Jack Stead signaled for quiet. “The soldier chief says that he does not want the Cheyenne people to go hungry. Never more. When Black Horse and his people have bellies that pinch, they should not come near the road to beg of the white people on the road. The Cheyenne must go to Laramie, where they will be fed. There the Cheyenne will receive more presents for keeping the peace with the white soldiers.”
The colonel turned to his adjutant. “Phisterer. Bring the letters of good conduct I had you prepare. Jack, please explain to the chiefs what my letter says … what it means to them.”
Before Stead began interpreting for the chiefs, he quickly read the colonel’s letter of safe-conduct.
TO MILITARY OFFICERS, SOLDIERS, AND EMIGRANTS:
Black Horse, a Cheyenne chief, having come in and shaken hands and agreed to a lasting peace with the whites and all travelers on the road, it is my direction that he be treated kindly, and in no way molested in hunting while he remains at peace.
When any Indian is seen who holds up this paper, he must be treated kindly.
Henry B. Carrington
Colonel, 18th U.S. Infantry
Commanding, Mountain District
Black Horse signaled his chiefs to gather their gifts and make ready to leave. Only then did the old Cheyenne step directly before Carrington. He laid a hand on the soldier chief’s left breast. Then he tapped his own bare breast where lay the image of President Andrew Jackson on a peace medal tarnished over many winters.
“You’re his friend now, Colonel.” Jack Stead’s voice cracked slightly.
Carrington swallowed hard against the hot lump in his throat. “Tell Black Horse that together we can see peace brought to this land.”
The old Cheyenne’s eyes moistened. “My people ride south with tomorrow’s sun. We will stay off the road, and far from Red Cloud’s camps. We … wish the soldier chief well.” Black Horse raised an arm to the heavens, quickly brought that hand to his heart, where it rubbed his left breast before he flung the arm toward Carrington.
Jack sighed, his own eyes a little misty. “Black Horse says … may the Everywhere Spirit of his people protect you, Soldier Chief.”
Black Horse turned, swallowed by his chiefs among their ponies. When the old Cheyenne had mounted, his new soldier tunic replacing the buffalo robe, his new soldier shako pulled down crookedly over his gray hair, Carrington strode to his side.
Squinting up into the sun, the colonel said, “God’s speed, my friend. May the Lord hold you in the palm of his hand.”
Black Horse signed, rubbing his chest and extending his arm toward Carrington.
“May the Everywhere Spirit watch over you, soldier chief. May he keep you safe from all harm.”
A sudden cold prickled the hairs at the back of Bridger’s neck. Strange, he thought. To have a chill under this sun. Then Jim realized why he felt such cold, clear down to his marrow. He had come to like this man Carrington. Really liked him. And the sad part of it was, Bridger realized, it would take Almighty God to protect the colonel from here on out. God, and God only. No amount of rifles nor mountain howitzers would keep Carrington out of harm’s way now.
The goddamned army brass back East had sent this poor, simple … honest man out here to this bloody hunting ground—a man totally unprepared for what stared him in the face. The army sent Carrington here like a gauntlet thrown down to the Sioux. A slap across Red Cloud’s face.
In forty-four winters of fighting to keep his scalp, Jim Bridger had never known an Indian to turn down a challenge.
Chapter 7
At Bridger’s urging, Carrington dispatched a rider south to Fort Reno that afternoon, rather than wait until morning. If Black Horse was right that Red Cloud was already at work sealing off the Montana Road north from Crazy Woman’s Fork, then all future detachments riding up from Reno would be endangered.
While the officers at Fort Laramie were able to communicate with the outside word by using the telegraph-key, these new posts thrown up along the Bozeman Trail had to utilize the ages-old dispatch and courier system. A system that trusted a handwritten message carried by a single rider piercing the red gauntlet the hostile Sioux had thrown up around their hunting ground. More often than not, as the army would one day grudgingly admit, these couriers mounted on the swiftest horse available would not make it to their destination. Most would simply become a small notation in the record of some post—“Courier missing.” All too often no trace of body, bone or even the courier’s pouch itself could be found. The lonely hammering of each solitary rider’s hoofbeats his only epitaph.
