Summer of the Sioux

by Tim Champlin

  When I returned to our tent, I was surprised to find Curt sitting on the cot with his head down, looking as if someone had just kicked him in the stomach. "What now?"

  He looked up and attempted a grin, but it didn't come off. "I think I just discovered the reason why I've been picked for this patrol."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I was rounding up the men and calling for volunteers. And I saw Cathy walking down by the creek with Zimmer."

  "Well." I shrugged, trying to put the best light on it. "She can't very well avoid talking to the man—especially the way he usually pushes himself. He's got more brass than a cannon. You know that."

  "Yes, but he was helping her along as though she couldn't do a damn thing for herself. And she was letting him!"

  I was jarred and could think of nothing to say. Cathy Jenkins had struck me as a sensible young woman. Was she really attracted to Zimmer? He could certainly lay on the charm and present a totally different side of himself around women. There had to be some explanation for it, but I didn't know what. And maybe Curt's jealous eyes were seeing something that wasn't there. I put my hand on his shoulder. "C'mon. Don't worry about it. Put it out of your mind. You've got a job to do now."

  With an obvious effort, he pulled himself together. "You're right."

  As he strapped on his Colt, a sudden idea struck me. “Curt, I know this might be against regulations, or whatever, but can Wiley Jenkins ride with us?”

  “I don’t know, Matt. He’s too inexperienced. And he’s shown he can’t be depended on in a tight spot.”

  "I'll be responsible for him. He's a good packer and horseman. And I think he's a different man than he was before the battle. He'll do all right. Besides, he needs this. That thing about his father has really been preying on his mind—especially since he's had nothing to do to keep him busy."

  Wilder stood, staring at nothing. I could see his jaw muscles working as he weighed the pros and cons, remembering this was Cathy's brother. "All right, he can come along. Just be sure he keeps up and follows orders. And don't let Zimmer or the general know he's going."

  "Thanks." I wasn't at all sure that Wiley even wanted to go, but I looked him up and found him sitting dejectedly under a tree by himself in the packers' camp area.

  "Hell, yes. I’m ready to get out of here and take a ride to anywhere for any reason. Thanks for volunteering me, Matt." He was up and reaching for his saddle before he even finished speaking.

  In about forty-five minutes, everyone was assembled and ready. Wiley had borrowed a horse to ride in place of his own mule. It was getting close to noon, and I questioned Curt about the advisability of moving out during daylight, but he indicated the scouts were anxious to get started. Grouard and Big Bat had ridden fifteen or twenty miles from camp a couple of evenings before and had seen three small bands of Sioux, so we knew the area was fairly crawling with war parties.

  Wilder reported to Major Zimmer as ordered. "Ready to move out, Major."

  "Very well, Captain."

  Nothing more was said. Wilder gave a hand signal, wheeled his horse, and led our detail out of camp.

  We rode out about thirteen miles, generally following the base of the foothills of the Big Horns in a northwesterly direction. At sundown we stopped on the banks of Goose Creek to rest and let the horses graze. We finished a quick supper, taking care to build a small fire with very little smoke. Just at dusk we saddled up again. Big Bat was scraping dirt onto the fire. Suddenly his head jerked up and he stared intently toward a shallow ravine ahead and to our left.

  "Saw something move over there. Just saw it for a second before it disappeared. Looked like a horseman, from what I could see."

  Frank Grouard was in the saddle instantly and his horse plunged away toward the spot. We could hear his hoofbeats fade into the gathering darkness.

  Less than ten minutes later he was back, reining up his horse and dismounting. "Got away. Too dark to follow him."

  "Reckon it was a single scout, Frank?" Big Bat asked.

  "Don't rightly know. Way it was movin', it might not have even been a horse."

  "What, then?"

  "Could've been an antelope, or a stray elk."

  The guides discussed this possibility for a minute, and decided that's probably what it was. Nevertheless, as we started off again at a slow walk, they appeared very uneasy. I didn't know how the soldiers in the detail were feeling, but I felt that if men with as much Indian experience as Frank Grouard and "Big Bat" Baptiste Fourier were uneasy, it meant that there was sure as hell something to be uneasy about.

