen somethin’ you should know about,” Caviness said.
“What did you see?”
“We seen a burnt-out wagon, and I’m pretty sure there’s some bodies lyin’ around it.”
“Where?”
“Just over the next rise. About another mile.”
“Mount up!” Scott called. When all were mounted, he gave the command, “Forward at a trot!”
As the column lurched forward, sabers, canteens, mess kits, and rifles jangled under the irregular rhythm of the trotting horses, and dust boiled up behind them. Scott held the trot until they were within one hundred yards of the burned-out wagon.
“At a gallop!” he called, and he stood in his stirrups and drew his saber, pointing it forward. The saber wasn’t drawn as a weapon, but rather as a signaling device, for a drawn saber meant that carbines should be pulled from the saddle scabbard and held at the ready.
Every nerve in Scott’s body was tingling as the group of soldiers swept down on the wagon. He was alert to every blade of grass, every rock and stone, every hill and gully. They reached the wagon, and Scott held up his hand, calling the men to a halt.
“Line of skirmishers, front and rear!” he ordered, and the squads of horse soldiers moved into position.
“Sergeant, take a look,” Scott ordered.
Caviness walked toward two clumps on the ground. As he approached, he could hear a buzzing sound as flies swarmed around the bodies of a man and woman, lying side by side in the grass. Both had been stripped naked. The man had been scalped, and arrows had been shot into his penis.
“Let’s get out of here, Sergeant,” Scott ordered.
“Lieutenant, ain’t we goin’ to bury ’em?” Sergeant Caviness asked.
“Yeah, all right, you can bury ’em, but make it fast.”
“Yes, sir,” Caviness said. He called for half a dozen men and the men, moved by morbid curiosity, didn’t even protest the order as they took shovels and began to dig
the graves.
“Sergeant!” one of the men called. “We found another body. A young girl.”
Caviness went over to investigate and saw the body of a young girl, who couldn’t have been over fourteen. She was holding a pistol in her hand, and there was a bullet hole in her temple.
“She must ’a shot herself,” one of the soldiers said.
“Yeah, well, who can blame her. Look what happened to her ma and pa,” another said.
“How come she ain’t all butchered up like they are?”
“Accordin’ to what the Injuns believe, there’s no honor in butchering up someone if you wasn’t the one that kilt ’em,” Jones said.
“Honor? What’s the honor in butcherin’ up somebody, whether you kilt ’em or not?” a soldier asked.
“You have to think like an Injun,” Jones said.
“Sergeant Caviness, we found somethin’,” another soldier said, and he came from the back of the wagon carrying a small, leather-bound notebook.
“What is it?”
“Looks like maybe one of ’em was keepin’ a diary,” the soldier said.
Caviness opened the book and began to read.
MY DIARY
by Wanda Cassidy
Ma and Pa said we were going to move from Castle Butte to Theresa, because he bought some farmland there. I didn’t want to move, because I have made many friends in Castle Butte, but Ma said I will make new friends in Theresa. I guess I will make new friends in Theresa, but Billy LeGrand lives in Castle Butte, and on the night before we left, I let him kiss me. I haven’t told Ma and Pa that I let him kiss me because Pa might . . .
Caviness slammed the book shut, then looked back toward the little girl.
“Bless your heart, darlin’,” he said quietly. “Billy will never know what he lost.”
“What’s it say, Sarge?” one of the soldiers asked.
“Nothin’,” Caviness said. “It don’t say nothin’. When you bury the little girl, bury this with her.”
MacCallister, the Eagles Legacy: Dry Gulch Ambush Page 6