That brief farewell bid him as he swung into the saddle, ready to ride, his only eulogy.
Checking recent dispatches carried up from Laramie, Carrington found that a small detachment of new officers called up from Fort Sedgwick was scheduled to depart Fort Laramie ten days ago. If his calculations were correct, that detail would reach the Crazy Woman by Wednesday, July 18. The colonel was relieved that the army practiced one claim to foresight: as District Commander, he was kept informed of the makeup of parties coming north along the trail. Always informed, that is, if the dispatch rider himself made it up the Bozeman Road.
“Who leads the detail?” Carrington asked his assistant.
Phisterer studied his dispatches. “A Lieutenant Templeton, George. Second-in-command is Lieutenant Daniels, Napoleon H. Two replacement lieutenant’s for your staff. In addition, Alexander Wands, your new adjutant when I’m reassigned. And a James Bradley.”
Carrington chewed on the inside of his cheek, staring off to the south, watching the Cheyenne climb across Lodge Trail Ridge. They would be marching west tomorrow. Safe. Beyond Red Cloud’s grasp.
Henry had a reputation as a thinking man, not given to rash or impulsive acts, a trait not found among many of his fellow officers in this postwar army. Graduating from Yale Law School in 1848, he had begun practice in Columbus, Ohio, where he met Margaret Sullivant. A reflective man who studied the careers of great men, he read of Hannibal, Alexander, Caesar, Napoleon—and became expert on the military campaigns of George Washington. Those who served with Carrington knew he made no bones of aspiring to greatness himself.
Without turning to his adjutant, the colonel inquired, “Any civilians in Templeton’s party?”
The German cleared his throat. “Yes, Colonel. Two women. A child. Plus an infant and a colored servant girl. Along with a Captain Samuel Marr—retired—Missouri volunteer regiment in the war. Two others traveling north to the goldfields with Marr. Along with a surgeon assigned to our post, named Hines. And a chaplain.”
Carrington turned, his face brightened. His eyes closed as if in momentary prayer. Margaret will have her clergy at long last, here in the heart of the wilderness. “A chaplain, you say?”
“David White,” Phisterer answered, again studying his papers. “And … this is interesting—a photographer. Name of Glover.”
“Tell me of the fighting men.” Carrington turned back to watch the sun settle on the Big Horns.
“Only…” He looked up at Carrington, waiting for the Colonel to turn around, “… fourteen.”
Eventually Henry dismissed his adjutant with a nod of his head. Not a word more spoken. Both sensing the dread shared between them. Carrington brooded.
My god. These civilians scurrying north to the goldfields at Alder Gulch like hungry ants. Civilians sent to the slaughter. What are those fools at Laramie thinking of? They heard Red Cloud’s threat with their own ears!
The women. Children. And … and a baby. Every last one of them offered in sacrifice.
* * *
Louis Gazzous had spent enough winters here on the high plains to understand Indians. But the way Black Horse and his warriors had acted when they drew up to the Frenchman’s camp was something altogether different. And more than a little unsettling.
After leaving the conference at the soldiers’ camp and climbing north over Lodge Trail Ridge, the Cheyenne had bumped into their old friend French
Pete, as Gazzous was widely known from Montana and to Dakota Territory. His years of talking straight and dealing square gave French Pete and his men a degree of safety as they made the annual rounds of villages along the Tongue, Rosebud and Little Bighorn. East to the Powder and west to the Wind River, season after season, Gazzous pulled his creaky wagons into Sioux and Cheyenne camps, trading for furs and hides. Some years he could afford more help than others. This season, French Pete fed five drivers. It would be a good year for trading, Gazzous told himself. Five wagons burdened with buffalo hides would give him the stake he needed to open a small post down along the Belle Fourche. Maybe on south to the Republican.
So many seasons of struggle and hope. Now he had five wagons and a future. So, why did the somber mood of the Cheyenne make him edgy?
Black Horse, Red Arm and Dull Knife did most of the talking around the campfire at twilight when all had finished their supper and Gazzous presented every warrior a tin cup of steaming coffee. Yes, French Pete knew, coffee always loosened tongues.
