Sioux Dawn: The Fetterman Massacre, 1866 (The Plainsmen Series)

by Terry C. Johnston

  “The Indians accomplish nothing,” he had shouted over the hubbub as soldiers and officers complained. “While I’m perfecting all details of the post and preparing for active movements.”

  “Active movements?” Fetterman echoed. “We’re preparing an assault on the hostile camps?”

  “Not … yet,” Carrington had answered.

  “When, by god?” Brown demanded. “When will you let us stand like men and fight back?”

  Donegan had watched Carrington flinch. “Not long, Captain.”

  “Pray it isn’t, Colonel,” Brown growled. “Pray it isn’t long at all.”

  A light snow had fallen that night, flakes as big as wood-ash curls. Enough to fill a man’s footprints and dust the sill outside the smoky window where Donegan sat nursing his whiskey. More times than he cared to remember he allowed himself to wallow in the cups. To forget a dark-eyed older woman, perhaps a cat-eyed young temptress, or most of all that husky-voiced colleen left behind. Or simply to ease his mind as it turned something unknown over and over again—the way the children on the parade turned the new snow over and over in their mittens that afternoon, forming perfect snowballs.

  Try as he might, Seamus wasn’t in any condition to make sense of anything right now. Only the taste of the whiskey washing against the back of his throat. The dull ache of a long-empty heart.

  The scrape of the door across pine planks was seconded by a jolt of cold air. Boot-soles scraped to the bar. Happy voices cheered new arrivals.

  “Two of your best whiskey, Judge!”

  Seamus recognized Brown’s voice.

  “Water on the side?”

  “No.” That was Fetterman, Donegan decided. “Barefoot’ll do.”

  Two priggish officers come to drink their fancy whiskey. Enlisted men and poor-mick Irish drink what’s left. Giving thanks for the blessed forgetfulness it brings——

  “Did just as you suggested, Judge,” Brown droned after he had swilled down the first cup and Kinney poured a second.

  “How’s that?”

  “With Carrington,” he explained. “Me and Judd just came from there.”

  “Paid him a visit, you say?” Kinney asked.

  Brown felt the room grow quiet, voices falling off and men shuffling close to the bar to hear the latest post gossip. “Judd and I asked him again. Told him we had fifty armed civilians took an oath to ride with us to the Tongue. All we needed was him to give us fifty mounted soldiers. Clean out that nest of vipers once and for all. Then we’d get some peace to see the winter through.”

  “A hundred men’s all it’ll take, Judge,” Fetterman echoed.

  “So, what’d the colonel say to you?” the sutler asked as his ample belly pressed against the bar.

  “What the Hades you think the sniveling coward said?” Fetterman snapped.

  “I’ll tell you!” Brown hollered, gesturing wildly. “That spineless bastard calmly picked up his morning report and flung it at me. Said if he let fifty seasoned men go with Judd and me—he’d have nothing but shavetails left to guard his precious post! Couldn’t keep General Cooke’s mail moving … not enough for picket duty——”

  “His well-worn cowardice,” Fetterman growled before he sipped thoughtfully at his whiskey.

  “Claimed he couldn’t spare fifty horses for those seasoned men either!” Brown went on. “Showed me Ten Eyck’s report for this morning—forty-two mounts in service. Forty-two!”

  “Colonel’d do better making another his post commander,” Kinney clucked like a gossipy hen at the back fence. “That Ten Eyck does no soldier good. But enough of what the colonel said. Tell me, gentlemen—how’d you lay into him?”

  “Told him I’d be leaving for Laramie soon after Christmas—what with my work done here,” Brown grumped. “Wanted a chance to ‘raise hair,’ as the frontiersmen say! Just one more good fight, I begged. Something a real soldier could sink his teeth in.”

  “What’d Captain Fetterman say to Carrington?”

  “When I saw that the colonel had no intention of authorizing a punitive expedition to the Tongue River, I got up to leave——”

  “Without saying a goddamned thing, Judd!” Brown interrupted.

  “Bastard knows damn well how I feel already!” he snapped.

  “On the other hand,” Brown slapped his chest, rattling the spurs looped through a buttonhole of his greatcoat, “I told him that I’m certain I can kill a dozen myself! Given half the chance——”

  Brown stopped right in the middle of his own sentence. The tin cup frozen before him. Every man’s eyes followed the captain’s as a tomblike silence fell over the cabin.

