The Indian who had threatened her with the war club, whom she assumed was Yellow Hawk, came up to her and, gruffly, pulled her down from the horse.
“Are you Yellow Hawk?”
To her surprise, the Indian smiled. “You have heard of me?”
“Yes.”
Yellow Hawk made a fist of his right hand, and with his thumb, pointed to his own chest. “I am not surprised. Soon, all will have heard of me, and my name will be spoken with the names of Crazy Horse, Rain in the Face, Gall, and Sitting Bull.”
“I doubt it,” Sue said. “They were all great leaders of their nations. You are nothing but an egotistical fraud.”
Yellow Hawk looked confused, and Sue realized that he had no idea what she meant. Then, even though he didn’t know what the words meant, he perceived that it was an insult of some sort, so the confusion on his face was replaced by an angry frown.
“Come with me,” he ordered.
Yellow Hawk led her past those who had gathered in curiosity and into a tepee, where he pushed her roughly to the ground. He spread out her arms and legs and tied them with rawhide thongs to stakes which had been driven into the ground and, for a moment, Sue feared that she was about to be raped.
“What is going to happen to me?” she asked.
“You are going to die,” Yellow Hawk answered.
“Why must I die?” Sue asked. “I mean you no harm.”
“Do you fear death?” Yellow Hawk asked.
The shock which had allowed Sue to take her fate so calmly before was now wearing off. Had she been killed immediately, she would have borne up to it. But she had been kept alive and now she was embracing life with an appetite she didn’t know she possessed.
She wondered how best to preserve her life now. Should she plead for it? Or should she seem to show disdain?
Another Indian stepped into the tepee before Sue could answer. Though she couldn’t be sure, because all the previous conversation had been in a language she couldn’t understand, she believed that this was the Indian who had kept Yellow Hawk from killing her.
“What is your name?” this Indian asked in English.
“My name is Sue,” Sue replied. “I am glad that you can speak English.”
“Except for the very old, we all speak English,” the Indian said. “We learned it in the Agency school.”
“If you have gone to school, why are you and the others doing this? Isn’t there peace between our people now?”
“There can be no peace as long as the whites can tell the Indians what they can and what they cannot do.”
“But aren’t the laws that have been made for your own good?” Sue asked.
Yellow Hawk made a snorting sound, said something in disgust, then left the tepee.
“Yellow Hawk does not like you,” the Indian who remained said.
“Yes, well I’m not that overly fond of him, either.”
The Indian laughed.
“Well, at least you have a sense of humor,” Sue said. “What is your name?”
“My name is Running Horse.”
“Yellow Hawk wants to kill me, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“But you argued against it. You kept him from killing me.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you keep him from killing me?”
“You did not fear death,” Running Horse said. “That means your medicine is strong.”
“Is Yellow Hawk a chief?”
“I don’t know.”
“How is it that you don’t know if he is a chief or not?”
“He has led some of us on a new path. If this new path is good, he will be a chief. If it is bad, he will not be a chief.”
“The path is bad, Running Horse. Surely you can see that.”
“It might be good,” Running Horse said.
“I think it is not good. Why am I a prisoner?”
“You are a prisoner because you were not killed. Would you prefer death?”
“I would prefer to be free,” she said. “You spoke to spare my life. Can you not speak to set me free?”
“Yellow Hawk will not set you free.”
“But why would you want to keep me prisoner? I am of no value to anyone.”
“I will speak for you, but I think it will do no good,” Running Horse said.
“Thank you.”
“The soldier who ran,” Running Horse said. “Was he your man?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you take as husband a man who is a coward?”
“I didn’t know that he was a . . .” Sue started, but she didn’t finish the sentence. “I don’t know what you are talking about. Clay isn’t a coward. He is a graduate of West Point, and he is an officer.”
“He was chief of the others who were with you?” Running Horse asked.
“Yes.”
“The other soldiers, those who were with you, they were not cowards. They fought well.”
“And they all died.”
“Your husband did not die. Your husband ran, because he is a coward.”
“He was just afraid, that’s all,” Sue said. “You can’t blame someone for being afraid.”
“You were not afraid.”
Brave Elk had taken part in the fight against the soldiers, and he was proud that he had fought well. But he was troubled that Yellow Hawk had taken the woman as prisoner. She was not a soldier. There would have been no nobility in killing her, nor was there in taking her prisoner. He was glad that Running Horse had prevented Yellow Hawk from killing her, but he didn’t know how long Running Horse would be able to protect her.
He knew, now, that he had made a mistake in leaving the reservation to follow Yellow Hawk.
The Indians had whiskey and that night they drank the whiskey and beat the drums, and sang songs of battle and celebration.
In this circle, hear my song of battle.
Where there is courage,
There is cowardice.
Where there is good,
There must be evil.
If there is,
Then there is also, is-not.
If there is before,
There is after.
This land belongs to the Newe2
It does not belong to the white man.
Where there is life,
There must be death.
Where there is white snow,
There must be the red blood of the white man.
