Summer of the Sioux

by Tim Champlin

“No.”

  "Good thing you came to me when you did, then. It's about to become infected." He pressed gently around the jagged wound with his thumbs, and I caught my breath with sharp pain as the scabbing cut oozed serum and pus. He cleaned and dressed the wound with clean bandages, and then asked if there was anything else, since he had seen me limping as I came up. I told him about my thigh.

  "Drop your pants."

  "Here?"

  "Sure, here. By the saints, who's here to see you?"

  I could feel myself reddening as I did as I was told. He took considerable interest in my left thigh, which was discolored about two-thirds from knee to hip and still very swollen. He pressed and punched here and there and then had me flex my leg, which I did with considerable pain.

  "Step up and down off this stool."

  I complied, with even more difficulty. I was sweating when I sat down again.

  "How'd you say you did that?"

  "Indian pony kicked me."

  "Hmmm. It's one of the most beautiful bruises I've seen in over twenty years. You must not have caught the edge of the hoof, or you'd have a broken femur and some damaged muscles there. As it is, you've got a lot of small blood 'vessels broken and a lot of swelling. There wouldn't have been much I could have done for you even if I had gotten to it right away. About all I could've done would've been to keep the swelling down. And I don't have any ice out here for that, so . . ." He shrugged. "Go ahead and put your pants back on. That's going to be sore and stiff for a week or two. When we get back to Goose Creek, I'd advise you to get off that leg and keep it elevated as much as possible. When it turns pure black, it's just before healing up."

  "Thanks, Doe. Guess I'm pretty lucky. Especially compared to a lot of these other poor bastards. By the way, how is Mr. Jenkins?"

  "Who? Oh, the tall slim fellow with the silver hair?"

  "Right."

  "Touch and go. If he lives through tonight, he might make it. Might, I said. I've done all I can for him in the field, but that's not too much. He needs hospitalization quickly."

  "That's a shame." I shook my head at the thought of this man I had only met and spoken to once.

  "It's all a shame, Matt, for humans to be doin' this to each other."

  "Oh?"

  "I'm a doctor, first and last. It just so happens that I'm in the uniform and employ of the United States Army at the moment. I'm along to pick up the pieces and try to put them back together. It's what I'm trained for, and I can help people here as well as in some city hospital, or private practice."

  "Guess you're right. Well, thanks, Doctor." I stuck out my hand and he gripped it firmly.

  When I got back to the bivouac area, I told Mac and Wilder about Jenkins. There was nothing much any of us could say about it, so the conversation drifted on to other topics, primarily the campaign. Shanahan, as he had the night before, remained mostly silent during supper. Curt returned my Colt which he’d found. After the meal, Mac turned to writing his dispatches again while there was still some daylight. I knew I would have to be doing the same shortly since couriers would be leaving for the telegraph at Fetterman soon after we reached Goose Creek.

  While the mess gear was being cleaned and stowed away, I noticed Wilder fidgeting. It was not like him. Finally, he drew me aside. "Matt, can you show me where Cathy Jenkins is?"

  "I think so." I didn't ask why. "Do you want to go now?"

  He nodded.

  I led him to the camp area of the miners and located Cathy at a small campfire with several of the miners. The burly, middle-aged miner with the salt-and-pepper hair who had been with us on the miners' ridge, seemed to have taken her under his fatherly protection. Her face was wan and her eyes looked red-rimmed in the firelight from crying and lack of sleep.

  I left Wilder and retired unobtrusively. Wiley was not with his sister. I guessed he was back with the mule packers or possibly, with his father. I didn't try to look him up. Wilder had not returned when Mac and Shanahan and I rolled into our blankets under the stars about nine-thirty. My leg was aching and I was still very fatigued.

  Reveille came with dawn about five A.M. We stirred up the dead fire and put some coffee on. We were out of bacon, so breakfast was only black coffee with some hardtack dunked in it.

  "Matt, would you do me a favor?" Wilder said while the horses were being saddled.

  "Sure."