  Through the tumble of fog filling his brain and the glaze of his half-closed eyes, Seamus gazed up at Kinney’s plank bar. And found every man in the place staring back at him.

  “My … my! Just look at that pitiful excuse for a man,” Captain Brown sneered before he brought the whiskey to his lips.

  “Word has it he was branded a coward during the war,” an old infantryman piped up, eager to hop right in.

  “Lost his stripes, was it?” Judge Kinney asked of no one in particular, giving the rough planks a swipe with a dirty towel.

  “Sergeant Garrett told the story that way,” Fetterman said, turning back to the bar.

  “And Donegan didn’t deny it,” Brown added, an elbow propped on the bar, glaring at the loner huddled in the corner by the sheet-iron stove. “Can’t deny it ’cause it’s true—ain’t it, Seamus Donegan?” His voice hammered with the flat, metallic sound of a sixteen-pound sledge on a cold anvil.

  For a long moment Seamus returned Brown’s glare. Then his eyes began to water and he turned away. He gazed out the smoky window at the clearing sky, bright pinpoints of light exposed that spelled another subzero night. Bridger himself had said it. That Brown was one to be watched, like a rattler in a sack.

  “Look! You all see that? The goddamn story must be true!” Brown harangued the crowd. “I gave that bastard Irishman another chance to deny it—here and now before you men—and what’d he do?”

  “Turned away, s’what he done!” one of Brown’s civilian lackies chimed in.

  “Right!” Brown swilled at his whiskey, then banged the hollow cup on the bar. “Fill ’er for me, Judge. Then I think we oughtta have us some military justice done right here. If the truth of Seamus Donegan’s disobedience of a direct order was never settled in the Shenandoah back to ’sixty-four, by all that’s holy, we’ll hold our own court of inquiry here and now!”

  A sudden cheer erupted that filled the sutler’s cabin like a foamy head bubbling over a glass of dark Boston ale. Seamus sensed something about to overwhelm him. But he was long past the point of caring.

  He watched Brown swagger over like a prairie cock. He dropped his cup on Donegan’s table then unbuttoned his coat. Seamus appraised the captain—seeing his leggings lashed tightly round his calves, ready for riding at any alarm. And those two revolvers stuffed in the waistband of his britches.

  “Loaded for bear, ain’cha, Cap’n?” Seamus asked as he collected his thoughts.

  “I’ve found me bear enough for now, Seamus Donegan.” Hatred lay unconcealed in his dark eyes. Brown beckoned the others. “C’mon, boys. Need a jury to decide this defendant’s guilt. Judge Kinney here will make sure its a fair trial, won’t you, Judge?”

  “You’re having fun with him, Captain?” The sutler ambled to the edge of the crowd, squeezing in on Donegan’s corner.

  “Fun?” Brown echoed, not taking his eyes off Donegan. “I’ve shot cowards and deserters before, Judge. Always something a professional soldier had to do. But I can’t say as I ever looked forward to it … till now.”

  The laughter rocked against Seamus like tangible, mocking fists swung at him. He ground at his eyes with both hands, hoping to clear them.

  “I’m sure the court’s heard the charges … as explained by Eli Garrett. If necessary, the prosecution’ll call the sergeant for more——”

 
“No!” a soldier behind Brown hollered.

  “Don’t need to! Get on with it!”

  “Right,” Brown echoed as he stuffed his thumbs in his belt next to the pistols. “Now let’s hear from the defense. Mr. Donegan—what have you to say in your behalf?”

  His head hurt from punishing the whiskey for the better part of two days. Before that he had spent most of a month in the guardhouse—eating their swill, scratching at lice, freezing beneath two thin blankets grudgingly given him. Until the colonel finally freed him, and forced Brown into giving Donegan his settlement pay. From that day, Seamus had worked at nothing better than drinking his way through sutler Kinney’s whiskey barrels, or his civilian pay—whichever came first.

  And now—Seamus wanted to be left alone. Nothing more. Just find himself a warm, quiet place where no man would talk to him and he wouldn’t have to answer. But most of all, someplace where he didn’t have to look at Brown’s leering face.

