Wolf Mountain Moon

by Terry C. Johnston

  Leforge pleaded, “Sir, they told me them Sioux fired on their women as they was riding in.”

  “Bullshit!” Miles roared, slamming a fist down on his flimsy desk. “You and I both know those five didn’t come riding into a soldier fort shooting up your Crow camp!”

  “The women … they’ll tell you—”

  “Shut your lying mouth before I shut it for you, Leforge!” Miles fumed. “I have witnesses—soldier witnesses—that tell me different. I for one could not believe the Sioux would ride in here under a flag of truce, shooting at your women!”

  Leforge swallowed hard, then nodded grudgingly. “General—there’s most of ’em wanna try to make it up to you—”

  “Make it up to me?” Miles interrupted Tom Leforge. “Don’t you understand that just a month ago Bull Eagle showed up here, came riding right in here while I was gone chasing Sitting Bull? That’s right—he came in under a white flag—just like the ones your Crow tried to hide—came in to get some rations because he trusted me, because I told him he could trust that white flag!”

  Leforge stared at the floor. “I can’t defend what they done, General.”

  “Bull Eagle was the sort of man doing what was best for his people,” Miles stormed. “He alone was more of an honorable man than a hundred of those cowardly Crow of yours!”

  Never before had Luther Kelly seen the man so angry. Make no mistake, Nelson A. Miles was an emotional, volatile man. But this … this treachery and attempt at cover-up had the general right on the edge. Miles was shuddering as he tried to contain his fury, his fists clenching and unclenching. As the general slowly brought both fists up, Kelly became afraid Miles would do something he might well regret.

  Luther instantly stepped between Miles and the squaw man. “General—if I may. Let’s try to sort out what we can do about all this right now.”

  “What we can do right now!” Miles shrieked. “We had five Sioux chiefs ride in here to surrender their people to me. Our efforts at convincing the enemy that we will continue to make war on them is finally beginning to bear enough fruit that Bull Eagle and his emissaries come riding in here under two goddamned white banners of peace … and they’re butchered within sight of my post!”

  Miles lunged at the two grease-stained white towels Leforge held across his open hands, but Kelly was there first, tearing them away from the squaw man.

  “Any reason why your Crow would kill the Sioux chiefs without warning?” Kelly demanded, glaring into Leforge’s eyes.

  “Any reason?” Leforge answered. “How ’bout lots of dead relatives—if one reason’s good as another for you.”

  Miles grumbled something under his breath, turning slightly before he roared, “They’re cowards, Leforge! All of them who had any hand in this! I’m not sure I shouldn’t string you up while I’ve got my hands on you! Just to show your bunch what I think of cowards!”

  Kelly watched Leforge flinch and swallow hard at that imaginary noose tightening around his throat.

  The squaw man bravely said, “If that somehow evens things, General—then string me up.”

  Miles began to sputter with frustration. “You know goddamned well it won’t do me a bit of good with the Sioux, Leforge! Those other riders who watched your Crow kill the five helpless chiefs, why—they’re halfway back to Crazy Horse right now … off to tell him that my word can’t be trusted! Your back-stabbing sonsabitches have gone and shattered months of my hard work trying to hit the Sioux solidly while talking straight to them at the same time!”

  “I ain’t got no idea what you want me to do now, General,” Leforge pleaded.

  Miles leaned in to ask, “You said the dozen or so responsible for the murders have already escaped?”

  “They took off about as soon as your soldiers started showing up.”

  “Cowards!” Miles shouted as he whirled on his heel and stomped back to collapse behind his desk in the canvas chair. “Those Crow are supposed to be warriors! Warriors don’t kill unarmed enemies under a flag of truce!”

  Feeling almost like a traitor himself, Kelly had to declare, “General, the Sioux had weapons under their blankets—just like at Cedar Creek.”

  “But they didn’t have those weapons out and ready to use, by God!” Miles blustered. He turned to glare at the squaw man. “What will become of those responsible, Leforge?”

  “They’ve took off for the agency, General.”

