Carrington shook his head. “No, it must front the road. A rear or side view would create a poor first impression.”
“Is that so important?” Bisbee said.
“Of course,” Carrington said. “Now, getting the stockade up will be our first order of business. Ten Eyck will assign work details, three shifts of each. I want the men working around the clock.”
By mid-morning the heavy wagons and mowing machines had been pulled to the site. The grass, tall enough to brush a horse’s belly, yielded to the crushing iron wheels and sharpened steel blades, releasing a fresh green aroma. Teamsters drove their wagons repeatedly around the perimeter of a parade ground and through its center, flattening the grass and packing the earth to form streets and avenues. By mid-afternoon a network of roped stakes showed the future location of the stockade walls and the positions of the post’s major buildings.
The men, invigorated by the fine weather and the end of their grinding journey, worked with enthusiasm. By day’s end the entire camp had moved from the banks of the Piney to the new site. Troops pitched their tents by companies in neat rows around the parade and rolled the twelve-pound howitzers into place. In the final hours of daylight wagon masters and teamsters pulled the horse-powered sawmill to its spot along the smaller branch of the Piney Creek, the so-called Little Piney.
That night the band played for the first time in days, beginning with the majestic “Grand Paris Entry.” The band had never sounded better, Harry thought, than it did here, on this night, in this beautiful valley at the foot of the Bighorn Mountains. It seemed to him a whole new world. Ohio might as well be on a different planet. Bandmaster Sam Curry ended the evening’s program with the Southern ballad “Barbara Allen.” Many of the men sang along.
Harry went to bed with the ambulance door tied open—there were no mosquitoes at this altitude—so he could have an unobstructed view of the ebony sky. The moon looked close enough to touch. Despite the quiet beauty, a finger of fear tickled the back of Harry’s neck when he thought of the Indians who would come the following day. Could they be trusted? Maybe they would pretend friendship, like the Sioux Lewis and Clark encountered on Bad River, while in fact they were just waiting for the right moment to fall on them with tomahawks and scalping knives. Or maybe they’d be like the gentle, helpful Mandans. He fell asleep praying for Mandans.
The Cheyenne arrived at noon. First, a few mounted braves appeared on the hilltops, with flags of white cloth tied to long lances. Jack Stead rode out alone to meet them, returning with the Indians following single file. The line kept coming from over the hills until Harry counted forty men, some accompanied by blanketed women.
The soldiers wore dress uniforms for the occasion, the men in frock coats so recently unpacked they still bore the creases of folding, the officers in epaulettes, plumed hats, and crimson sashes beneath their sword belts. The band played “Hail Columbia!” as the Indians’ ponies splashed across the Big Piney.
The Indian men were bare to the waist, their narrow, hairless chests hung with necklaces of grizzly bear claws and seashells. Some had bands of shining metal around their upper arms and brass earrings as big around as Harry’s wrist. The head chief was old and wrinkled with long white braids and a silver medallion round his neck. Harry recognized Thomas Jefferson’s aristocratic profile on the medallion and wondered if it was a gift from Meriwether Lewis himself, given when the old man was a strapping young warrior. Behind him rode a long, lanky fellow carrying a bright red umbrella that was giving him trouble in the wind. Harry laughed, but Bridger gave him a poke in the ribs. “Injuns don’t like to be laughed at,” he said.
Stead led them to a white hospital tent. Inside, Carrington and his officers waited at Margaret’s oak dining table, draped with the garrison’s oversize American flag. Despite the wide smiles and hearty handshakes Harry felt an undercurrent of tension. Brown seemed especially nervous. Drops of sweat ran down his face and Indians who shook his hand wiped their own on their shirts afterward.
Carrington steered them to the cane-backed chairs set in rows before the table but the Indians chose instead to sit cross-legged on the ground. Their women stayed outside the tent, huddled together, stealing glances at the officers’ wives and children watching from across the lawn.