  "We should reach the wagon train by noon. But I have to ride at the head of my company 'til then. Would you kind of keep an eye on Cathy Jenkins for me? Make sure she's okay?"

  "Of course. Want me to keep the wolves away?" I grinned.

  "No. Her father died late last night." His face was pale and grim in the gray morning light. "She was pretty shattered when I left her a little after midnight."

  "Oh, no!"

  "Yeh, he never regained consciousness."

  I looked away from his eyes and stared down at my own scuffed, dusty boots. "Well, I can't say I'm really surprised. He took a pretty bad hit. The surgeon didn't give him much of a chance. I guess I was just hoping he'd make it in spite of the odds."

  "I think she'll be okay. She's pretty gritty. I'm more impressed with her all the time. Well, perhaps that isn't quite the word I'm looking for. I don't know. I've damn well taken a strong liking to her, anyway." He seemed embarrassed by the admission.

  "I'll ride by and check on her for you. How is Wiley taking it?"

  "Don't know. Haven't seen him."

  "I'll find him."

  The command was passed along to mount, and we were shortly moving out in the now-familiar formation. I told McPherson what had happened. Then I rode back to the pack train and found Wiley Jenkins. He was slouched on his mule, head down, looking nothing like the cocky, cynical man I had first met. He barely acknowledged my greeting when I rode up alongside.

  "Wiley, I'm really sorry about your Dad." I mouthed the standard words, trying to make them as sincere as I could.

  "Don't patronize me. You think it's my fault, don't you?" he snapped, looking up at me.

  I was taken aback.

  "Not really. You had no experience in combat. The kind of reaction you had to have at that instant could've come only from instinct or previous exposure to such situations," I replied carefully.

  With that his defenses seemed to crumble, and even though he was not looking at me, I could see him blinking back the tears. We rode along in silence for a minute or so, my torso swaying comfortably with the slow rhythm of my horse. The only sounds were the soft thudding of hooves, the squeaking of leather, and the rattling of gear. A slight breeze carried away the puffs of dust rising from the hooves of our animals.

  Finally, he regained his composure and when he spoke again, it seemed to come from deep reflections within him. “I didn’t agree with many of the things the old man did and stood for, or appeared to stand for. But I'll have to admit he had his good points. I've been doing a lot of thinking, and I’m in no position to judge his motives for the things he did. I'm beginning to have a lot of regrets for not coming to terms with him before it was too late. Or at least getting to know him better."

  "Huh . . . If it's any comfort, about half the human race could probably say that, including me."

  "Ah well, who knows? Maybe things work out for the best." His voice still had a forlorn note to it, but he straightened up in his saddle.

  I didn't want to go into the details of his family problems; I was only interested in his own health of mind. I knew he was going through some rough self-recriminations but hoped he could pull through them with a minimum of damage. And I hoped it wouldn't drive him to escape in the bottle. Presently I said, "Cathy could use all the help you can give her, you know. She's not as tough as she makes out."

  "Yes, I know. I'll go to her as soon as I catch up with myself."

  With that, I left him and, riding forward to find Cathy among the miners, I saw Mr. Jenkins's body wrapped in a canvas and tied across the back of a horse. He was the only unburied fatality in t
he command. The horse was being led by one of the miners, and Cathy rode a few yards ahead on her sorrel.

  "Hello, Matt." She looked tired but otherwise composed. She wore jeans, and a soft cotton shirt with small green-and-white checks. Her doeskin jacket was tied behind the saddle. A broad, low-crowned hat shaded her eyes from the sun, and her brown hair was swept back from her face. The gun belt she had worn earlier was missing. She didn't seem disposed to talk, and I didn't know what to say, so I rode silently alongside her, hoping just my presence would show my concern.

  "Why did it have to happen,” she said presently, without looking my way. It wasn't a question. "He was a good man," she continued, speaking softly, almost to herself. "It seems so pointless. He had no business fighting. What did he accomplish by giving up his life?"

  "You said he was a good man. I didn't know him except as a courageous man. But maybe, since he had asked for the protection of the army, he felt obliged to help earn it by doing some of the fighting, too."