  “And you’ll never get your hands on them,” Kelly admitted. “The rest of the tribe will protect them, harbor them.”

  “Yellow-backed cowards,” the colonel fumed. “I don’t think I can trust one of your mercenaries now, Leforge.” Miles turned to Charles Dickey. “Captain, I’m hereby ordering you to disarm the remaining Crow scouts and send them packing.”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Dickey. “Anything more?”

  “I want you to dismount them, Captain—then I’m going to send those ponies to the Sioux, along with a few pounds of tobacco and my word that I had nothing to do with this. Yes—I’ll send those ponies back with a couple of the friendly Yankton couriers. By Jupiter—that ought to make the Crow think twice about pulling this kind of yellow-backed thing again.”

  “General,” Leforge began to plead, “the rest of ’em ain’t to blame.”

  “Did they stand and watch?”

  Leforge shrugged. “I s’pose they did—”

  “Did the rest of your goddamned Crow stop the murders?”

  “No,” and he wagged his head.

  “I can’t trust any bunch who will kill someone coming in under a flag of truce, Leforge,” said Miles. “I don’t want your Crow around here anymore.”

  The squaw man said, “I’ll pull out in the morning.”

  “No, not you,” Miles said. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “N-no, sir?”

  “You’re staying right here, Leforge.”

  “Why are you sending all the rest back to the agency and you’re keeping me here?” Leforge asked, his eyes filling with worry. “You making me your prisoner?”

  “No, you knuckle-brained son of a bitch. You’re my guide, my tracker. Kelly knows what lies north of here, but you know more about this country south of the Yellowstone than any scout I’ve got on the payroll. Tomorrow I want you to pick two of the most trustworthy Crow you can find—then send the rest packing.”

  “Just two, General?”

  “Two, Leforge. That’s all. So, believe me, I’m going to get my money’s worth out of you.”

  “You’re really keeping me on to scout for you?”

  Miles pointed a big finger at the squaw man. “Damn right I am. While you might not be my prisoner—I do in a way consider you my hostage.”

  “H-hostage?”

  Miles went on. “You brought those Crow here, squaw man. Those Crow probably just killed any chance I ever had of getting the rest of the Sioux to surrender to me. Not to Crook, but to me! So now you’re staying put, and when this outfit’s ready to march again in a few days, you’re going to take me south, Leforge.”

  “South?”

  This time Miles turned to his chief of scouts, asking, “That’s where the hell those Sioux came from, wasn’t it, Kelly?”

  Luther nodded, grim-lipped as he answered, “South, General. Probably camped along the Tongue.”

  The colonel slowly leaned onto his desk, rising out of his canvas chair. “And Mr. Leforge here is going to make up for the murder of those five peaceful Sioux by leading me up the Tongue after the one Sioux warrior we all know won’t ever give up and make peace.”

  “C-crazy Horse?” asked Leforge.

  “Goddamned right,” Miles grumbled. “If those Sioux don’t accept my offer of peace after what your Crows did, Leforge—you’re gonna be the one who takes me right into the lap of Crazy Horse himself.”

  *Hanging Woman Creek, site of present-day Birney, Montana.

  *Also known as Fat on the Beef in historical literature.

  †Sometimes referre
d to as Lame Red Skirt.

  *Arikara, or Ree, Indians from the Upper Missouri country.

  *The Crow, or Absaraka, tribe.

  Chapter 15

  17 December 1876

  BY TELEGRAPH

  Steamers Crushed in the Ice at St. Louis

  Etc., Etc., Etc.

  MISSOURI

  Ice Jam at St. Louis—Steamers Caught and Crushed.

  ST. LOUIS, December 11.—A reporter lately up from the arsenal gives these additional particulars of the destruction of steamers this month. It appears that nearly all the boats of the Keokuk Northern line were in winter quarters near the arsenal and supposed to be secure from damage. When the ice started these steamers were forced from their moorings and carried down stream. The War Eagle and Golden Eagle, two large and valuable boats, were forced on shore opposite the arsenal wall in such a manner as to block the passage, and the other boats crowded and caused a complete jam. … At 2 P.M. the ice again moved, crushing the boats still closer together, and doing additional damage. Again at 4 P.M. there was another movement of ice which pressed against the boats with terrific power and forced them still farther down, crushing guards, upper decks and wheels and doing great damage…. The hull of the Mitchell was stove in and she filled, but her position prevented her from settling to the bottom.