Where there is the silence of the night,
There is the music of the Newe.
Hear me in this circle I sing.
Sue wasn’t sure how long she had been here, but she thought it might at least be two days. She had not been fed, but twice some women had come and untied her, then led her out so she could relieve herself. She considered running, but didn’t for the simple reason that she had been in the same cramped position for so long, she knew she couldn’t run.
The drums were still beating, and the Indians were still singing. Would they ever shut up? She could hear the singing, and though she had no idea what they were saying, there was a tonality and beat to it that was primeval and frightening. Then the flap of the tepee opened and someone came in. Because of the way she was lying, she couldn’t see at first, but she could feel whoever it was standing there, looking down at her. “Please,” she said. “If you are going to stand there and look at me, come around where I can see you.”
To her surprise she heard the person moving then, and when she saw him, she gasped. It was the one who wanted to kill her, the one that she now knew was Yellow Hawk.
“Have you come to kill me?” Sue asked.
“No,” Yellow Hawk said. “Nimitawa ktlo. You will be mine,” he translated for her.
He knelt beside her and pulled her skirt up. “Why this?” he asked, surprised to find that she had on bloomers beneath the dress.
Sue didn’t answer. With everything in her power, she was trying to make herself unfeeling and unthinking.
“Are the
re more clothes under this?” he asked.
“Why do white women wear so many clothes? Do they wish to stop their men?”
Sue closed her eyes, and bit her lip.
Yellow Hawk ripped open the bloomers, exposing her nakedness. Then he dropped his own trousers and breechclout, and got on his knees between her legs. Because her ankles were tied to ground stakes, her legs were spread wide and there was nothing she could do to prevent what happened next.
Long ago, Sue had learned to blot out all feeling when her husband exercised his conjugal rights, and she did so now.
Chapter Twenty-six
Brave Elk had seen Yellow Hawk go into the tepee, where he remained for several minutes. When Yellow Hawk came out, he stood there for just a moment as he adjusted his pants. Then, without looking around, he started toward the blazing campfire where the others continued with the drinking, drumming, singing, and dancing.
Brave Elk was afraid that Yellow Hawk had killed the white woman, so he went into the tepee to see. The skirt of the white woman’s dress was pulled up to her waist. Yellow Hawk hadn’t killed her, but it wasn’t hard to figure out what he had done. The white woman’s face was turned to one side and her eyes were tightly shut, though tears were sliding down her face. She was biting on her lower lip to keep from crying out.
Brave Elk said nothing to her, but bending over, he pulled her skirt back down to restore some modesty for her.
Sue had heard someone come back into the tepee after Yellow Hawk left, but she didn’t open her eyes to see. She was sure it would be Yellow Hawk, either coming back to use her again, or to kill her. She still didn’t open her eyes when she felt him readjust her skirt. She was sure he was just covering up his crime.
When Brave Elk stepped back outside the white woman’s tepee, he looked around to make certain nobody had seen him. The celebration was still going on around the campfire and no one was paying attention to him. If he planned to leave this encampment, now would be the best time to do so.
Brave Elk went to the place where the horses were secured and finding his own horse, mounted and rode back to the Wind River Reservation.
Fort Laramie
On the next morning after he arrived at Fort Laramie on a horse that died from the effort it gave its rider, Lieutenant Clay Scott stepped into the regimental headquarters office. Sergeant Major Martell looked up from his desk.
“Good morning, Lieutenant. How are you feeling this morning, sir?” the Sergeant Major asked solicitously.
“Rested, thank you, Sergeant Major. But as I’m sure you can understand, still much distressed over the death of my wife and the soldiers who were with me.”
“Yes, sir, I’m sure you would be. What can I do for you, sir?”
“Colonel Gibbon requested that I write an after-action report and I have done so,” Scott said, handing some papers to Martell. “Would you please give these to the commanding officer?
“Yes, sir, of course I will,” Sergeant Major Martell replied. “Where will you be, sir, in case the colonel wants to speak with you?”
“I’ve already been detached from duty,” Scott said. “So I shall probably spend some time over at the sutler’s store until arrangements are made for me to continue my transfer to Fort Huachuca.”
After Scott left, Sergeant Major Martell stepped into Colonel Gibbon’s office and handed him the papers Scott had brought him.
“What is this?” Colonel Gibbon asked.
“Lieutenant Scott just dropped them off, sir,” Sergeant Major Martell said. “It is his after-action report on what happened to him yesterday.”
“Have you read it?”
“No, sir, I didn’t figure it was my place to read it,” Martell replied.
“All right, thank you, Sergeant Major.”
Martell left the colonel’s office, and Gibbon took his pipe from a holder on his desk, filled the bowl with tobacco and held a match to it. Not until the pipe was well lit did he pick up the papers and begin to read.
After-Action Report
On the 24th, instant, I was en route with my wife, a driver, and a four-man escort to Douglas so that I may catch the cars to my new assignment at Fort Huachuca, Arizona, when certain events transpired that are the subject of this report.