Before any talking began, the old chief with the Jefferson medal produced a red sandstone pipe that was passed from hand to hand and often refilled. After each man had a turn Stead stood to introduce each Indian by name. The old chief, Black Horse, smiled when it was his turn, showing teeth that were stubby and brown as nuts. The subchiefs, Dull Knife and Two Moons, were more impressive-looking. Dull Knife was especially handsome, with chiseled features and a dignified bearing.
“He looks like a Philadelphia lawyer,” Harry said to Bridger.
“Honest as one too,” Bridger said.
After the introductions Black Horse raised his arms for quiet. He spoke, pausing for Stead’s translation, in a singsong voice that rose to a shout then dropped to a whisper. All the while he gestured expansively, waving his matchstick arms and letting his buffalo robe fall from his bony shoulders. “I represent one hundred and seventy-six lodges of Cheyenne people who want peace with the whites,” he said. “Our desire for peace has forced us to break with other bands of our own people—those who live east of Powder River beside the Black Hills and those who hunt south of the Republican River. These people will join with Mahpiya Luta, the one you bluecoats call Red Cloud.
“I spoke to Red Cloud four sleeps ago,” Black Horse said, “while my young men were hunting on the Tongue River. He invited us to a sun dance. After, he said, we will fight together, Sioux and Cheyenne, to drive the bluecoat soldiers back across the Powder River. Even now his Bad Face warriors are attacking wagons on the white man’s road. He will cut you off. You will be beyond help.”
Carrington pulled on his beard. “And what did you say, Black Horse, when Red Cloud asked you to join him?”
The old man raised a bony finger with a long, yellow nail. “I said I want no part of his war with the white man. I knew this would make him angry but I said it anyhow. Now I must think about my women and children, left alone in my village with only old men to protect them. I will take my people away from this country. You will not see me again.”
He waved a withered arm in a gesture that encompassed the entire soldier camp. “I tell the Little White Chief this as a friend. Red Cloud has more warriors than you. You cannot fight him. Take your people back across the Powder River before it is too late. You have women and children. Think of them.”
Black Horse offered one hundred of his young men to fight with the soldiers against the Sioux in return for provisions but Carrington did not accept. “Thank you for your generosity, but I have all the men I need to fight the Sioux. But I will give you provisions regardless and, in return for your good faith, something even better.”
He called for pen and paper and wrote a letter instructing all who read it to treat its Indian bearer kindly. At first Black Horse was puzzled by the paper with the strange markings but after Stead explained its meaning the old man smiled. Dull Knife and Two Moons requested papers too, and Carrington made copies as provisions were distributed. Each Cheyenne man received tobacco, flour, bacon, and coffee. Squaws got bits of old clothing, trousers, flannel shirts, and old shoes, and these delighted them.
After the gift-giving the Indians were anxious to leave. Black Horse wished Carrington luck before departing.
“Do you think that was wise?” Brown said as they rode away. “Giving them safe-pass papers? They could use them to make mischief.”
“I don’t think so,” Carrington said. “Black Horse was sincere about not wanting war. I saw it in his eyes.”
Brown shook his hairless head. “Colonel, an Indian will kiss your feet then stick a knife in you first chance he gets. I don’t know what you think you saw in that old man’s eyes, but don’t bet our lives on it.”
Chapter Nineteen
&nb
sp; Harry woke with a start, sweaty and tangled in his blankets. A light rain pattered on the tent canvas. It was just before dawn, that suspended moment between darkness and day. Something had woken him, but what? A few heartbeats later he heard the loud clanking of a bell followed by shots. He threw off the blankets and sprang to the door. There was a commotion in Captain Henry Haymond’s camp across the Big Piney. It was hard to see in the soupy gray light but Harry could just make out a warrior astride the wagon master’s bell mare, flogging her with his quirt and running her toward the hills. As they were trained to do, the rest of the herd followed.
Carrington stepped fully dressed from the tent he and Margaret shared. His officers joined him, in various states of undress. “It’s those damn Cheyennes, Black Horse and his bucks,” Brown said as he tucked his shirttails into his trousers. “I told you not to trust them, Colonel! I told you!”