  Headquarters Cantonment at Tongue River

  December 17, 1876

  To

  Philip H. Sheridan

  Assistant Adjutant General

  Department of Dakota

  Saint Paul, Minn.

  Sir:

  I have to report the occurrence of an unfortunate affair at this place, yesterday….

  Those killed were believed to be Bull Eagle, Tall Bull, Red Horse, Red Cloth, and one other prominent Chief of the Sioux nation. I am unable to state the object of Bull Eagle’s coming, but am satisfied he came with the best of motives. I can only judge from the following: When he surrendered on the Yellowstone, after the engagement on Cedar Creek, he was the first to respond to my demands, and, I believe, was largely instrumental in bringing his people to accept the terms of the Government.

  [Bull Eagle] seemed to be doing everything in his power for the good of the people, and endeavoring to bring them a more peaceful condition. He appeared to have great confidence in what I told him. I gave him five days to obtain meat; during that time he lost three favorite ponies which were brought to this place. During my absence he came in, bringing five horses that had strayed or been stolen from some citizen in the vicinity, and requested his own….

  [The five murdered Sioux] were within a few hundred yards of the parade ground, where they were deliberately placing themselves in the hands of the Government, and within the camp of four hundred Government troops.

  [This whole affair] illustrates clearly the ferocious, savage instincts of even the best of these wild tribes and the impossibility of their controlling their desire for revenge, when it is aroused by the sight of their worst enemies, who have whipped them for years and driven them out of their country. Such acts are expected and considered justifiable among these two tribes of Indians, and it is to be hoped that the Sioux will understand that they fell into a camp of their ancient enemies, and did not reach the encampment of this command.

  Very respectfully

  your obedient Servant

  (sgd.) Nelson A. Miles

  Colonel 5th Infantry

  Brevet Major General U.S.A.

  Commanding.

  Seamus Donegan took a deep breath—so deep, the cold air hurt within his chest. He nudged the roan and kept the gelding’s nose pointed north.

  Down the Tongue all the way to the Yellowstone.

  Seamus had been there before. Last summer with Crook and Terry, after Custer got half his regiment wiped out. About the time Nelson A. Miles got itchy to break loose from the senseless thumb twiddling of the two generals and headed toward the Tongue for the winter.

  It wasn’t just cold in this country anymore. No. This had become pure hell: one day after another of endless, soul-thieving cold. Then yesterday he was certain the temperature played a card off the bottom of the deck on him. Instead of warming through the day, it got even colder. Mercilessly cold.

  And the wind never stopped.

  Tugging the thick, wide wool scarf up to the bridge of his nose, Seamus used it to swipe quickly at the tears seeping from his eyes because the galling wind was strong enough, stubborn enough, to sneak inside every gap of his clothing—despite the Irishman’s best efforts to pull his head down inside the big flap collar of his wool-and-canvas mackinaw like a turtle, turning his face to one side as he fought to keep one eye on some landmark off in the distance. North by west.

  One eye that constantly watered from that wind beneath the long gray frosted hairs of the wolf-hide cap.

  “It’s your’n now, boy,” old Dick Closter had told him that Sunday morning at Crook’s wagon camp on the Belle Fourche. “I’m going back to post—put up my feet and play some cards by the stove. So I figger you need it more’n me.”

  “Swear I’ll get it back to you soon as I come down through Fetterman.”

  The old mule packer’s eyes had softened beneath the two bushy white beetles nestled on his brow. “You just keep it, son. And remember me as your friend when you wear it.”