  Slowly, unsteadily, Donegan pushed the chair back and rocked to his feet, glaring down at the captain. A full head above any man in the room.

  “Cowardice, Cap’n?” he asked, gazing into Brown’s laughing face. “Shall we talk about cowardice, you reeky scut? Just so you can get some Injin’s bleeming scalp afore you prance back to Laramie and your next cushy assignment—you’ll drag every man here to his death!” His finger swept the room. “Begora! You’d even sacrifice the life of your best friend … if it’d grant you a scalp and your bleeming promotion! Right, Cap’n Fetterman? Won’t Brown forfeit your life just to earn his oak clusters!”

  “I don’t think he’d——”

  “Tell ’im, Brown! Your best friend, and he don’t even know you good as I!” Seamus roared, easing his bulk around the crude table. “I’ve seen what rests in the soul of ambitious men like you—men who’ll sacrifice a wife and family. Hell, what’s a friend to an ambitious bastard like you?”

  Seamus recognized it in the captain’s eyes, even before he watched Brown’s right hand swing toward the pistol at his belt.

  You stare enough men in the eye, toe to toe, and you get to where you can recognize that look—just when they’re ready to make their play. All you got to do is be a little quicker.

  He had to admit he enjoyed feeling his fist cracking against Brown’s jaw, sensing that parting of his knuckles against the bone as his arm straightened behind the volcanic power in his shoulder. Watching the captain flung back into the crowd like a limp rag-doll. Caught by two soldiers, the rest flowing like water around a boulder in a stream. Reaching for him. Grabbing with a hundred hands or more. Tearing for a piece of Seamus Donegan. Yelling about justice and a firing squad. As he grabbed the big infantryman in front of him, Seamus wondered who the coward was they were screaming about.

  It seemed easy enough to pick up the big soldier and fling him to the side. Unplanned, but oddly beautiful the way the soldier soared through the crude window onto the narrow porch outside. A blast of cold air rushed in to the tinkle of glass. He suffered the first punch, then caught the next fist he saw headed his way, crushing it, pulling the man into him. He swept the soldier off his feet, tossing him back against the surging crowd.

  Seamus needed fighting room. The door stood too far away, and there were too damned many of them anyway. But at least he could make himself some fighting room. He cracked heads and ducked from flying chairs. A mug smashed against his temple. He enjoyed the homey taste of warm blood at his lip. The dribble of crimson at his nose.

  Someone smacked a chair-leg across his brow. Startled, Donegan rocked back, watching bright meteors. He’d just seen the stars appear behind the clouds through the window … some time back … so long ago now. The soldier with the chair-leg swept his arm back for a second go at Seamus. At the same time at least five of them dove at him. All legs and arms, pummeling the Irishman as they roared curses in his ears. He sensed six on him now, tearing at his arms. Then seven kicking at his legs, trying to bring him down.

  Finally the clean, solid clunk of metal against his skull. Seamus Donegan recognized that sound well enough. So bleeming many times before they’ve brought me down with a crack of a wee pistol.

  Blessed, bleeming darkness.

  Chapter 31

  After failing to lure the soldiers into their trap, the tribes argued through the next day and into the night. Huddled round their fires behind saddle-blanket wind-breaks as the snow fell. Then melted, before a cold wind swept out of the arctic itself. Wasiya, the Winter Giant glazing the weary land.

  “Perhaps another should lead the decoy,” Crazy Horse suggested.

  “No,” Man-Afraid stated firmly.

  “Some stronger medicine——”

  “There is no stronger medicine than yours, Crazy Horse.”

  “Man-Afraid speaks the truth,” High-Backbone echoed. “I will lead the ambush … and I want Crazy Horse to use his medicine to bring the soldiers to my wickmunke, our trap.”

  “If you don’t believe, Crazy Horse,” Man-Afraid clamped his hand on the young warrior’s shoulder, “you’ll find no success at the end of your ride. No one can give you any more power than you find within yourself.”

  Crazy Horse studied the two faces before him. High-Backbone’s penetrating eyes seemed to implore him to complete the ambush as planned. While Man-Afraid’s fiery glare urged him to believe in himself.

  “I will lead many nisma wica, the hair-mouth soldiers to High-Backbone,” he declared evenly. “We will catch many in the hand!”

