Wolf Mountain Moon

by Terry C. Johnston

  In his pocket journal that night Frank noted that he had taken an assessment of his rations and found them once more running dangerously low. He began to hope they would encounter some game along the way. In addition, the unshod mules were having a hard time of it finding proper footing on the icy terrain, tiring quickly in their exertions.

  Through the sixteenth the conditions only worsened; then, near midday on the seventeenth, scouts Smith, Culbertson, and Lambert finally located an Indian trail of unshod ponies and travois they figured to be no more than a week old. Through the rest of that day the temperature continued to drop, sliding quickly and refusing to rise above zero. That day Baldwin finally lost his last shred of hope of sighting game. Chances were not good, Vic Smith informed him, that they would find any deer or elk up and about during the brutal storms. Besides, the young eighteen-year-old Culbertson reminded Baldwin, what game there might have been in that country was more than likely either already harvested, or it had been driven out as the Hunkpapa had passed through only days before them.

  “I have no other choice,” Frank confided his private thoughts only to his journal that bitterly cold Sunday night. “We’re somewhere between Wolf Point and Tongue River. Countermarching offers me little hope of accomplishing anything. I have but one option open to me now: I’ll take the battalion on into this storm, keeping my nose to the enemy’s trail—and trust Providence to provide for the men what I cannot.”

  Then he said a prayer asking that God grant him just one more crack at Sitting Bull.

  *Lake DeSmet.

  †Present-day Prairie Dog Creek.

  #“Those Who Are Hearted Alike.”

  @The Northern Cheyenne.

  ^Present-day Beaver Creek.

  *The Yellowstone River.

  Chapter 14

  Wanicokan Wi 1876

  In those first days of the Midwinter Moon, Spotted Elk joined the other chiefs and headmen of those bands of Shahiyela, Hunkpatila, Sans Arc, Miniconjou, and Hunkpapa who chose to stand shoulder to shoulder with one another that winter—against the soldiers, against the great cold, against starvation, as they continued their hunt for buffalo in the valley of the Buffalo Tongue.

  Some young warriors from the migrating camp rode north to learn what they could of the soldier fort. In two days the riders returned, driving before them a small herd of cattle and some soldier horses. It was a good thing, because the farther the village wandered up the river valley, the fewer buffalo they encountered. As strong as they felt together, Spotted Elk knew no man could remain untouched by the sight of the hungry children, their gaunt wives, the way the once-proud war ponies hung their heads in starvation.

  Not even the great Crazy Horse.

  So it was that by the time the village reached the mouth of Suicide Creek,* even the stoic Strange Man of the Oglalla went along with the rest of the headmen in deciding they would at least talk to the Bear Coat, who was making war on them from his Elk River fort. With the hunting become so poor and the cold grown so deep, it surely could not hurt for a delegation of their people to go look the Bear Coat in the eye and see if this soldier chief spoke the truth when he did not just demand their surrender but offered the Titunwan Lakota peace on a reservation of their own at the forks of the Cheyenne River.

  Spotted Elk, middle son of Old Lone Horn of the Miniconjou, knew his father would expect nothing less of him—for it was a chief’s first responsibility to care for his people.

  “I will go to the soldier fort,” Spotted Elk told the assembly of chiefs deciding on who would join the delegation.

  Packs the Drum nodded approvingly. “This is good. What other brave men are there who will join me on our journey into the land of Bear Coat’s soldiers?”

  Hollow Horns volunteered, “For the Sans Arc I will go.”

  “And for my band of Miniconjou, I will join you,” declared Fat Hide.*

  In the end Red Cloth,† Tall Bull, and Bull Eagle agreed to go for their Miniconjou clans. Then two more stood to offer themselves.

  “I must go with you,” Bad Leg told the council. “But I will go along to take back the stolen horses to the soldier fort at the mouth of the Buffalo Tongue.”

  The Yearling stood in agreement. “Just as Crazy Horse and He Dog have said today: we are honorable men and cannot go talk with the wasicu about peace so soon after we have stolen his horses. We must return those animals.”