  Behind him whipped the wide-brimmed hat attached only by that wind string knotted around his neck. Tossed this way and that, it would again one day provide shade from a blazing sun or protect his eyes from the piercing glare off winter snow. Seamus snorted. No glare these last few days—why, the sun had been no more than a buttermilk-pale button in the sky, if that. What with the way the storm clouds danced past one right after the other, day after day. Seamus sniffed and dragged the horsehide gauntlet mitten under his sore, reddened nose.

  For three and a half days he had followed Three Bears and the other Lakota scouts, who had led him northwest to the mouth of the Little Powder. He had wanted to push right on down the Powder itself, rather than chance the arduous crosscountry journey. But Three Bears had advised against it. To ride the Powder in the wintertime was a gamble: the Crazy Horse people preferred its valley at this time of the year. Upstream or down, a lone white man was taking a very, very big chance.

  So just as the Lakota warrior had scratched out on his map in the snow, Seamus bid the scouts farewell and pushed on across the Powder, then slowly ascended the high divide that carried him over to Mizpah Creek. Many were the times Frank Grouard had told him stories of the Powder and Mizpah country. Prime hunting ground for the Hunkpatila of Crazy Horse and He Dog, that was.

  That’s when it had struck him—remembering something Grouard had told him about the lay of the land. Something that just might take a day off his trip.

  Cold and feeling more alone than he had in a long, long time, Seamus knew full well what a warm fire and new faces could do for his half-numb soul. A little hot coffee and something more to eat than dried meat and army tacks.

  That’s when he decided that there would be no question if he should chance cutting at least a day off his ride to that post at the mouth of the Tongue. He would accomplish that by cutting north-northwest, cross-country after leaving the Mizpah, until he struck Pumpkin Creek. After another day and one more freezing winter night Donegan reached the mouth of the Pumpkin … to stand, finally, on the banks of the Tongue, far below where he would have struck the river had he not gambled on the shortcut.

  On his left, back to the south, lay Otter Creek; beyond it was Hanging Woman Creek. Grouard had often talked about the warrior bands making camps in that country.

  Donegan shuddered and turned down the Tongue.

  For the better part of a week now he had been dozing in fits, too cold to get any real rest. What he did more often than not was to pull his head beneath his blankets, his breath warming the skin on his face there in his cocoon, and remember the touch of her fingers on his cheeks. Recalling the sweet smell of the babe’s breath after the c
hild had finished suckling at its mother’s breast and Seamus would rock the boy to sleep. So lonely and cold, it was nothing he could call sleep.

  So he poked his warm wool mittens down inside the stiff horsehide cavalry gauntlets and stuffed each of them beneath an armpit, trying to remember just how warm he had been back at Fort Laramie. Just how safe and secure and warm a man could feel in the arms of a woman.

  Donegan discovered that his fire had gone out when he awoke in the shapeless early light that eighth morning. With one hand he pulled the two thick blankets back over his head and closed his eyes. Not going to worry about a puny fire now. He would have to be on his way soon enough. Down in that burrow of darkness he listened to the rattle of the wind as it hurtled over him, tormenting the leafless branches of the alder in the cottonwood grove he had chosen last night when the moon and stars had begun to cloud over.

  Then he heard the roan snort.

  Likely thirsty, he thought.

  Cold and shuddering in the dark, Seamus had been forced to camp where there was shelter out of the wind, but no open water, in a copse of saplings and brush near the Tongue.

  Slowly, stiffly, he pulled himself out of the wide sack of oiled canvas where his blankets kept him from freezing. Standing, revolving his shoulders to work some of the kinks out of them, Donegan trudged over to the gelding, patting its muzzle.

  It took a few minutes, but he found a spot along the bank where the ice didn’t gather so thick. He smacked at it with the butt end of his camp ax, then bent his head over the hole to plunge his chin into the icy cold. His beard quickly freezing as he struggled to his feet, Seamus stood back and let the roan have its first long drink of the day.

  To the east the invisible sun was just then beginning to turn the underbellies of the low clouds to an orange fire, pink above. By the time he had saddled, tied his bedroll behind him, and pushed on down the Tongue another five miles, he could see that the thick clouds stretching from horizon to horizon were destined to blot out the sun again for another day.