  Details of the terrain were obscured by the darkness, but Grouard seemed to know exactly where we were. He constantly rode out ahead to keep lookout from every vantage point. The moon rose behind us about eight P.M. and bathed everything in a ghostly light. The detail rode in total silence through the long grass. Now and then we startled up sage hens, and the sudden commotion made our hearts jump into our throats. The crunching of our horses hooves over the pebbles in the shallow streams we crossed was the only sound we heard.

  Finally, about two o'clock in the morning, we bivouacked in a grassy area among several small bluffs. We were now about forty miles from camp, and according to the scouts, the valley of the Little Big Horn lay just a few miles farther on. Wilder posted pickets on the low heights around us to guard against any surprise attack, and the rest of us went to sleep.

  By seven o'clock we were up and on our way. It was full daylight and we pressed on cautiously several more miles toward the valley. About ten, Frank Grouard halted our detail by silently lifting his hand and pulling up his mount. Then he rode on about fifty yards, dismounted and ground-reined his horse below the crest of a low ridge directly in front of us. We watched him quietly creep up the slope of the ridge, remove his hat, and slide his head up just far enough to peer over. He watched intently for a few seconds and then slid back down and signaled for Big Bat to join him. The two of them made a careful survey with their field glasses from behind some boulders on the summit. Then they came sliding back down the ridge, mounted and rode quickly back to us. They reined up in a swirl of dust, their horses dancing in a circle.

  "Follow me," Grouard said over his shoulder, "and ride for your lives!"

  He and Baptiste spurred away and we galloped off single file after them, the adrenalin pumping. There was no time for questions; we didn't know what they had seen. Grouard led us through red sandstone bluffs at a breakneck pace, but I never lost a sense of confidence in my big bay as we had to jump our horses down several ledges six or seven feet high. Jenkins rode right behind me, handling his cavalry mount skillfully.

  My bay was barely breathing hard by the time Frank drew us to a halt on the westerly side of a bluff that was big enough to conceal our horses. The four of us with field glasses—Grouard, Pourier, Wilder, and I—dismounted and climbed up into the rocks to survey our backtrail.

  "What did you see, Frank?" Wilder asked, as we flattened out in the crevices and focused our glasses.

  "A big Sioux war party. I knew Sitting Bull's bunch was in the Little Big Horn valley before we even started."

  It was hardly two or three minutes before several small groups of mounted Sioux appeared on the low bluffs. They leapt into focus through the twin lenses, and I caught my breath at the apparent nearness of the savage faces and the lean, brown bodies. They were decorated in war paint, wearing eagle feathers, carrying shields, and armed with bows, lances, war clubs, and Winchesters. I could feel a coldness down my spine at seeing this dread sight again. More and more of them appeared every second and seemed to cover the bluffs to the north and east.

  "I don't think they've seen us," Grouard whispered. "If they don't cut our trail, we're reasonably safe."

  I held my breath as the loose line of warriors moved down the slopes, angling away to our right. Abruptly, one brave, attired in a red and black blanket, stopped and stared at the ground for a few seconds. Then he rode quickly around in tight c
ircles, waving his blanket, indicating he had found something.

  "Damn!" Grouard pounded his fist savagely into the earth. "We're in for it now. They've spotted our tracks."

  "Maybe they'll think it's a few days old," I suggested hopefully, in spite of the sinking feeling in my stomach.

  He dismissed this idea with a snort of contempt.

  "Can't fool an Indian about a thing like that. They can read that trail like you can read a newspaper." As he spoke he was slipping his field glasses back into their case.

  "What now, Frank?" Wilder asked calmly, deferring to the more experienced scout.

  "We've got only one chance," Grouard answered, "and that is to ride straight up into the mountains and try to shake them or discourage them from following. If they catch us and we have to stand and fight, well …”

  ."Yeh, I know,” Wilder finished, as we started our climb back down the slope. "I'm glad all these men are volunteers."

