by Ron Schwab
Midmorning, Tom signaled the party to a halt. While watering horses at a nearby creek, he laid out the facts. "We've lost their trail, and they're so damn far ahead of us, we'll never pick it up. We know they're likely headed for the Black Hills, and that's where we'll find Billy." For Sarah's sake he feigned confidence. "Stone Dog says we're about fifteen miles south of the Platte. We'll camp there tonight and head west along the river. The best trails follow the Platte. . . . We'll run into plenty of towns for supplies. Any questions?" For a moment he sounded like a hardheaded cavalry officer.
"No, sir, Captain, sir," Joe replied. ”Troops are ready to fall in."
Tom wrinkled his forehead disgustedly, and then, much more subdued, he said, "Well, I think we'd better get going."
13
SARAH SAT LEISURELY on the soft, sandy bank of the Platte River, dangling her bare feet in the cool, slow-moving current. Dreamily, her eyes followed the graceful motions of a giant brown Sandhills crane high-stepping along the edge of a sandbar in the middle of the river, sweeping its head down intermittently to snatch an ill-fated crawdad with its long beak. Dusk was creeping in, and the last remnants of the fiery-red sun streaked through the swaying willows along the riverbank casting ghostly, oscillating shadows on the water.
Sarah started, goose bumps sprinting down her spine, when she heard a sharp snap of a twig behind her. She breathed a sigh of relief, and her lips parted in a welcoming smile when she saw it was Tom.
"Sorry, Sarah, I didn't mean to startle you," Tom said softly. "You looked so peaceful. . . . I didn't want to intrude."
"I'm glad for the company," she said. "Come and talk awhile." She patted the ground beside her. "Isn't this a beautiful river?"
"Sure is," he said. He eased down and sat cross-legged beside her. Beautiful lady watching it, too, he thought.
She was lovely, and he had to admit she had him totally and helplessly bewitched when she was like this.
"The river's so wide," she said, "and still. It seems almost too shallow to call a river. I waded almost to the middle a while ago, and it hardly reached my knees. It has such a flat look to it."
Tom responded, "Did you know that Nebraska was supposed to be named for this river? Somebody told me that the name comes from an Otoe Indian word 'nebrathka’—it means flat water. It crosses the whole state from east to west."
"My," she teased, "you're just a veritable fountain of knowledge. Are you sure you weren't a geography teacher instead of a soldier?"
Taking her seriously, Tom said, "I'm sorry. Joe always says I'm too professorial. He claims I'll give a lecture at the drop of a hat, says he gets his best sleep when I'm talking."
"Tom," she chided, "I was just teasing. Sometimes you take yourself too seriously." Spontaneously, she took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently, "And I love to hear you talk like this. It reveals a sensitivity you don't see in a lot of men—and I like that." Their eyes fastened, and hers said she would receive his kiss. He hesitated uncertainly and then bent toward her.
The idyllic moment was aborted curtly by a low, mournful howl from down river. Tom jumped alertly to his feet pulling Sarah up with him. His hand groped reflexively for his Peacemaker.
"That's no coyote," he whispered. "Let's get out of here."
He led Sarah hastily through the dense underbrush back toward their camp. When they bolted into camp, Tom was surprised to see Stone Dog and Joe squatting Indian fashion in front of the tiny, flickering fire, seemingly oblivious to the howling.
"All right," he said, "either you two are stone deaf, or you know something I don't know. It looks to me like you've still got ears."
Neither Joe nor Stone Dog volunteered comment.
Visibly miffed, Tom said, "Well . . . what about that phony coyote downstream? And don't tell me you don't know what the hell I'm talking about."
Joe looked like a Cheshire cat. Finally, Stone Dog said sedately, "Pawnee brothers . . . be here soon."
Suddenly, the leafy underbrush behind Joe rustled weakly and parted, and three solemn-faced Indians stepped into the clearing. Joe turned and stood up. He stepped toward the tallest of the visitors, an almond-brown man with graying, shoulder-length hair and a distinctly patrician bearing. Extending his right hand, Joe grasped the Indian's forearm firmly, and the Pawnee responded in kind.
"It has been many moons, my father."
"Yes, my son," responded the other. "The lodge of the Black Bull is too long empty."
