Summer of the Sioux

by Tim Champlin

  While the sun dried things out and warmed us a little, we marched only about twenty miles (due to the pace of the infantry) and bivouacked on the Dry Fork of the Powder River. The next morning we rode a little less than twenty miles to the ruins of old Fort Reno, one of the three forts on the Bozeman Trail abandoned under a treaty with the Sioux in 1869. For about twelve miles, we followed the bottom of Dry Fork Canyon through some dense stands of cottonwoods and saw the remains of several Indian villages.

  Coming out of the canyon, we drew up our horses on a low bluff and caught sight of white tents and grazing horses on the grassy banks of the Powder River in the distance. I was riding far out front with Captain Wilder and head scout, Frank Grouard.

  "Major Zimmer and his company back from scouting for the Crows," Wilder said, lowering his field glasses.

  The tone of his voice made me look across at him. "Something wrong, Captain?"

  "No. Nothing," he replied quickly. Jamming the glasses into a leather case, he spurred his horse suddenly and the startled animal leapt forward into a trot.

  I followed at a discreet distance, respecting his wish to be alone. Whatever was bothering Wilder had started several days before and had just gotten worse with the death of Von Bramer. The loss of this popular officer had cast a pall over our mess, and I made a mental resolution to get Wilder away from his usual routine this evening in camp—to think of some diversion that would bring him out of his depression.

  I rode into camp just in time to see Wilder dismount and go with Grouard into what I took to be the headquarters tent. A couple of minutes later Grouard emerged, and I heard a voice raised in anger from inside the tent wall. As I watched curiously, Wilder emerged, red-faced, and remounted. As he rode away, a heavy, florid officer sporting muttonchop whiskers emerged from the tent and stared in my general direction, hands on hips. It was Major Zimmer.

  While waiting for the command to catch up, I rode across the shallow Powder River to poke around the ruins of the old fort that was nothing but a few bare walls and piles of scrap iron—rusty gun carriages, wagon wheels, and old stoves. The fort had hardly been vacated before the Indians had moved in to demolish everything that could be demolished, including the breaking of gravestones and the splintering of headboards in the post cemetery. A few words and names could still be distinguished on these markers—Holt, Slagle, Murphy, and others who had been killed in 1867.

  A half-hour later I splashed back across the river, noticing the muddy water that looked as if it contained dissolved gunpowder—the trait that had given the stream its name.

  "Curt, I don't know about you, but I sure could use a shot or two of good Kentucky bourbon," I remarked off handedly to Wilder after an early supper that afternoon. He looked up sharply at me from the tiny mirror he was using to shave by. I glanced around to be sure we were out of earshot of Shanahan and McPherson. Wilder had gone back to his shaving, leaving his question unspoken. "Yeh," I continued, "I need a little something to settle my nerves and dispel some o' the gloom that's settled in around here."

  "Well, I've got a bottle of rye in my saddlebags if you're hinting for a drink," Wilder said, "but I keep it mostly for snakebite, wounds, and upset stomach on the trail. Too many drinking officers in this man’s army already."

  “That’s not really what I had in mind.”

  "Oh?" He flung the soap off the razor and rubbed a speck of blood on his neck.

  "I know where you can get a drink or two of the finest Kentucky bourbon bottled."

  "So do I. But we're a long way from Louisville."

  "Less than two hunderd yards from here."

  He turned toward me, his interest finally piqued, and blotted his face on a towel. He wiped off the steel blade of his razor, folded and replaced it in its case. Then he adjusted his shirt collar. "Well, don't just stand there. I'm not asking any questions. Let's go."

  Twenty minutes later, Wilder and I were seated on folding stools around a campfire with Wiley Jenkins, basking in the genial glow of sour mash and the long, slanting rays of the late afternoon sun.

  Even after I had made the introductions, Jenkins and Wilder did not recognize each other from the Cheyenne saloon. And I was just as happy to leave it that way. "Too bad about Lieutenant Von Bramer," Jenkins was saying. "I didn't know the man personally, but it seems a real waste of human life."