  In the end more than two-times-ten joined Packs the Drum that blustery morning when they dressed in their finest, mounted their strongest ponies, feathers fluttering in the steady wind, buffalo robes tugged tightly about them, and set off north to talk peace to the Bear Coat. Even Crazy Horse and He Dog decided they would ride along to represent the Oglalla.

  Oh, what a glorious morning that was for Spotted Elk! The women pouring from their lodges into the bitter cold to trill their tongues, making good wishes upon this endeavor all hoped would bring an end to the slow starvation. Children raced about, laughing for the first time in so, so long as they dodged in and out among the delegates’ ponies.

  Stoic but expectant friends watched from the hillside across the creek while the village said its farewells. When the delegates had moved out of the tall, stately cottonwoods along the banks and were heading down the Buffalo Tongue, Bad Leg and The Yearling, along with four others, filed in at the rear, keeping their soldier horses bunched together in the deep snow.

  From early morning, when the cold was its most bitter, until the night sky turned completely dark overhead, the peace delegates pushed toward the soldier fort on their mission of great urgency. How weary the ponies became on that journey, carrying these men a long way each day, animals forced to dig down through the snowdrifts at night in search of grass to eat. Four long days … but on the morning of the fifth Spotted Elk and Tall Bull reached the low rise of a bluff and looked down upon the valley of the Elk River.

  Below them stood the squat log huts gathered in among the old cottonwoods. Wagons stood about, mules and horses grazing nearby or clustered in their corrals. And between that fort and where Spotted Elk sat on his pony stood some hide lodges, more than two-times-ten of them scattered among the trees and brush south of the soldier huts, a thin column of smoke rising from each one.

  “They must be the soldiers’ wolves,” Tall Bull explained, his eyes quick to hide any worry.

  “Eyes and ears for the Bear Coat, eh?” replied Spotted Elk. “Who do you think they are?”

  “Corn Indians,”* Tall Bull answered. “Maybe some Yankton, come down from the Fort Peck Agency.”

  “Then they are Indians who will know us,” Spotted Elk said. “We have nothing to fear.”

  Tall Bull nodded in agreement, but his eyes showed fear. “What if they do not know us?”

  “There is no reason to fear an honorable warrior,” Spotted Elk declared with a grin. “Even if he is your enemy.”

  “We will have the white flag flying above us?”

  Spotted Elk reached out and laid his hand on Tall Bull’s arm. “Packs the Drum wants to have the honor of going toward the soldiers first.”

  Tall Bull tried to smile bravely, saying, “And he wants me to be among those who join him.”

  “We have been friends a long time, you and me,” Spotted Elk said. “So I want to come with you.”

  Shaking his head, Tall Bull said, “I think … you should stay back with the others and ride behind us.”

  Spotted Elk swallowed hard, sensing the other man’s dread. “Are you expecting trouble?”

  Tall Bull’s eyes went first to those delegates coming up the slope behind them now. Then he gazed at the open ground between them and the soldier huts. “No—I am not expecting trouble. Those soldier wolves must surely be honorable men … and the Bear Coat’s soldiers will see our white flag and know that we come in peace.”

  As the entire delegation of chiefs and soldier horses proceeded down the bluffs to the banks of the Buffalo Tongue, they came across a wood-cutting party, then a
small group of men watching over a herd of cattle. Alarmed at first by the sudden appearance of more than a dozen warriors, the wasicu prepared to fight until they saw the two white flags carried by Hollow Horns and Tall Bull at the end of their lances. With that, and by other signs, the Lakota made it known that the white men had nothing to fear, that they were on their way to the post to talk to the Bear Coat about surrendering, to talk over making a strong peace between their peoples.

  The winter sun was climbing near midsky by the time Packs the Drum stopped them all to form his forward delegation. The five he chose would ride in ahead of the others, who would stay behind a respectful distance, accompanying the horses being returned as a gesture of goodwill.

  “I will wait behind with the others,” Crazy Horse declared.

  This was good, Spotted Elk believed. For a man of the Shirt Wearer’s status to allow five others to go ahead on such an important mission was a good omen.

  “And I will wait with him,” Bad Heart Bull added. He urged his pony up beside that of Crazy Horse, taking a piece of stiff rawhide and some charcoal sticks from a parfleche he had slung over his back. “I will draw the picture story of this day when our chiefs go with such great hope to the Bear Coat so that our people can survive.”

