As evening approached, the people were able to leave the sand pits and escape up the wide creek bed, carrying their wounded on the few ponies that some of the men had managed to catch. The rest of the people walked. They made camp ten miles from the site of the cowardly attack and took care of their wounded. Cold and hungry, they gathered dry grass to build fires, for there was no wood to burn. All during the night stragglers wandered in by twos and threes, looking for warmth and food and asking about the fate of relatives. When morning came, they would start for the Cheyenne camp at Smoky Hill, some fifty miles away.
* * *
This, then, was what was left of Black Kettle’s village on Sand Creek. Black Kettle, the peaceful chief, had brought his people to the fort on Sand Creek to sue for peace with the soldiers. He had gone into the fort to talk with the soldier chief, Major Anthony. The soldier chief said that he did not have the authority to make a treaty with Black Kettle but his people could camp there under the protection of the fort.
Upon hearing that a great body of soldiers was advancing toward their camp, Black Kettle assured the group of men, women, and children who had gathered around his lodge that morning that there was no danger. The village was peaceful and under the protection of Major Anthony. To emphasize the camp’s peaceful disposition, Black Kettle had raised a large American flag on a pole in front of his lodge and had told his people to stand around it. Had not the soldier chief, Greenwood, given him the flag and told him that as long as he stood under the American flag no soldier would shoot him? Still his people were frightened. As an added precaution, he had raised a white flag beneath the American flag so there would be no misunderstanding. Still the people were uncertain. Even when the soldiers had come into sight, advancing steadily toward the Cheyenne camp, Black Kettle had continued to counsel patience. “We are not at war with the soldiers,” he said. “Do not fear.” The people heard him. He was their chief. Had not the governor in Denver sent word for the peaceful tribes to come into the fort so the soldiers would know they did not want war? Had not Major Wynkoop, a trusted friend to the Indian, given his word that Black Kettle’s people would be protected? Still they were afraid. Most of the camp had not even come from their tipis at the time. Only a few cookfires were started when the bugle sounded and the first line of soldiers charged into the village, rifles blazing.
The people of the village on the Smoky Hill River joined their brothers in mourning for their dead and wounded at Sand Creek. The warriors were angry and demanded that restitution be exacted from the whites. The chiefs sat in council to decide what action should be taken. After much discussion it was agreed that they would send messengers to the Sioux camp on Solomon Fork and extend an invitation to join them in a war against the whites along the Platte. From Solomon Fork the messengers were to visit a band of Northern Arapahos camped on the Republican River and extend the same invitation. The Sioux and the Arapahos both accepted the invitation to smoke the pipe with their Cheyenne brothers and the three factions agreed to join forces to punish the whites for their outrages.
* * *
Among the most eager of the young men to go on the warpath was the fourteen-year-old boy whose parents had been slaughtered before his eyes at Sand Creek. The events of that frosty morning in the shadow of Fort Lyon would never fade from his conscious mind. His eternal hatred for the white man was spawned on that day and it would remain a constant flame that consumed him in his lust for revenge. In the crucible of terror and slaughter, the youth became transformed into an instrument of vengeance who vowed to kill white men until his hands turned to stone. As a symbol of this pledge, he announced to the council of elders that he would take the name of “Stone Hand.” And from that day on this is the name he would be called.
Along with his Cheyenne brothers, Stone Hand traveled to meet with the Sioux and Arapahos where they had agreed to camp, on Cherry Creek. There, a raid by their combined forces was planned on the stage station at Julesburg. The Indians left their camp on Cherry Creek on a cold January morning and set out to the northwest toward Julesburg. Since the Sioux had been offered the pipe first, they were in the front of the column, led by their chiefs, Pawnee Killer and Spotted Tail. Stone Hand rode behind his chiefs in the middle of the column. Cheyenne Dog Soldiers rode on either side of the march to make sure none of the young warriors became impatient to fight and raced ahead of the main body. The chiefs did not want to give warning to the white men that there were Indians close by. The most impatient of the young men was Stone Hand. They knew of his hunger to take the first scalp and he was watched carefully by the Dog Soldiers.