  "Maybe so. We've had several close calls and faced a lot of danger since I've been old enough to leave my aunt's place and school to travel with him. Maybe the law of averages just caught up with him. I guess it could have happened at a dozen other places at a dozen other times." She seemed to be trying to think the thing through aloud.

  "Captain Wilder is feeling really bad about it."

  "Curt's a compassionate man. If it hadn't been for having him to lean on last night, I don't know what I would've done. Wiley wasn't much help. He was in worse shape than I was. For some reason he feels it's his fault, but I don't know why. Can you tell me exactly what happened? I've kind of pieced it together from some of the miners, but you were there with them, weren't you?"

  "Yes." So I started in and gave her a detailed account of the fight, downplaying Wiley's moment of panic.

  "Well, I can see why he feels like he does. But he's never run up against anything like this before. I don't think he's ever shot a gun before. At least not that I know of."

  "I know. I know. I tried to explain to him that it was just one of those things that can't be predicted or prevented."

  She shook her head. I feel sorrier for him and I do for Dad." She lowered her voice slightly. “Some of the miners are a little bitter about Wiley, too. I heard a few of them discussing it last night. They aren't so much sorry for Dad, since they've only known him about a month. But they were saying it could have been any one of them who got it. And there are some hard cases in that bunch."

  "Have you thought of what you might do now?"

  "Not really. We'll bury poor Dad when we get back to Goose Creek, although I wish I could somehow return his body to Kentucky to be buried near my mother. I'm not sure if I'll stay with the miners for now or strike out on my own for Deadwood. Or, I guess I could go back East and try to find work of some sort. But there's not much open for a woman. Haven't really thought that far ahead yet. Maybe Wiley will have some suggestions or ideas. I'm just too upset to even think just now."

  I nodded, noting the absence of that flashing smile that had been so much a part of her since she came into camp that first day. It was easy to see how Wilder could be smitten with her.

  "I've been crying most of the night. I must look awful!"

  "Curt said we should be at Goose Creek by noon. You can rest there."

  "Oh, if I only could sleep. I think I'd feel so much better."

  "I'll ask the surgeon to give you a sleeping powder if you like."

  "I think a shot of whiskey would do just as well. Wiley's got some. Thanks just the same."

  "Okay."

  She gave me a wan smile as I touched my hat brim and wheeled my horse away from her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  We reached Goose Creek right on schedule, and Major Duke and the troops who had been left behind to guard the wagon train were so glad to see us they all crowded around, wanting news of the battle before we were even out of our saddles. Their eagerness made me realize, with a start, that I was here to provide just such news for thousands of readers of my employer's newspaper. And since the battle, I had made only a few brief notes.

  Before anything else was done, General Buck ordered the entire command to move about two miles up Goose Creek to a camping area that was both large enough and had sufficient grass for all our stock. It was almost three o'clock by the time we were all settled into the new campground.

  Mr. Jenkins was buried in the shade of some large cottonwoods on the bank of Goose Creek. There was no wood for a coffin, so he was wrapped in a gray army blanket. Wiley stood at the foot of the grave, showing no emotion, and Cathy was weeping quietly as her father was lowered into the grave. At Cathy's request, Captain Wilder read some appropriate Scriptural passages, and the few of us who were standing there finished the brief service by saying the Lord's Prayer in unison. Then I retired to our tent and spent the next three hours acquiring a good case of writer’s cramp. But I finally finished my dispatches just before supper.

  The next morning General Buck ordered the wagon train carrying the wounded to return under the escort of most of the infantry to Fort Fetterman for supplies and reinforcements.

  "Looks like this is going to be a longer and tougher campaign than anyone realized," I remarked to Wilder at breakfast while the wagons were being readied with fresh grass beds for the wounded.

  "Yeah. I hope we don't have to sit here until more troops arrive. But I'm afraid that's just what we'll be doing. General Buck is a little on the conservative side. He's not about to take a chance on plunging us into another hornet's nest."