  “We will show the wasicu that we are as honorable in peace as you have been in war,” Packs the Drum confirmed to Crazy Horse, then ceremonially unwrapped his pipe from its otter-skin bag and placed it across his left arm, requesting the other four who would ride with him to do the same with their pipes.

  “We will not only have the white man’s white flags flying over our heads to show we come in peace,” Tall Bull now explained to all the delegates, “but we will show them that we do not carry any weapons—only our pipes.”

  At Packs the Drum’s signal Tall Bull brought his pony up on the leader’s right side. Then Red Cloth positioned himself at Packs the Drum’s left arm. On the far left rode Red Horses, and at the far right rode Bull Eagle, both men not only clutching their pipes and reins in left hands, but holding aloft their lances with smaller makeshift white flags fluttering in the stiff breeze nuzzling down the valley of the Elk River.

  “Stay here until we have gone the distance of an arrow-shot,” Packs the Drum requested of the others. “Then you are to follow.”

  Spotted Elk, Hollow Horns, and Fat Hide remained behind with Crazy Horse, He Dog, and the others, while the five set off about the time a knot of more than a dozen warriors emerged from the lodges erected along the riverbank. The Miniconjou chief did not feel good about the way the strangers suddenly showed themselves with great martial bluster, advancing with a swagger, all of them shouting and yelling—shields strapped to their upper arms, their right hands filled with weapons.

  “This is not the way a man greets a warrior he honors,” Hollow Horns warned.

  “Who can these men be?” Spotted Elk asked, worry making wings flutter in his belly. “Who are these strangers who act with such poor manners when we show that we come in peace?”

  “Aiyeee!” gasped Fat Hide, who clamped a hand over his mouth. “Perhaps these are the Psatoka * from beyond the Greasy Grass country!”

  “Look at them!” Hollow Horns grumbled angrily. “If these are Psatoka—they act like insolent children before our warriors!”

  Spotted Elk turned to look at Crazy Horse a moment, finding the war chief’s eyes crimped into narrow slits of hate. The Psatoka had been enemies of the Titunwan Lakota back into many generations. Could such bad blood be set aside now? he wondered.

  As the dozen strangers got closer and closer to the peace delegation, Spotted Elk’s heart began to thump all the faster in his breast, like the beating of a wounded bird’s wing. He glanced beyond the strangers, finding some three or four soldiers advancing on foot in the distance—trotting, in a hurry. There was much activity taking place at the first fringe of log huts beyond those Indian lodges erected on the right, where even more warriors stirred now, clearly a few women too, all of them beginning to emerge from the trees and leafless willow onto the open plain.

  Too many of the strangers … more than ten-times-ten. Back and forth they shouted to those who came hurrying on foot to confront the five delegates. If they were indeed Psatoka, thought Spotted Elk, then there was reason for him to fear for Tall Bull and the other delegates.

  For winters beyond his count the Psatoka had allied themselves with the wasicu. For many winters the Titunwan Lakota had been making forays deep into traditional Psatoka hunting grounds. Many were the scalps Lakota warriors had carried home from the enemy’s country. Hard and cold must be the hearts of the Psatoka warriors against all Lakota. Even Lakota coming in peace, with their pipes out, with the wasicu’s white flags fluttering over their heads.

  “Perhaps there is nothing to fear,” Hollow Horns suddenly said, hope rising in his voice.

  “Yes, look!” agreed Fat Hide. “The Psatoka are showing their hands to our men.”

  “They want to shake hands!” Hollow Horns cheered.

  Spotted Elk nodded, his heart leaping, and said, “This is a good sign!”

  Just as the frost from those last two words hung in the cold air before his face, Spotted Elk watched one of the strangers clasp hands with Packs the Drum, then suddenly jerk, yanking the man off the back of his pony. As quickly, other extended hands locked on to Lakota arms and dragged the remaining four delegates to the ground, where all five disappeared in a swirl of horses’ legs, a flurry of blows, the bright glint of sunlight on metal blades, along with the lusty blood-cries of those who had ambushed the delegates.