“You don’t know who it is, Mr. Brown,” Carrington said, raising his field glasses to his eyes. Rain was coming down heavily now. “It’s too dark,” he said, lowering the glasses. “I can’t see anything. Brown, go over there. Bring Haymond to me.”
Within minutes Brown was back. “Haymond’s gone,” he said breathlessly. “Took out after the Indians, left orders for a twenty-man detachment to follow.” The men were riding out as Brown spoke. “I’d like permission to join them.”
“Denied,” Carrington said. “Haymond had no authority. He should’ve reported to me first. He lost his head.”
“He may do just that,” Bridger said. “Lookit how they’re leavin’, one or two at a time, all strung out in a line. That’s just how the Injuns like it—makes ’em easier to pick off.”
The morning routine went on with the usual chopping, hewing, hauling, and ditching, but everyone was on edge. All eyes returned to the place where the Bozeman Road disappeared over Lodge Trail Ridge, where Haymond’s troops were seen last. Finally, just after seven, a single rider galloped over the rise. The trooper raced to Carrington’s tent and dismounted. “Captain Haymond requests reinforcements, sir. He’s engaged the Indians—they’re everywhere, Colonel, hundreds of them. I’ve never seen so many!”
Carrington’s voice broke as he issued orders. “Bisbee, organize a relief party, fifty mounted men and two companies of infantry. Brown, follow with two ambulances and a wagon of ammunition and rations. Private, you go with Bisbee. Take them to Haymond.”
The messenger turned to follow the officers, but Carrington stopped him. “Just a minute, Private,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Jacob Rosenburg, sir.”
“Where’s your hat, Rosenburg?”
“My hat?” He raised a hand to his head. “Why, I don’t know. I must’ve lost it.”
“A soldier in my regiment does not lose his hat, Rosenburg. You’re out of uniform. Don’t let it happen again. You’re excused.”
Harry saw the anger on Rosenburg’s face as he hurried after Brown and Bisbee. Why did his father do those stupid things? Harry wondered. He would never earn the respect of his men. Never.
The camp prepared for attack. Men took up arms and primed the howitzers. Harry helped Ten Eyck distribute ammunition and smelled whiskey on his breath, though it was just half past seven.
As the minutes turned to hours, fear and idleness strained nerves to the snapping point. Two men started arguing and would have come to blows had Sergeant Timothy Garrett, a thick-necked Irishman and the regiment’s star pugilist, not come between them. Finally, at mid-afternoon, Haymond’s command and the relief parties appeared, moving slowly down the slope of Lodge Trail Ridge. Brown’s supply wagon and the two ambulances brought up the rear, with only four stolen horses in tow. Two dead soldiers lay in the bed of the wagon, their bodies bristling with arrows.
Two Indian women and several children walked behind the column. When they got closer Harry recognized the lovely Jane and other members of French Pete’s family. Cazeau himself and the eldest boy were missing. When Haymond reported to headquarters he brought Cazeau’s wife with him, leading her roughly by the arm.
“I lost two men, Colonel,” he said. “Livenberger and Callery, and two more wounded.”
“What happened?” Carrington said.
“I pursued the Indians, leaving orders for twenty men to follow me. They were slow getting away and the Indians doubled back, hitting us where we were thin. I managed to get my boys together but the Indians kept on coming. There were hundreds of them, Colonel, too many to count. That’s when I sent Rosenburg. They skedaddled when Bisbee showed up and we gave them a good running fight, but our horses played out. We couldn’t catch them.”
Haymond paused, wiping his hand across his sweating forehead. “We found the remains of French Pete’s outfit on the way back, about six miles north of here on Peno Creek. They were dead, all of them—Cazeau, Arrison, Donaldson, and three others I didn’t know—all butchered so bad I hardly recognized them. I found Pete’s squaw here and her children, hiding in the bushes.” He pushed the Indian woman forward. Despite the afternoon heat, she was visibly shaking under her trader’s blanket.
Carrington spoke gently. “What is your name?”
“Mary.”
“We’ve met before. Do you remember me, Mary?”