  "Well, I knew him," Wilder said. "We've served together for some time now. I'm sorry you never got a chance to know him better, Matt. Great sense of humor, in spite of his Teutonic background."

  "You know," Jenkins said, "it's pretty ironic that a mercenary like that, who's fought with Garibaldi, and in his own Prussian Army, and even in our own War Between the States, without getting a scratch, should meet his end by some stray bullet fired by some chance war party trying to scare off some livestock."

  "His luck just ran out," Wilder said.

  "I guess he who lives by the sword, usually dies in the same way," Jenkins observed.

  I tensed slightly, waiting for Wilder to take offense, or at the very least, to defend this slap at his way of life. But, surprisingly, he said nothing—just tilted back in his chair and seemed lost in thought as he studied the shafts of sunlight making the bourbon glow like amber in his hand. When he brought his head up, it was to change the subject without further comment.

  "On the march today, Frank Grouard picked up the trail of several dozen shod horses. We figured it was a party of whites headed for the Black Hills. And it wasn't two hours later, we found a message written on a board that confirms it."

  "I didn't know about that," I said.

  "Forgot to mention it, after my little set-to with Major Zimmer. Let me get it out of the tent and I'll show you." He was back in a few minutes and held out a rough piece of board on which was written the following:

  Dry Fork of Powder River, May 27, 1876. Captain St. John's party of Montana miners, sixty-five strong, leave here this morning for Whitewood. No Indian trouble yet. Don't know exactly how far it is to water. Filled nose bags and gum boots with liquid and rode off singing "There's Room Enough in Paradise."

  This strange document was signed by men named Sullivan, Daniels, Barrett, Morrill, Woods, Wymap, Bussee, A. Daley, E. Jackson, J. Clark, Buchanan, and others.

  "Optimistic bunch, whoever they are," I remarked. "Or foolhardy." Wilder frowned.

  "Is this expedition going to fight to make the Black Hills safe for poachers like these?" Jenkins asked in disgust.

  I was convinced Wiley didn't intentionally try to bait his listeners, but he had an uncomfortable knack of cutting through any pretext to expose the raw nerves of a question.

  But, again, Wilder surprised me with his reply to this rhetorical question. "I’m afraid so. It's a damn shame. Lot of good men, both red and white, will be shot up for the sake of a few men’s greed."

  Jenkins gave him a long look, propping his booted feet against a tree trunk. “Then let me ask you something. As a career soldier, do you really believe that we need to destroy old cultures to make way for the white civilization?"

  "No," Wilder answered flatly. "Even though I think it will eventually happen, I don't think it has to be done by force. God knows why things happen as they do." He shook his head and sipped his drink.

  "Seems like violence is usually the cutting edge of change," Jenkins added.

  "Speaking of cutting edges," I broke in, "what did your old friend, Major Zimmer, have to say?"

  Wilder's face clouded, and he glanced uncertainly at Jenkins. "Not much."

  "Why does someone with the rank of major get sent out on a scouting expedition?" I asked, trying to get him off the hook.

  "He volunteered. Anything to keep himself at the center of the general's attention. He who gets noticed often gets the promotions. And promotions are hard to come by in the Regular Army since the war, regardless of any brevets."

  "Could that have anything to do with all this ruckus that's been kicked up on the frontier?" Jenkins asked. "The Canad
ians don't seem to be having much trouble with their Indians."

  "Possibly."

  "A good war never hurt an army's appropriations."

  "Apparently Zimmer didn't find the Crows," I remarked, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.

  "You know, I made that same observation myself when we rode in." Wilder grinned at me. "He nearly had apoplexy. Hates to look like a failure, especially to a subordinate."

  A low rumble of galloping horses interrupted our conversation, and we saw the outlines of several dozen mounted riders rein up in the twilight near the headquarters tent.

  "Who in the hell could that be?" Wilder wondered aloud.

  Some of the men dismounted in the swirling dust, and we could see them talking to General Buck and several officers. From some two-hundred yards away in the gathering dusk, the men appeared to be well armed and leading a string of pack animals. A few minutes later a young orderly rode past us at a trot.