After two days’ march, they camped south of Julesburg in the sand hills and prepared to attack the following day. Their plan was to send a few warriors to show themselves outside the small army post at Fort Rankin to try to draw the soldiers out so they could be led into the hills and ambushed. After they had killed the soldiers, they could then attack the station at Julesburg. All during that night, the camp was guarded to keep the young warriors inside. No noise was permitted. The secrecy of the raid was to be protected at all costs.
Stone Hand went to talk to Big Crow, the chief of the Cheyenne Crooked Lance Soldiers, and asked to be one of the warriors sent to draw out the soldiers from the fort. Big Crow said nothing for a moment while he studied the face of the young warrior.
“For our plan to work, we must make sure the soldiers are drawn all the way into the hills. It will be of no use to us if you try to fight them as soon as they come out.”
“I understand this,” Stone Hand replied impatiently.
“Will you have the patience to lead them away from the fort and into our ambush? Your lust for blood is a known thing among our people.”
Stone Hand scowled. “Do not worry. I will not kill all the soldiers. I will leave some for you.”
Big Crow studied the arrogant young brave for a moment longer before deciding to ignore his sarcasm. “Very well, you will go with the others I have picked.”
So when the sun rose the next morning, Stone Hand, along with four other Cheyenne warriors and two of Pawnee Killer’s Sioux, rode out toward the tiny fort. Upon reaching Fort Rankin, the men paused to watch the post for a while before exposing themselves. The fort was small but it was well fortified with a high stockade all around. It was about one mile from the fort to the Julesburg station. They would be able to hear the shooting from there, but after the soldiers were taken care of there would be no need for stealth.
Stone Hand was impatient. “I will sit here no longer. Come if you want, or stay here and I will bring the soldiers out.” Without waiting for a reply, he kicked his pony hard and rode out toward the gate of the stockade. The others had no choice but to follow.
Stone Hand pulled up before the gate and yelled defiantly at the fort. “Hairface cowards! Killers of women and children! Come out if you dare! Come out and I, Stone Hand, will hang your scalp on my lance!”
The sentry on the front guard walk, surprised at the sudden appearance of the wild ranting savage, could not understand the words hurled in his direction but he did not mistake the flavor of his message. He raised his rifle and fired. The rifle ball barely missed its mark, leaving a crease across the left side of Stone Hand’s face. The wound only served to infuriate the young warrior. He charged toward the fort, fitting an arrow in his bow as he rode. The sentry fired again, missing this time. He did not have time to fire again before ducking behind the log stockade to avoid the arrow that imbedded itself in the soft wood. When he looked up again, he discovered six more hostiles riding toward him while the one who had charged the fort rode out of range before wheeling around defiantly.
The small band of raiders circled in front of the fort and fired at the soldiers on the wall until the commander of the fort, Captain O’Brien, led a body of soldiers out to attack them. According to plan, the Indians retreated into the sand hills, followed closely by the cavalry.
Hidden in the hills, waiting, the main body of Sioux, Cheyenne
s, and Arapahos could now hear the shooting. The chiefs cautioned their braves to be patient, not to expose themselves until the soldiers had been led further into the hills. Some of the young warriors were impatient to ride and the Dog Soldiers and Crooked Lance Soldiers had to restrain them. Finally, a group of young warriors, unable to wait any longer, broke through the Dog Soldiers and raced toward the sound of fighting. The chiefs had no choice but to follow with the main body.
Captain O’Brien, upon first sighting the horde of savages that appeared over the rim of the hill, immediately gave the order to retreat. His detachment turned around and galloped for the safety of the stockade.