  From the trees to the right burst a sudden cry as the many Psatoka who had been watching burst into the clearing, sprinting past the ambush toward Spotted Elk and the others.

  Crazy Horse yanked his Winchester from beneath his buffalo robe, trying to steady his prancing horse. “They are murderers!”

  “We cannot save them!” Hollow Horns shouted as he wheeled his pony, jabbing heels into its ribs.

  Quickly trying to stuff his pipe back into its sacred bag, Spotted Elk fought to pull his bow from its wolf-skin quiver with a handful of arrows. He would stay with Crazy Horse and He Dog as long as there was a fight.

  “No!” Fat Hide snarled. “There are too many!”

  Spotted Elk nocked an arrow on his bowstring. “We cannot leave them—”

  “They are lost!” He Dog growled, shoving Spotted Elk as the many on foot closed the gap on them.

  “Turn the horses! Turn the horses!” Fat Hide ordered Bad Leg and The Yearling.

  All was confusion now. In the middistance a handful of soldiers were shouting. Spotted Elk could hear their voices, see the breathsmoke puffing from their tiny mouths as they came racing toward the scene. The delegates’ ponies were bolting, scattering in fear to the four winds, being chased by some of the enemy warriors and their women.

  Oh, how those Psatoka screamed and screeched at the Lakota fortunate to escape, Psatoka holding aloft Lakota pipes in one hand, the scalps of those five honorable men they had just murdered in the other.

  Spotted Elk glanced over his shoulder, finding more soldiers were coming now. Behind them a soldier horn was blowing too. Wasicu coming from many directions now. It was a wholesale ambush! The soldiers broke from hiding, running to help the Psatoka murder all the Lakota.

  Those left with Crazy Horse wheeled about and kicked their ponies into a hard gallop, heading back to that low rise of ground where they had first looked down upon the soldier fort. Where they had first spotted the enemy lodges back among the trees along the Buffalo Tongue River.

  For a few heartbeats He Dog halted them, throwing up his arm and bringing his pony around in a tight circle. Down on the flat ground they saw the soldiers reaching the scene, guns in their hands. At that very moment Spotted Elk watched a Psatoka warrior disappear into the tall willow with the two white flags, carrying away those signals of peace as the soldiers arrived.

  “We better go before the soldiers f
ollow us!” Fat Hide cried out.

  Already Bad Leg and The Yearling and some others were frantically driving the horses hard through the deep snow, down off the high ground, heading south, racing back up the Buffalo Tongue River toward the Crazy Horse village.

  He Dog waved the rest on, waiting to be the last to flee with Crazy Horse. But Spotted Elk reined up beside them, all three waiting a breathless moment longer, gazing down at that scene … realizing that there were no survivors, knowing the soldiers’ Psatoka wolves had killed all five.

  No man could still be alive after that treacherous butchery.

  “There, Mr. Leforge!” Nelson Miles screamed at the civilian, ripping the two white towels from the hands of Hobart Bailey, his adjutant. The colonel roughly yanked up Tom Leforge’s hand and stuffed the flags into it.

  “G-general—”

  “There, by Jupiter! Your goddamned Crow are guilty of unprovoked and cowardly murder!”

  “I can’t believe—”

  “There—that’s your evidence!” Miles roared. “What have you to say to that?”

  Leforge could do little more than stare down at the flags and wag his head in disgust. One of the towels was even stained with a little blood. Sioux blood.

  “Bull Eagle! They even killed Bull Eagle!” Miles screeched, wagging his head violently. Then his voice suddenly quieted. “He was one I took a real liking to, figured I could trust his word.” Then he was screeching again, “And now your bunch of cowards have murdered him!”

  Leforge gulped, then said, “I know most of them what done this—”

  “You know the sons of bitches, do you?”

  Shrugging, looking back up into the flinty glare of the colonel, Leforge admitted, “Don’t know what come over ’em to do anything like this.”

  “A little too late to figure that out, don’t you think, Mr. Leforge?” Miles was seething. “Why—just yesterday I had you warn that bunch of yours that I would hang any one of them if they killed one of my Yanktonais couriers riding between here and Buford or Peck. Now they’ve killed Bull Eagle!”