Joe turned to Tom and Sarah. "Wolf Killer, this is my white brother, Thomas, and his woman, Sarah. We travel in search of the golden one's brother who was taken prisoner by the Sioux."
Tom flushed at Joe's references to Sarah as his woman but moved forward with her to greet the Pawnee. "Welcome to our camp, Wolf Killer. We'd be pleased to have you join us at our fire."
The Pawnee shook his head affirmatively and waved his tribesmen away. The younger, buckskin-clad Indians slipped away soundlessly into the brush.
For a moment, the Indian stared appraisingly at Sarah as if mesmerized by her brilliant, aureate hair. She smiled back, uncertainly.
Then the Pawnee fixed his eyes upon Tom. "Your woman is a daughter of the sun god. Her man will be a great warrior and gain many riches. You will have many moons together."
Embarrassed by Joe's small deception, Tom said, "I'm afraid there's a mistake, Wolf Killer. The young lady is not my wife. Joe . . . Black Bull—“
"Black Bull makes fun," said Wolf Killer knowingly. "This he is known to do. I made no fun when my words were spoken."
Darkness had settled in, and the Pawnee moved closer to the fire, squatting across the flame from Stone Dog who had remained seated like a statue. "It has been many winters, Stone Dog," said Wolf Killer.
"Many winters," the other replied.
Promptly, the two leaped into animated conversation in Pawnee dialect. Joe let himself down between the two Indians and joined the discourse only occasionally. Tom and Sarah sat apart from the others and looked on curiously.
Tom was amazed that Sarah, in light of her tragic experiences, had not been more shaken by the unexpected appearance of the Indians. She seemed not the least discomfited by the Pawnee's prophecy; neither did she appear to give it any credence. Now, her eyes were glued with fascination upon their brown-skinned guest, following his every motion, entranced by the singsong dialogue she couldn't possibly understand. She struck Tom as being unmindful of his own presence.
For several hours, the Pawnee and their black brother palavered at the fire. Then, abruptly, Wolf Killer stood up and walked deliberately toward Tom and Sarah, who also rose as he approached.
"Your journey just begins," he said. "I do not know what you will find . . . but together, your medicine is mighty. Do not take different trails. You cannot live, Thomas, without the light of the sun." Then, his eyes falling upon Sarah, "And Sarah, the Great Spirit will take away the sun if there is no one to receive its light." The Pawnee's black eyes seemed overcome by sadness, Tom observed, and the lines that crisscrossed his noble face appeared to deepen. "We will not meet again," said Wolf Killer stoically. "I pray that the Great Spirit will be with you in the land of the Sioux dogs." He whirled around and walked out of the camp, leaving an awesome silence behind him.
An exceptional man had visited their camp that night—of that, Tom was certain. His entire manner and bearing suggested that in the white man's world, Wolf Killer would have been a general or president—perhaps a king. He had never heard much eloquence from an Indian, and his respect for the intellect of the red man, friend and foe alike, had increased immeasurably by the Pawnee's visit. The tall Indian would have made a hell of politician; he sure liked to talk in riddles.
Tom looked over at Joe. The latter's mood had seemed to grow darker and gloomier as the evening wore on, and now he gazed dejectedly into the fire. It must have something to do with what the Indian said. As usual, he could not read anything in Stone Dog's face.
Finally, he broke the stillne
ss. "I take it our caller was an old friend of yours," Tom said. He could see that Joe was in a rare state of mind; this was a time to talk straight—no joshing.
"He's my father-in-law," said Joe. "My wife—she was killed during a Sioux raid—was Wolf Killer's only child. He has three wives, but none of them had any other children. He treated me like a son."
“He’s a chief?” Tom asked.
"Yeah," Joe answered, "He's the main chief of his village . . . or he was. Wolf Killer's been on a hunting party, and now they're heading back to their village near the Loup River. By the time they get there, his people will be moving to a reservation in Oklahoma. He's going with his people, but says he'll die as soon as he gets them down there. Damn! They had a good life . . . they're good people. It's just not right."
"No," Tom agreed, "I guess we can't be very proud about the way our government's treated any of the Indians. . . . That includes the Sioux, as much as I hate their thieving hides right now. There's right and wrong on both sides of these things, I guess. Always has been, probably always will be."