She nodded. “Yes, the Little White Chief.”
He frowned. “My name is Colonel Carrington. Tell me what happened to your husband and the others.”
She started talking in a patois of English, French, and Sioux, but Stead managed to make sense of it. French Pete had been trading with the Cheyenne band of Black Horse and Dull Knife. They sat up late, talking and smoking. At midnight twelve Bad Face warriors led by Mahpiya Luta himself rode into the camp.
“Red Cloud?” Carrington said. “Red Cloud himself came to your camp? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I know him,” Mary said. “He and my father were boys together in Old Smoke’s village. They were like brothers. My father was with Mahpiya Luta on the day he killed Smoke’s rival, the Oglala chief Bull Bear, the day he became a big man and divided the Sioux people into two camps. He remembered me and called me by name.” She said this with pride. “Mahpiya Luta asked Black Horse if he had passed his warning to the Little White Chief, if the soldiers would go back to the Powder River. He grew angry when Black Horse said the white soldiers ignored his warning and would build their forts along the White Man’s Road.” She paused, looking at the unfriendly male faces around her.
“Continue,” Carrington said. “No one will harm you.”
“The Bad Faces rode their ponies in circles around the Cheyennes, beating them with their bows and calling them women. Even after they were gone I was still afraid. Black Horse and his people were in a hurry to leave after that but first Black Horse said to my husband, ‘The waters of the Powder River will run red with blood.’ We were coming to you, to the soldier fort, for protection when we met the Sioux warriors again, driving your horses. The rest you know.”
Brown spat a jet of tobacco juice at her feet. “Why did they spare her? I’ll tell you why—because she’s one of them! She’s spying for Red Cloud, she’s here to find out how many men we have, about our munitions. Throw her in the guardhouse, Colonel, and her nits too!”
Mary sank deeper into her blanket.
“That’s enough, Brown,” Carrington said. “I don’t think she’s a spy. She is a woman who just lost her husband. She may not be a Christian but she deserves Christian kindness. Stead, tell her she and her children have a home with the white soldiers as long as she wants one. Phisterer, see to it they have something to eat and a place to sleep.”
“Shall I post a guard, sir?” Phisterer said.
“No. They’re our guests, not our prisoners.” When the Indians were gone, Carrington excused all the officers except Haymond. In a shrill voice that carried throughout the camp, Carrington berated him for chasing the Indians without orders. Harry heard grumbling about this later because Haymond was a man of action and popular with the men.
“He cried all night when Father gave it away,” she said. “He won’t miss Father. Neither will I.”
“Where will you go?” Harry asked. “What will you do?”
Jane shrugged her shapely shoulders. “My mother is small but she is strong. She has relatives.” She dropped her eyes. “I wonder, where is the tall officer? The one called Reynolds?”
Harry’s stomach dropped. “My father sent him to Fort Reno for supplies. He’ll be back in a day or so. What about your older brother? Where’s he?” When she did not answer Harry knew the boy with the angry eyes had joined the warriors. “What is Red Cloud like?” he said.
Jane smiled. “My grandfather told me of a time when he and Mahpiya Luta were young men, fighting the Utes. An enemy warrior fell from his horse into a fast river and started to drown. None of his people moved to save him but Mahpiya Luta rode into the water and pulled the Ute to safety. The Ute clung to him and vowed to be his friend forever. As soon as they reached the shore, Mahpiya Luta plunged his knife into the Ute’s heart and scalped him. He wears eighty scalps on his shirt, my grandfather said.”
Harry was sorry he’d asked.
Chapter Twenty
Mark was thinner than before and his hair so long it brushed his collar. Still, to Rose he had never looked more handsome. He dismounted, lifted her from the ground, and took her in his arms. She buried her face in his coat, breathing in his familiar scent of wood smoke and horse and leather. At that moment there was nothing, and no one, else in the world but the two of them.
“Rose.” For the second time in twenty-four hours a man whispered her name into her ear. “I shouldn’t have left you, you have no idea how I’ve regretted it. Is it . . . I mean, are you still. . . .”
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