  "What would you do in this situation?" Shanahan inquired somewhat irritably over his coffee cup.

  Wilder shrugged. "Can't really say since I haven't given it much thought. He's the one who's being paid to make the decisions."

  "Then why don't you let him make them?" He flung the dregs of his tin cup into the fire and went into the tent.

  "What's ailing him?"

  "Brad will go far in the army. Probably make Brigadier some day, with any luck at all. He's a company man down to his shiny boots." Wilder was obviously becoming less and less enchanted with his messmate. I wondered how much of it was connected to his not so obvious disenchantment with the army. But he was pursuing another thought. "Where's Mac this morning? He's usually first up."

  I turned and saw Mac coming toward us.

  "Why the long face?" I smiled at him.

  He started to reply, but broke into a fit of coughing.

  It was a good thirty seconds before he was able to talk. "Matt, I've been down to see Surgeon Donnelly." "What about?"

  "This." He tapped his chest. "It's worse. I was awake most of the night."

  One look at his gray face and I knew he wasn't joking. For Mac to admit he was hurting, much less to go see the doctor, told me he was really having trouble. "What did the doctor say?"

  "Advised me to return to Fort Fetterman with the wagon train. Said there was nothing he could do for me here." He reached for the cup of coffee I poured for him, and 1 noticed his hand shook slightly. His ashen skin and gray hair made him look much older than his fifty years. "Hell, Matt, he was just being nice. No doctor can help me—here or anywhere else. There's no cure for consumption. You know that. I’m not kidding anybody, let alone myself."

  I put my arm across his shoulders, and gave him a quick squeeze. "I know, Mac, but with your guts, it won't get you 'til you're ninety-nine." He smiled and toasted me silently with his coffee cup. "Are you going?"

  "Yes. I have a notion I've seen most of the action that's going to be taking place around here for a while. And I don't relish the idea of stagnating around camp, eating pig meat, beans, and the kind of hardtack that could replace the cobblestones on any street in America." He grinned. "Trouble is, if I report back in this shape, I'll probably lose my job. Maybe I'll stop over at the post hospital at Fetterman, or a civilian hospital at Denver before I head back to Los Angeles.”

  "Isn't there some other job you c
ould do on your paper that would be less strenuous than this?"

  "Oh, sure, plenty of them. And my editor is kind enough to work me in somewhere. It's sure going to be boring, though." He sighed. "Guess I'd better get my stuff together."

  "Mac, it's been a real pleasure." I thrust out my hand. "Feel like I've known you all my life. Keep in touch. Write me at my paper when you get settled. I'll probably be back by then."

  He went into the tent to pack.

  Some of the wagons with our remaining provisions were to stay behind. Mac and I gave our news dispatches, wrapped in oilskins, to the courier who was leaving for the telegraph at Fort Fetterman. By traveling fast and light on a good horse, he would arrive several days in advance of our wagon train—assuming he was also lucky and didn't get his hair lifted and become a carrion feast. But the speed of the news was paramount, and the closest link with the outside world was at Fetterman.

  With Mac leaving, I felt an emptiness. He’d become a close friend and confidant in just the short time I had known him. He’d seen much of life and had the type of personality that went down easy with camp coffee, hard trails, and early dawns. And being fellow journalists, we automatically had something in common. There were four or five other correspondents scattered throughout the command, but I had only a nodding acquaintance with them.

  The miners petitioned General Buck to be allowed to stay on with the command, even though we were going nowhere for the moment. They had most of their own provisions and could help hunt fresh meat for the troops, they argued. Besides, they couldn't get to the Black Hills without the army opening the way for them. The general readily consented, recalling the valuable firepower they had lent at the Rosebud. However, he was a little more reluctant to allow Cathy Jenkins to remain. But, after disclaiming any responsibility for her safety, he finally agreed. I think he was influenced by the fact that her father had been killed while voluntarily fighting with the troops, so he was more inclined to give in to the strong arguments of Wiley and a few of the older miners that they would look out for her.

  "I let him know I could take care of myself," Cathy told us later, tilting her pretty nose defiantly.