Glancing uneasily at Sarah, Joe said, "We did get the lowdown on the Sioux . . . can't say it's good news, though."
"What is it?" Sarah asked worriedly.
"Well, it seems things are really stirring up Camp Robinson way. The Sioux have the Black Hills by treaty, but miners have got the gold bug, and more are moving in every day. They had an Oglala the name of Crazy Horse locked up at Camp Robinson for a while, but he's loose now, and he and Sitting Bull are out stirring up trouble. There's talk that the Sioux and Cheyenne are making big medicine in the Big Horn Mountains. According to Wolf Killer, the Seventh Cavalry is trying to take on Pawnee scouts for something big next spring. Some colonel named Custer's chompin' at the bit to take the field."
"I've heard about Custer," Tom said. "He's supposed to be a pompous ass. He was breveted a general during the Civil War when he was only twenty-three or twenty-four years old—called him the Boy General. He has a reputation for being a glory dog. Nobody questions the man's courage, but he's supposed to be as reckless as hell."
"Yeah," Joe added, "and the Sioux don't like him a bit. They call him Yellow Hair because of his long, blond hair." He smiled weakly at Sarah. "Indians are always mystical about really blond hair. Some of them think it's a gift from the Great Spirit; others just see it as a symbol of the white eyes. No matter what, it makes a lot of them nervous."
"How will this trouble affect Billy?" Sarah asked pointedly.
"Well, for one thing, we can't be sure where they're taking him; for another, they might not be so likely to keep a prisoner. . . . I'm sorry.“ The unspoken implication was clear.
Tom said, "It looks to me like we head for Camp Robinson. It's near the Black Hills and all the Sioux activity. We should be able to learn something there. I'm not as handy as you and Stone Dog on a trail, but I know how to get some answers at an army post."
"You're right," Joe said, "I think that's our starting place. We should hit North Platte by mid-morning."
Tom said, "We'll stop there and load up on supplies. We're in for a long, dusty ride through the Sandhill country these next few weeks."
14
TOM'S MOUTH WAS dry and cottony, and he ran his tongue along his cracked, parched lips. He could make out the pointed palisades of Camp Robinson in the distance. They were going to get there before sundown, and he was relieved. Even though it was mid-September, the pursuers had been baked by a blistering sun on their wearisome journey through the seemingly endless, almost monotonous, grass-shrouded mounds of sandy soil. Now the terrain was decorated with huge, isolated bluffs and rock formations rising from the earth like giant medieval castles or towers.
But the last few days had brought more than a change in scenery. As they had drawn closer to the Red Cloud Agency where Camp Robinson was located, Stone Dog had reported increasing signs of Sioux unrest. Throughout the day, they had spotted Sioux warriors on the horizon, and Tom's stomach had churned and knotted as his apprehension increased. He had mistaken the tautness and anxiety he had experienced before his first skirmish with the Sioux for symptoms of cowardice. He knew this was an affliction borne by most professional soldiers, and that the same intensity that produced the physical reaction, also cleared his mind and made him alert and ready for the battle.
He turned to Sarah who rode wearily beside him. "There it is, Sarah," he said. "With a little luck, you can scrounge up a hot bath tonight, and if Bill Jordan's still the post commander, we can look forward to a meal like you haven't had for a long time."
Tom had visited Camp Robinson on several occasions before his resignation from the army and was well acquainted with its military history. The Treaty of 1868 had guaranteed the Oglala Sioux and other bands food and supplies in exchange for lands ceded to the United States. The Red Cloud Agency was charged with issuing the goods to the Indians. Until the summer of 1873, the agency had been located on the Platte River in Wyoming, just west of the Nebraska line, and was under the nominal protection of cavalry patrols from nearby Fort Laramie. That summer, however, the agency had been moved northward to its present site on the White River in Nebraska.
Over the ensuing months, Sioux hostilities mounted until finally General Phil Sheridan ordered troops to the Red Cloud Agency. The outpost established there was named Camp Robinson in honor of Lieutenant Levi H. Robinson, who had been killed at Little Cottonwood Creek near there that winter.