Stone Hand was furious. The foolish warriors had given away the ambush, allowing most of the soldiers to escape. He turned his pony and rode after the retreating soldiers. His horse was tiring rapidly but he was closing in on the rearmost trooper. The soldier turned in the saddle to discover Stone Hand gaining on him. He fired several times with his pistol but Stone Hand ignored the bullets and steadily reduced the distance between them. The trooper bolstered his pistol and concentrated on urging his horse on, but he was rapidly falling behind the rest of his troop. Stone Hand whipped his pony mercilessly. He would kill the beast if necessary. Gradually, the Indian pony closed the gap until his neck was abreast of the other horse’s flank. The trooper, frantic now to escape, looked back at the menacing face of the savage, the blood from the crease in his cheek blended with the red and black war paint, the result an eerie countenance of undiluted fury. The soldier panicked. He fumbled to draw his pistol again, trying to spur his exhausted horse at the same time. When he turned to fire at the demon, even now almost at his back, he dropped the reins and the two horses collided, sending horses and riders into a crashing ball of hooves and bodies.
Stone Hand hit the ground rolling over and over. In an instant, he was on his feet and charging toward the dazed trooper. He was still on his hands and knees when the young savage grabbed his hair, and pulling his head back sharply, scalped him. As the soldier screamed in agony, Stone Hand took his time taking his pistol and retrieving his army carbine from the saddle. After he examined the rifle for a few moments, he calmly walked over to the trooper and shot him in the face.
Over the next four years, the Cheyennes raided the farms and outposts along the South Platte, terrifying the settlers of that area. During that time, Stone Hand was a fierce and tireless fighter. His name soon became legend among the Cheyenne and Sioux and was well known in the outposts along the river road. He stayed on to raid and kill after his own village left to move south. Black Kettle was still in favor of peace with the whites and he decided to move his people back south to the Oklahoma territory to disassociate themselves from the warring tribes. Stone Hand was contemptuous of his people for seeking peace with the soldiers. Black Kettle counseled that it was futile to fight the invasion of settlers, miners, and railroads that was rapidly consuming the land, land Stone Hand insisted belonged to the Cheyenne long before the first hair-faced mountain man plodded uninvited into their hunting grounds. So he watched Black Kettle and his people leave, preferring to remain with the Sioux and the Cheyennes of Pawnee Killer.
As the years passed, Stone Hand’s hatred for the white man increased with each scalp taken. His thirst for vengeance tended to turn his anger inside until, gradually, he became a loner. Many of the young men of the tribe hated the white man and sought to avenge the atrocities perpetrated upon their people. But with Stone Hand the hatred was a passion that burned like a live coal deep in the pit of his stomach. It was a constant fire that never cooled and while he was a welcome member of any war party he had no friends among the men he rode with. Soon, his only reason to live was to kill. It was inevitable that his reckless and bloodthirsty style of fighting would eventually build a wall between him and even the fiercest warriors of his own tribe. He held a complete disregard for his own safety. Arrogant and defiant, he openly challenged the enemy, so much so that the other warriors became concerned for their safety. Stone Hand became almost suicidal when in battle. The fact that he was never wounded, in spite of his recklessness, fueled his reputation until he became a legend to the Cheyenne—a spirit almost. Some thought an evil spirit and, before long, most of his people avoided him even though they held a grudging respect for him.
During the winter of 1868, the raiding on the Platte declined with the presence of more and more soldiers and the arrival of cold weather. Out of sheer boredom, Stone Hand decided to journey south to join his own people for a while. He had heard that Black Kettle had moved his village to the Washita, so he gathered his weapons and horses and rode south.
Upon hearing that Stone Hand had returned to the village, Chief Black Kettle was at once concerned. Stone Hand’s reputation had spread throughout the southern tribes and, although still a young man, most of the men feared him. Crow Foot, who brought the news of Stone Hand’s arrival to the chief, expressed his concern that the renegade’s presence in their camp might jeopardize their peaceful profile.
Black Kettle spoke. “Have you talked with Stone Hand? Why has he returned to our village?”
“No. I haven’t seen him myself. Lame Elk has spoken to him. He said Stone Hand has gone to the tipi of his uncle, Little Hawk. He does not know why Stone Hand has returned.”