  Behind him erupted the grunts of approval and the rhythmic, “H’g’un … h’g’un … h’g’un!” The Lakota courage word.

  “Woyuonihan!” Man-Afraid shouted above the clamor. “I salute you, Crazy Horse! Your power is your own best wyakin, your war charm!”

  “Simiakia.” The young warrior bowed his head, feeling the praise heaped on him by the warriors of all the tribes. “Again, I have faith in my own medicine.”

  While the pale rind of a winter moon slipped from the sky, most of the warriors crawled beneath warm robes and blankets to try at sleep. For most, sleep was not an easy thing. Their medicine was strong once more, so announced the shamans who had studied the entrails of a young doe shot for dinner.

  With the coming of the new sun, the last day of the third week of the Moon of Deer Shedding Horns, the soldiers would be swept away.

  * * *

  “Your young men are ready?” Man-Afraid stepped up beside Crazy Horse the next morning.

  He gazed down from atop his war-pony painted with the lightning bolts of white clay, crimson hail-stones dabbed in buffalo blood.

  “Those who come with me are the youngest … perhaps the most reckless,” Crazy Horse answered with a smile that danced at his eyes. “They are the best to ride with me—for they have blood running in them hot as a rutting bull.”

  “It is good.” Man-Afraid stroked the war-pony’s withers. “Soldiers will come running after you this time. They will not stop until they are in the jaws of death. High-Backbone is ready to lead his warriors to the white-man’s road near the foot of Lodge Trail Ridge. He gave the Arapaho and Cheyenne their choice of hiding places. They will lay in wait among the brush along the west side of the road. The Lakota will hide on the east. I will hold ten-times-ten on ponies with me behind a low ridge. If needed, we will sweep through the walk-a-heaps, swinging our clubs.”

  “You do not fear killing all the soldiers?” Crazy Horse asked.

  “No, none will escape.” He smiled. “We will have no trouble against the soldiers and their mazawakans, their rifles.”

  Crazy Horse straightened a moment, looking over the heads of the young warriors who would lure the soldiers into the trap. Behind them as far as the eye could see, more warriors tied bridles and pad saddles to their war-ponies. Some smeared clay on the animals’ flanks for power and speed. Others tied feathers and hawks’ bells in bushy manes. All men bound up the long, brushy tails in strips of red trade-cloth. The color of war.

  “Aiy
eeee!” the young Oglalla exclaimed. “How many will be waiting for the soldiers I lead into the trap?”

  Man-Afraid smiled broadly. “It fills my heart, Tashunka Witko! Earlier this morning the chiefs counted twenty ten-times-ten ready to fight!”

  “Tunka sila le iyahpe ya yo!” Crazy Horse shouted back to his young decoy warriors. “Father! Receive this humble prayer! We will lead many into Wanagi, the Land of Shadows, before the sun rides low in the sky!”

  Man-Afraid slapped the neck of the war-pony. “I may not see you until it is over, young friend. I wish you well, Tashunka Witko.”

  “H’g’un!” the young warrior shouted at Man-Afraid. The louder the better, for this was the courage word of the mighty Lakota warrior.

  Man-Afraid touched the fingertips of his right hand against his forehead, “Woyuonihan! I salute you, Crazy Horse! May you ride like the wind!”

  “Come, my brothers!” the Oglalla yelled to those anxious young warriors prancing behind him. “It is a good day to die!”

  Man-Afraid watched until the last Oglalla war-pony disappeared from sight, the pounding of their many hoofs fading from his ears.

  “The scouts tell me our spotters are on the ridges with their mirrors,” High-Backbone said quietly as he stepped alongside the Oglalla war-chief. “All is ready.”

  Man-Afraid nodded. Then gazed down the trail Crazy Horse had led his young bull-hearts. “Yes, High-Backbone. It is a good day for many soldiers to die!”

  * * *

  Damn cold. His rheumatism bothered him so badly that he hadn’t even crawled out of the blankets to scrounge some breakfast. Bridger lay still, trying to ignore the dull pain until Lieutenant Wands banged on the door to his little room among the noncom staff, near the cavalry yard.

  “Colonel wants you come as soon as you can, Mr. Bridger,” he explained.

  Wearily, Jim swung his creaky legs to the side of his rope cot. “What for?”