At a place some twelve miles distant from Fort Laramie, my escort detail and I were attacked by an overwhelming force of hostiles, numbering nearly fifty.
Sergeant Caviness, who was in charge of my escort, seemed exceptionally frightened by the overwhelming number of the attackers, and his fear immobilized him to the point that he was unable to issue coherent orders to his men. I do not fault him for this, as the odds against us appeared to be insurmountable.
I perceived, immediately, the degree of danger which faced the escort detail and my wife. Of course, I was in just as much danger, but at the moment the thought of personal danger was of no import to me. Even though I was the senior military person present, I was in transit; therefore the escort detail, properly, belonged to Sergeant Caviness. But as fear had him immobilized, I quickly became aware that I must assume command.
Because of my “officer en route” status, I was unarmed, so I asked Sergeant Caviness for the loan of his handgun. He handed it to me, somewhat reluctantly, and I realized that he was not only immobilized for command, his fear was such that he could scarcely maintain any composure.
“Sergeant, you must get control of yourself,” I ordered. “Remember, you must set an example for the men.”
“Perhaps I should try and make an escape with your wife, and send back help,” he replied.
I told him that such a move now was impossible, that we had but one recourse, and that was to fight.
The Indians, in classic fashion, formed a circle around us. As studied in military tactics classes at the Military Academy, I ordered the men to assume a hasty defensive position designed to provide a field of fire in all directions, and we took on the heathens. The fight lasted for several minutes, our fire taking effect upon their numbers. I personally killed five by pistol fire but attrition was also working its consequences on my small command until at last, only my wife and I were still alive, and I was out of ammunition. I called for Sue to get behind me, but before she could do so, one of the Indians struck her dead with a blow that crushed her skull.
Seeing my wife so brutalized had the effect of giving me exceptional strength, and, taking a knife from the belt of one the Indians I had killed, I engaged the same savage who killed my wife. I am glad to report that I ended his life as well.
With that Indian dispatched and I weaponless, I was certain that my own demise was imminent. That was not to be the case however because the Indians, now realizing that they had paid dearly for their attack, departed from the field.
After the Indians left, I personally examined my wife, Sergeant Caviness, and each of the noble young soldiers who composed my escort, ascertaining that all were dead. Not knowing if the Indians’ withdrawal was permanent or temporary, I took Sergeant Caviness’s horse, and returned as quickly as possible to Fort Laramie.
I wish by means of this report to commend, albeit posthumously, Troopers Castlebury, Springer, Watson, and Dixon. With regard to Sergeant Caviness, while I cannot in good conscience include his name among those for commendation, neither do I condemn him, as it was fear, and not incompetence, which rendered an otherwise good noncommissioned officer, impotent.
Respectfully Submitted by Clayton Scott,
Second Lieutenant, Sixth U.S. Cavalry.
Colonel Gibbon held a formation of the entire regiment that same morning, and he called Lieutenant Scott out in front.
“I have submitted Lieutenant Scott’s name for the Medal of Honor,” Colonel Gibbon announced. “This is how the citation will read.” Clearing his throat, Colonel Gibbon put on his glasses, then raised the paper to read.
“‘Second Lieutenant Clayton M. Scott was in transit with his wife when the small escort detail was attacked by a greatly superior forc
e of hostile Indians. Quickly realizing that the noncommissioned officer in charge was inadequate to the task, Lieutenant Scott assumed command. He placed his small contingent of soldiers in defensive positions from which they fought the hostiles, inflicting heavy casualties, until all were killed but Lieutenant Scott. Not until the Indians had withdrawn did Lieutenant Scott, who had witnessed the brutal murder of his wife along with the death of every soldier in his command, leave the battlefield. For his command, intrepidity, and performance above the call of duty, Second Lieutenant Clayton M. Scott is recommended for the Medal of Honor. Colonel John A. Gibbon, Commanding.’”
Scott stood proudly as the citation was read. Then, Colonel Gibbon lowered the paper. “NCO’s post!” he called.
The officers who were part of the formation left the formation and the first sergeants took charge of each of the troops. Command then passed to Sergeant Major Martel.
“First sergeants, dismiss your troops!” Martell called and a moment later, having been dismissed, the soldiers left the field to attend to their various duties.
Scott went to the officers’ mess for breakfast. Duff was there, and so was Elmer. Lieutenants Pershing and Holbrook were there as well.
“I hope you gentlemen don’t mind sharing the mess with me,” Scott said. “But having checked out of my quarters, I have no other place to eat.”
“That was a fine citation the colonel read,” Holbrook said. “Too bad, though.”
“Too bad? What’s too bad about it?” Scott asked defensively. “Do you think I haven’t earned the Medal of Honor? Why is it too bad?”
Holbrook and the others looked at Scott with curious expressions on their faces.
“Lieutenant, I meant it is too bad that your wife was killed in the action that has resulted in the citation,” Holbrook said.
MacCallister, the Eagles Legacy: Dry Gulch Ambush Page 20