Captain W.H. Jordan had been assigned to the camp as post commander in the summer of 1874, and was charged with construction of buildings and fortifications. Tom had become friendly with Captain Jordan, a seasoned veteran, when he escorted several supply trains from Fort Laramie to the camp. He recalled with relish the bountiful table set by Mrs. Jordan.
It was nearly dark when they led their tired, sweaty horses on to the camp's open parade ground. Tom had been pleasantly surprised when they were stopped at the gate by a boyish-looking corporal with a noticeable Virginia drawl. Recognizing a kinsman when Tom requested permission to enter, the youthful soldier displayed a toothy grin and signaled the party through the gates without a fuss.
Entering the wide, dusty parade ground in front of the post commander's quarters, Tom surveyed the half-completed fortress. Erection of the gate seemed an exercise in futility since the fort, still in early stages of construction, was only partially barricaded. Many of the occupants were still housed in heavy canvas wall tents positioned in straight, military rows at scattered spots throughout the fort. Still, there was little doubt that, upon completion, Camp Robinson would be a formidable military establishment. The adobe walls of the officers' quarters aligned along the north part of the encampment rested on sturdy stone foundations higher than any Tom had ever seen. The barracks, in various stages of construction, that lined the east and west sides were built of heavy log slabs, as were the warehouses and stables to the south. A cold-looking, stone guardhouse rose starkly from the south edge of the parade ground.
Tonight, the post exhibited a quiet, sleepy personality, except for an apparent hub of activity in the area of an expansive log building south and west of the military structures. From the disorderly, boisterous sounds rising from the edifice, Tom guessed this was the sutler's store-saloon.
"I'd say this is more than a camp," Joe observed.
"Yeah," Tom said, "We're going to hear a lot more about Camp Robinson before the Indian troubles are over. You've got a major fort in the making here. Hell of a lot of troops here already, too."
Tom tossed his mare's reins to Joe. "I'll check at the post commander's quarters and see if they can put us up for a few days."
He was interrupted by the hoarse, raspy voice behind him. "Good evening, gentlemen," the man said testily, "and what might you be about this evening?"
Tom turned to encounter a burly, red-faced, unmistakably Irish sergeant, who eyed the travelers suspiciously. Tom knew the type—don't give him an inch.
"Hello, Sergeant," Tom said. "My name
's Tom Carnes." Gambling that Jordan was still commanding the post, he added, "I'm an old acquaintance of Captain Jordan's. I'd like to see him, if I may . . . and we're not all gentlemen here. There's a lady present."
Tom saw that the sergeant was taken aback. His orange-red, handlebar mustache twitched perceptibly. Good, he was on the defensive.
The sergeant's eyes shifted to Sarah, and his lips spread into a wide, artificial smile. "Oh, beg pardon, ma'am," he said, doffing his hat with exaggerated courtesy. Instantly, his Irish charm took over. "I think Captain Jordan's in the C.O.'s office right now. Just come along."
"Go ahead," Joe said to Tom. "We'll wait here."
Tom followed the sergeant up the steps and onto the wood porch, waiting outside as the sergeant entered the office and announced the visitor's arrival. Momentarily, the sergeant returned.
"The captain says to come on in, Mr. Carnes."
The captain, a stocky, graying man with a thick, full mustache, rose from his desk and moved toward Tom with his hand extended as he walked into the office. "Captain Carnes," he said, "it's good to see you again."
"It's not captain anymore, sir," Tom responded, "just Tom."
"Yes, Tom, I'd heard you'd resigned your commission. You did the smart thing. It's too late for old war horses like me. I'll probably die waiting for my captain's pay clear out here to hell and gone. And promotions aren’t happening these days. What can I do for you?"
Tom related the story of Billy's capture and the purpose of their visit. When he had finished, he saw kindly concern in the officer's eyes.
"I'm afraid I can't be of much help officially, Tom. We're supposed to discourage any traveling by whites into Sioux territory. You can see for yourself that something's stirring, but I can't tell you a whole lot myself. I'm an infantry officer and whatever happens is going to be the cavalry's show. Gossip is that General Crook's going to direct a campaign against the hostiles next spring . . . if Custer over at Fort Abraham Lincoln doesn't beat him to it. Anyway, you know the ropes. I'd guess your Pawnee friend will pick up more from the Indians around here in a day than you could in a week of briefings by our senior officers."