The chiefs spoke of trading and of wandering south before the season turned cold and the great honkers pointed the way. Gazzous agreed. He felt it in his bones. This would be a winter of cold like no man alive could remember. “A winter in a hundred,” the Cheyenne called it.
With pride, Black Horse and the others showed French Pete their gifts from the commander of the new fort. And as the sun sank with a purple ache beyond the hills, the Cheyenne told his old friend the trader of his new friend the soldier chief. Again and again Gazzous had his Sioux woman brew pots of coffee, dumping sugar in each cup before she handed them to the Cheyenne chiefs. Coffee loosened tongues, Pete knew. And sugar sweetened the talk.
As stars came out, the Cheyenne began trading with Pete in the time-honored way. Hours had been spent in socializing, sharing both talk and coffee. They had retold old stories heard many times before. Now they could trade. But as the Cheyenne laid out a handful of dressed robes for Pete’s inspection, a pony’s snort crept through the trees. The crik-crik of many unshod hoofs trampling across the rocky bed of Peno Creek burst through the sudden silence fallen over Pete’s camp.
They were surrounded by Sioux.
A party of more than eighty warriors drew their ponies to a halt, ringing the campsite. Pinning the Cheyenne in with the Frenchman and his drivers. As the flickering tongues of yellow light danced off the high branches of the pines, one warrior kicked a leg over and dropped to the ground.
Man-Afraid strode into the light at the edge of the fire and settled to his haunches, his short bow held loose before him. A slash of a smile on his wolfish face. Without a sound he nodded to French Pete. Then to Black Horse. And Dull Knife. After acknowledging Two Moons, the Sioux chief looked back at the trader.
Pete motioned his wife forward. She poured a cup of the thick coffee, dumped some sugar into the liquid, and set it before Man-Afraid. He drank noisily, slurping those last few swallows most heavily sweetened. With a finger he dug at the soggy sugar trapped at the bottom of the cup. Then wiped the back of his hand across his wet lips.
No Sioux had stirred from their ponies. No Cheyenne had taken his eyes off this feared war-chief who had appeared from the darkness.
“Trader!” Man-Afraid bellowed as he glared at French Pete. “You bring me the mirrors you promised your last visit?”
Gazzous signaled one of his men to the wagon. With his gift in hand, the trader set the heavy burlap sack at the warchief’s feet. Hoping the expensive presents would mollify the fiery Sioux leader. “The mirrors you wanted, my friend.”
Without a reply, Man-Afraid opened the top of the sack, pulled one mirror out and inspected it, finally smiling. “They are good, trader. You have done well to bring them to us.”
Pete cleared his throat and wiped his brow, still not sure the gift would appease Man-Afraid. “T-Tell me … do all the Sioux admire themselves—to look at themselves in those new mirrors?”
He was startled as Man-Afraid rared back his head and laughed loudly, the sound of it harsh, like a knifeblade grating across a stone. The rest of the warriors laughed with him. Suddenly the warchief gripped the trader’s shirt.
“We do not look at our beauty, trader. These mirrors are for something more important than Sioux beauty.”
“W-What is that, Man-Afraid?”
He smiled, with the look of the badger come to call on a man’s hen house. “We learn to use our new mirrors to talk to one another.”
“Talk? You say talk?”
“Yes. From hill … to hill … to hill.”
“Talk?”
“Yes, trader!” His voice showed his impatience as he glanced down at Black Horse. “Our mirrors will talk, using the sun to signal our attacks on the soldiers at the new fort.”
“Signal … signal mirrors. Ahhh, yes,” Pete replied, licking his lips nervously, relieved as the warchief let him go and turned toward the Cheyenne leader.
“Tell me, Black Horse,” Man-Afraid said, beginning the conversation between Indians without the social amenities of a smoke and story telling, “tell me of your visit to the white soldier camp beyond Lodge Trail Ridge. When will the soldier chief take his men south to the old mud fort?”
Black Horse removed the hat he had received from Carrington, feeling Sioux eyes on him as never before. His skin burned under their appraisal.
“The soldier chief, he will not take his men south from our hunting grounds, Man-Afraid.”
The Sioux chief spat into the fire and placed his bow across his folded arms. “He will not leave, is it? I think Black Horse failed to convince this soldier chief that his men will die—every one—if he does not leave our land.”