  Wiley handed me the reins of my bay and I swung up. Curt Wilder and the scouts also mounted.

  "The Sioux have picked up our trail," Curt announced to the two-dozen blue-clad soldiers sitting their horses around him. "Our scouts know these mountains and we're going to do our damndest to escape together. If we have to fight, I expect the best from every man. The Sioux give no quarter to prisoners, so there will be no surrender."

  Several heads nodded solemnly.

  "The Sioux run a close second to the Apache when it comes to torture," Grouard added. "Let's go, Captain. They'll be after us inside of five minutes."

  We thundered off, charging straight up a steep, rough hillside. When we got above the level of the ridge, we could see the Indians to our right, almost a mile away. They had caught sight of us. A quick glance over my shoulder fixed a picture in my mind of clustered Indians pointing in our direction. Then I looked no more. It took all my concentration to stay closed up with the detail, which was really making time. I was leaning over my horse's neck, giving him all the help I could as he scrambled up the steep mountainside, kicking loose stones down behind him.

  After about ten minutes Grouard pulled us up on a fairly level spot to let our horses blow a minute. "This is an old hunting path that leads into the high snow country," he said, indicating the faint trail that wound unevenly through the trees and out of sight along the face of the mountainside. "I hunted with the Sioux up here when I was a captive. We'll have to string out single file to follow it."

  Without further talk he spurred his horse to a gallop, and the rest of us fell into line, Captain Wilder after the scouts, the soldiers next, followed by me and Wiley Jenkins bringing up the rear. The trail was fairly good for not being well used, but we shortly slowed to a fast trot to save the horses and to avoid their tripping on fallen timber. We rode this way for about five miles, as near as 1 could estimate. When Grouard saw no sign of any pursuing Indians, he again halted the column. I could see him talking to Wilder. Then the captain turned and called out, "Dismount and unsaddle. We'll rest awhile."

  We were in a beautiful, grassy area with ample shade among scattered pines on a gentle mountain slope.

  "You reckon this is safe, stopping here?" Wiley asked, glancing back along the empty trail.

  "The scouts seem to think so, and that's good enough for me," I replied, pulling off the saddle and blanket and dropping them on the ground. The horses trotted off to graze and roll gratefully in the grass. Some of the men had already gathered a few handfuls of dry pine needles and sticks and were about to light a small fire to boil some coffee they carried in their saddlebags. Wiley and I joined Captain Wilder, Big Bat, and Grouard. We all stretched out in the grass to smoke our pipes and wait for the coffee to boil.

  "That was close," I remarked to Frank. "It's sure good to be able to relax."

  "They either weren't interested in chasing a small detail like ours, or they don't want to fight in these higher altitudes," he replied. "At least that was the case when I was livin' with them. They hunted up here, but they preferred to fight in the lowlands."

  I lay back in the grass and closed my eyes, feeling the warm sun slanting between two trees. Gone was the heat of the valley; the air at this altitude was pleasant and fresh with the scent of pine.

  "Ah, this is the life," Wiley said, with a trace of his old verve. "Sure beats sweltering around camp."

  In a few minutes the coffee was done, and we got our tin cups and filled them from the smoke-blackened pot. Those who preferred sugar had brought along a little in tiny drawstring sacks. The soldiers, in their dark blue pants with the yellow stripes and their light blue shirts, sat cross-legged on the grass with their hats off, sipping their coffee and chatting quietly Handpicked and hardened veterans, they were all lean and toughened by many marches and skirmishes, even though most of them were still on the shy side of thirty.

  When we finally saddled up and moved on, it was early afternoon, but the hour or so we had spent was well worth it, since both horses and men were rested and refreshed. The trail led us gently up and down, angling across the face of the mountains. For a time we passed through dense stands of pine and fir. Then the trail would lead out into an open mountain meadow with plenty of grass. Then, for a while, we would pass a part of the trail that was bordered on the uphill side by massive slabs of rock and boulders as big as houses, with stunted pines clinging to the crevasses in the rocks.