  "Hey, soldier, who are those men?" Wilder called.

  "Miners, sir. From Montana. Sixty or seventy of them. On their way to the Black Hills. They're asking for the general's permission to join up with us for protection." The orderly rode on.

  "They've got a lot of brass," Wilder remarked. "Reckon it's the same group who left this note on the board?" I asked.

  "Sounds like it. And from the fresh rifle pits we saw dug the past day or so, I'd say they've had some experience traveling in hostile territory."

  While we were still discussing the new arrivals, the miners remounted and came riding slowly toward us, apparently to a level camping area on the edge of the command.

  "Pretty scruffy-looking bunch," I remarked as the riders filed past, their tired horses hanging their heads.

  "You don't look like you've just stepped out of a haberdasher's shop yourself." Wilder grinned.

  "My God!"

  There was a crash behind me as Jenkins's tilted campstool fell over backward, with him in it. He jumped to his feet, his wide eyes riveted on the riders.

  "What's wrong?" I was suddenly alarmed.

  He swallowed hard before he answered. And when the words finally came, they were low and hoarse. "There . . . there goes my dad and my sister!"

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday morning, June third, dawned as the most beautiful of the trip. The cavalry, riding in columns of two, the "walk-a-heaps", as the Indians called our infantry; our high-wheeled wagons, white tops shaking, pack train on the flanks, with Wiley Jenkins somewhere among the packers and the ambulances—all rode, marched and rolled like a four-mile long snake across the prairie swells that were covered with sparkling frost.

  It was a thirty-mile march due northwest to Crazy Woman's Fork. The mighty wall of the Big Horn Mountains rose directly in front of us, about fifty miles away, dominated by snowcapped Cloud Peak.

  Crazy Woman's Fork was one of those clear, melted-snow streams flowing down from the Big Horns. The pure, ice-cold water was a real pleasure to drink and wash in after the silty alkali of the Powder River.

  General Buck was far out front of the command with a couple of orderlies and an aide-de-camp. He forbade any more bugle calls. I couldn't figure out why. Any Indian scout within twenty miles who wasn't blind could see our column on this treeless plain, or at least could spot the dust cloud we were raising.

  The night before I had made some quick excuse, thanked Jenkins and hustled Wilder away. Jenkins was so stunned I don't think he was even aware we had left. On the way back to our tent, I briefed Curt on the situation. He seemed liquor-relaxed and only mildly interested in Jenkin's problem. In fact, his only interest stemmed from the fact that there was a young woman in camp. But I swore him to secrecy on this point until I could check out developments. I was eaten up with curiosity, but I stayed away from Jenkins for the next few days, hoping to give him some time to straighten up some of his private family affairs.

  We marched the next day to Clear Fork, about eighteen miles from Crazy Woman. The water here was like icy crystal and was also alive with trout. In fact, it was no trick for even a non-fisherman like me to land three of the sleekest, juiciest fish I'd ever seen—or tasted. Fried up with potatoes and onions, they made a great break in our usual fare that night.

  The next day was one of our shortest marches, about sixteen miles. We arrived at Fort Phil Kearney about noon and went into camp in a beautiful, grassy valley near the foot of the Big Horns. This was the site of the famous massacre of Captain Fetterman and eighty-three soldiers ten years ago.

  General Buck wanted to establish his base camp at a place called Goose Creek, which our Indian guides indicated was only about eight miles farther. But their conception of distance in miles was a lot different from a white man's, since we marched a good twenty-five miles the next day without reaching it. One reason we probably didn't get there was that General Buck changed directions. After several hours of riding through beautiful ravines filled with fragrant flowers, he veered the column northeast, away from the Bozeman Trail, and began following the course of a stream called Beaver Creek. On the way we struck a buffalo herd, and some of the hunters killed six of them for meat.

  The next day, the seventh, we marched about eighteen miles, following Little Goose Creek, crossing and recrossing it several times, having to put our feet up on our saddles and hold our guns over our heads to keep them dry.