“He was told.”
“But he was not told with strong enough words. He was not told by Lakota!”
From that ring of ponies and warriors encircling the camp sprang yelps and hoots as the Sioux chided the forty Cheyenne. For the first time Man-Afraid allowed his warriors to heap insults upon the warriors of Black Horse. After several minutes Man-Afraid raised his hand. His warriors fell silent.
“Tell me, Black Horse—of the presents the soldier chief gave you.”
“We had all we wanted to eat—”
“Did they give you the funny hats to eat, Black Horse?”
Like a spring flood over a beaver dam, laughter roared over the Cheyenne seated in the flickering light of the trader’s fire. Gazzous wiped his sweaty palms down the front of his greasy blouse, watching in silent terror. When the Sioux warriors had their fill, Man-Afraid went on, at the same time signaling one of his men to his side. Curly moved beside his leader.
“Your bellies were filled? And your heads were covered, eh, Black Horse? Did the white men also fill your heads with silly words and your heart with fear?”
“No.” Black Horse said it as calmly as his old, trembling heart would allow. “The soldier chief said he wanted all Sioux and Arapaho—all Indians in this country—to go to the fort at Laramie. There we should sign the treaty Spotted Tail has put his mark to. There, we can get our presents.”
“We want nothing the white man has to give us!” Man-Afraid roared as he bolted to his feet. That sudden move caused an anxious shift in the Cheyenne round the fire. More Sioux dropped from their ponies. Tightening their noose on the fire-ring.
Deliberately, slowly, Man-Afraid marched round the fire to stand before Black Horse. He bent to spit his words into the Cheyenne chief’s face.
“Tell me, Black Horse—mighty chief of the Cheyenne—why is it you take the gifts of the white soldiers when all the Sioux want is soldier scalps?”
Black Horse calmly wiped the spittle from his cheek, aware that the Sioux gathered round his Cheyenne chiefs had unstrung their bows. He sat powerless to stop what was about to happen.
More important, the ancient code of honor among Plains warriors mandated that he take this abuse without the slightest show of pain. He would instead suffer this indignity in silence, robbing his tormentors of
much of their pleasure.
“For winters beyond count, the Cheyenne and the Sioux have stood together. We will—”
“You will what, Black Horse?” Man-Afraid shrieked, raising his bow overhead. “You will turn your back on this land and its people? You will join the white man in his war on us?”
Savagely he brought the elkhorn bow down along the cheek of the stoic Black Horse. Unflinching, the old chief suffered the brutal blows in silence. In the eyes of the Sioux drawing close, Black Horse saw that his silent, stoic bravery was admired above all else.
Blood oozed from the skin laid opened across the old Cheyenne’s cheekbone. That signal released the fury of the Sioux warriors on the Cheyenne chiefs. Curly stood guard over French Pete and his five white teamsters, rifle at ready should they move to help the Cheyenne. Again and again the short, stout bows thumped shoulders, heads, and backs. With savagery the Sioux struck the helpless chiefs, two or more warriors beating each Cheyenne as they shouted their oaths and taunted with vile names.
From the mouths of the Cheyenne rose no protest. No whine. No cry. Nothing but quiet grunts of pain. Black Horse’s men suffered their indignity in silence.
“Enough!”
Man-Afraid jerked round. Finding French Pete standing, his hands empty, imploring. The muzzle of Curly’s rifle pressed into the trader’s chest.
“They … they have had enough,” Gazzous pleaded in Sioux.
Man-Afraid looked down at the bruised and bleeding Black Horse. “Perhaps, trader. Perhaps they have had enough shame. For now.” He motioned his warriors back. They restrung their bows and leaped atop their ponies. Curly backed off, his rifle still pointed at the knot of shaken white men.
At that moment French Pete understood why only he and his drivers had a gun pointed at them. The Cheyenne would suffer their beating in shamed silence. The Sioux knew that. And likewise the Sioux believed only the white man capable of trying something stupid. Like pulling a knife. Or a gun. Only the white man was a treacherous creature that had to be watched. Perhaps exterminated, if he could not be driven from this land.
Sioux Dawn: The Fetterman Massacre, 1866 (The Plainsmen Series) Page 8