  We rode down into a wide, open mountain valley and could see a big range of snowy peaks towering above, an unknown number of miles ahead. At the bottom of this valley, we were forced to pull off our boots and sling them around our necks to swim our horses across a clear, cold stream. Grouard wasn't sure if this was one of the main tributaries of the Tongue or a tributary of the Little Big Horn. We rode up the opposite bank in single file, and soon the magnificent view of the snowcapped mountains was cut off by trees again.

  A half-hour later we were riding along a level corridor bounded by woods on our left and in front, and by rocks and timber on our right. Wiley was lagging about forty yards behind me at the time, while the rest of us were spaced out in open order about ten yards apart.

  "Indians! Indians!"

  I heard Wiley's voice behind me and the next second he shot past me at a gallop, pointing over his shoulder. We looked back and saw a mounted war party riding parallel to us through the timber, less than three hundred yards away and coming fast.

  "Stay close to the woods on the left!" Grouard yelled to Captain Wilder, and just as we spurred our horses to obey, a volley of shots cracked.

  My bay stumbled momentarily from the shock of a bullet but regained his balance and needed no further urging to make for the woods. More shots followed us into the trees, slightly wounding two or three of the horses. Just as we reached cover and slid to the ground, Wilder ordered several of the troopers to return the fire. This slowed up the charge and halted the Indians in the rocks across the open space, which at that point was less than a hundred yards away.

  "Hobble some of those horses to the trees right on the edge here," Wilder ordered. "Then form a skirmish line in a semicircle."

  Luckily, we had a lot of fallen timber that formed excellent natural fortifications, and we all began firing from the protection of these tree trunks. I gave Wiley my Winchester, figuring he could hit more with that than with the old Spencer he had, or a handgun. I was using my Colt.

  After a minute or so of heavy firing, Wilder held up his hand. "Hold your fire, men." The heavy explosions of .45 cartridges died spasmodically and the crashing echoes faded into the mountain stillness. "No sense wasting ammunition. They're holed up in the rocks over there."

  The Indians also gradually stopped firing, seeing we were well entrenched. Then, after a moment, apparently in the hope of stampeding us, they started firing volley after volley. Bullets came zipping and humming through the overhead branches like angry wasps. We made sure no parts of us were showing, as the bullets sent chips of bark flying and thudded into trunks of the big pines.

&nbs
p; The shooting stopped again, suddenly, and we looked out cautiously to see our poor horses bleeding from several more minor wounds. One sorrel was down and apparently kicking in his last agony. The trooper closest to him, without exposing himself, fired a shot through the animal's head to end its suffering.

  "Good thing most Indians are notoriously poor marksmen," Wilder remarked, "or it would be more than horses wounded."

  "Since they can't hit us, they're probably killing the horses to set us afoot," Grouard said.

  Using his binoculars, Wilder took a closer look at the savages who were moving among the rocks. "Well, they're not the same bunch we shook back aways. See that one with the big warbonnet and all dressed in white?" he asked Grouard.

  "Yes."

  "I believe that's White Elk, one of the Cheyenne war chiefs. I've had a run-in with him before, about two years ago down on Crazy Woman's Fork. He's a notorious white-hater—would kill any white on sight, just for the hell of it. No quarter given and none expected. And there's no doubt about his bravery. He was one o. the leaders of the raids against Fort C. F. Smith a few years back. I hear tell he's got more scars on his body than the floor of the Elkhorn Saloon after a Saturday, night brawl."

  "Looks like they're getting ready to mount an attack," I said. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than they came charging out of the timber, yelling and shooting, led by White Elk, his long warbonnet flowing out behind him.

  But our seasoned men coolly stood their ground. At a signal from Wilder, a sheet of orange flame erupted with a roar from our cover. The charge was instantly broken and two or three of the Indians fell from their ponies. White Elk went reeling in his saddle and two Cheyenne braves rode alongside to support him, as the warriors broke and ran for cover in the rocks again. We poured another volley at the few who were brave enough to circle around and drag off their fallen comrades. But it had little effect since they were careful to keep their horses between us and were moving at a pretty good clip.

  There was no cheering from our men. We knew it was only the first round.