Black Kettle considered this for a few moments. “This is his village, the village of his mother and father. It is only natural that he should return to the village of his people. Perhaps he has tired of the killing. We will wait and see.”
In the days that followed, Stone Hand rested, and when he grew restless again he walked out among the people of the village. He had expected to be given a warm welcome by the people of his father and mother, a hero’s welcome in fact. He had killed many of their enemies. Instead, he found a camp still petitioning for peace with the white soldier chiefs. And while he was treated with polite respect, he sensed that the people avoided him. His reaction to this sense of atmosphere was one of contempt, contempt for what he considered his brothers’ weakness.
Five days after Stone Hand returned, Black Kettle and three of the elders met with the soldier chief, Hazan, to plead for a treaty. Stone Hand was outspoken in his contempt for their actions and when the chief returned to report on the meeting, Stone Hand was openly critical. He rose to his feet to speak in the council lodge.
“My brothers, I think it is foolish to talk to the soldiers about peace. I look around me in this camp and I see men who were once warriors, now weak and foolish, waiting for the white father in Washington to claim them as his children. Why do you try to make more treaties? Has the white man ever honored a treaty before? There will be no peace for he Cheyenne until all the white men are dead. When there will be peace! I, Stone Hand, say this. I will give the white man peace with my scalp knife.”
When he finished, he turned and strode out of the lodge, leaving a low murmuring of voices behind him. One of the young men rose to speak. “What stone Hand says may be true. The white man has broken every treaty before.”
Black Kettle quickly responded. “We must be careful whose counsel we heed. Stone Hand has drunk of the blood of vengeance. His words are blind with the hatred he bears. We must think of the future of our people. If we are to survive, we must be at peace with the white man. He is too many. We must have food. The buffalo are gone. The antelope and deer are disappearing. Our only hope for survival is to make peace with the soldiers. Hazan has promised to talk with the white father in Washington. We must wait.”
As he did in Big Crow’s camp, Stone Hand withdrew to himself, preferring to be alone. He left the village to hunt or raid by himself, often staying away for two or more days. The people became accustomed to his absences and his return, often with the bloody scalps of his raid. Black Kettle grew more and more worried that Stone Hand would become a thorn in his side. He feared he would seriously jeopardize his peace efforts. Finally the old chief called his elders to council to decide what must be done about this mad dog in th
eir midst.
All agreed that it would only be a matter of time before the soldiers would seek retribution against the whole village for the sins of one man. Stone Hand would surely bring the soldiers down upon them. So, on that day in early November, 1868, it was decided that Stone Hand must be asked to leave the village on the Washita for the sake of the people.
* * *
Stone Hand sat before his fire, intent on the scalp he was drying on a forked willow branch. It was an unusual scalp. The hair was a golden maize with scattered strands of darker brown. He held it up to examine it, turning it to view the morning sun’s reflection upon it. She had been a young girl who had the misfortune to be with her father in the stage station when Stone Hand struck him down with his war ax. The fact that the scalp was that of a little girl did not bother Stone Hand. As far as he was concerned, she was little more than another variety of the lice that had infested his land. He glanced up at the three men approaching his campfire.
Black Kettle spoke. “I see that you have raided again.” He eyed the blond scalp Stone Hand was admiring. “Why do you not make war on the Pawnees with the other young men of the village?”
“The white man is my enemy,” Stone Hand replied without emotion.
Black Kettle glanced quickly at the two elders who accompanied him before returning his gaze to the young warrior. “We are now at peace with the white soldiers but we cannot make this peace if our warriors are still raiding and killing white people.”
Stone Hand looked up at the old chief, his gaze hard as flint. “You are at peace with the white man. Stone Hand will be at peace with the soldiers when they are all dead. What good is your peace? The soldiers want you to go to the reservation but you do not go because the land is dead and the water bitter.” His eyes were still intent on the scalp he was admiring. “They will not let you stay here in peace. They will come to kill again. It is their way. I will not be fooled by their lies.”
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