  "Are you familiar with this country?" I asked Wilder as our horses lunged up, dripping, from the creek for about the fourth time.

  "Only vaguely," he replied. "Looks a lot different than it did last March when it was covered with snow." "Well, I guess the guides know where we're going." "The best ones aren't even with us now."

  "Where are they?"

  "Frank Grouard, Louis Richaud and Baptiste Pourier left this morning. General Buck sent them toward the Crow reservation to see if they could have any better luck than Major Zimmer did at finding the warriors they promised."

  "Pretty dangerous."

  "Sure is. That's why General Buck hasn't let any couriers go out lately with your news dispatches to Fort Fetterman. But if anyone can travel through hostile territory and make it, those three are the ones to do it. Grouard is the best tracker and scout I've ever seen.

  And I'm not the only one with that opinion. General Buck once remarked to me that he'd rather lose his whole command than to lose Grouard. He may be half-French and half-Negro, but he's more Indian than the genuine article."

  He spurred his bay forward. "He was captured by the Sioux a few years ago when he was working as a mail courier for the government. They didn't kill him.

  For some reason, Crazy Horse himself took a liking to him, so the story goes. Maybe because he wasn't completely white. Dubbed him 'The Grabber' because they captured him in the winter, and when he stood up to fight them in that furry buffalo robe, he looked like a big, standing bear. After a few years he escaped."

  The wagons had a tough time keeping up that day and finally straggled into camp after dark where we had camped at the junction of Prairie Dog Creek and Tongue River. It was only after we had arrived at the Tongue that General Buck realized we had taken a wrong turn and had been following Prairie Dog Creek instead of Little Goose Creek.

  I decided to connect with Jenkins and went over to his tent after I'd worked over my notes for the day. "Well, have you let 'em know you're with the command yet?" I asked that evening as I lounged in his tent, munching a tortilla full of hot beans, provided by one of the Mexican packers who was doing the cooking nearby. Three other men were in the tent, conversing softly in Spanish.

  "Yes, but it took me a day or so to decide," Jenkins replied, lighting up a long, slim Mexican cigar.

  "Whew! That thing's rank. Where'd you get it?"

  He jerked his head in the direction of the cook. "Alfredo Gomez. Makes great food, and what he doesn't know about mule-packing hasn't been thought of yet. But these cigars of his are pretty strong. I'm saving my few good Cuban stogies for some special occasion later. L
et's take it outside." He motioned for me to bring my food, and when I was finished, began to stroll toward the miner's camp. Once there he threw back the flap of one of the wall tents on the end of a short row of variously shaped tents. Over his shoulder I could see a tall, lean, clean-shaven man of middle age with a full head of silver-white hair swept back in wavy splendor.

  "Dad, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Matt Tierney. My father . . ."

  He gripped my hand briefly without smiling.

  "Mr. Jenkins."

  "What's your connection with this outfit?" he asked abruptly. "You a mule packer, too?"

  From the tone of his voice, I gathered he considered the work menial. "No. I'm a newspaper reporter."

  "Huh!" he grunted, looking down at me from his impressive height as if trying to decide whether my occupation was a cut or two below that of a mule packer.

  “Where’s Cathy?” Wiley asked.

  “Back there." He jerked his head toward the back half of the tent that was partitioned off with a wall of white canvas.

  "Wiley? Thought I heard your voice."

  The partition was pulled aside and Cathy Jenkins appeared, wearing denim jeans and a short, buckskin jacket. She had thick, brown hair, almost blond, that just touched the collar of her jacket, a slightly aquiline nose, and delicate features that looked unusually fragile in these rough surroundings--or was it just that I hadn't seen a woman for almost a month? She also had a surprisingly strong grip, I noticed, for a girl about five feet, five and slim of build. As I mumbled a greeting and took her hand at Wiley's introduction, she favored me with a quick, friendly smile, showing the most even and amazingly white teeth I had ever seen. They looked even more dazzling against the tan of her face.