Reap the Whirlwind (30 page)

O
ur first night after leaving the village we got as far as
the Little Horn,” Frank Grouard explained to Seamus Donegan and the others who had gathered at General Crook’s tent to await the arrival of the rest of the Crow warriors. It was now nearing three P.M. “Before we settled in for the night, I sent some scouts downriver to see if the Sioux were in the country. Next morning we took a chance on killing some buffalo we run onto. Spent most of the day drying meat for the trail, so we only made it as far as the head of Owl Creek.”

“That runs into the Little Big Horn, right?” Donegan asked, his mind busy sorting out the topography and the course of those streams.

“Yeah,” Grouard replied. “And then we pushed on into the Chetish Mountains. White folks call them Wolf Mountains. All this time I been figuring I would have to wait until I got to the Prairie Dog before I ran onto the soldier camp—because some Crow scouts come out to find your camp a few days back and got scared off. So don’t you know I was some surprised to find the camp moved here to Goose Creek.”

“You said it scared the Crow to discover Crook had moved his camp west of the Tongue,” Donegan declared.

Nodding, Grouard continued. “That’s right, Irishman. It was all the proof those warriors needed to believe that Crook’s soldiers had got beat, or scared off, maybe even run on out of Sioux country. The Crow were ready to turn and bolt, ready to run home on us because they feared the Sioux, what with being so close and whipping the soldiers, were going to attack their villages and kill off their women and children for helping the soldiers they just defeated.”

“Ain’t hard to imagine how worries like that could get the Crow all worked up and ready to pull out on you, Frank,” Donegan said.

“But we calmed the warriors down enough that they let Bat stay with ’em while me and Louie rode in here with Old Crow.”

Seamus glanced at the aging warrior, who nonetheless stood tall and muscular before the admiring white men, nothing short of regal in the Indian’s bearing. “Old Crow volunteered to come in with you?”

“He wasn’t afraid,” Grouard answered. “Told the others he would come in to the soldier camp just to prove to them how silly they was to be so frightened of the soldiers getting whipped.”

Immediately upon reaching Goose Creek, Grouard had informed Crook that when he arrived at the village on the Bighorn River, he learned that at least thirty Crow warriors had already been enlisted by the army, gone to scout for the “Limping Soldier” marching east along the Yellowstone.

“General Gibbon,” Crook stated, turning north to peer into the distance.

“Yes. When his soldiers were camped at the mouth of the Big Horn,” Frank had explained, “the Sioux were sassy enough to ride right across the Yellowstone and raid the Crow scouts’ pony herd. Gibbon tried to cross to the south bank of the Yellowstone, but didn’t make it in the swollen river. Crow tell me Gibbon lost one horse before he give up and didn’t try no more.”

“Who’s leading them Crow scouts?” Donegan asked.

“What difference does that make to me?” Crook inquired impatiently.

“Likely it don’t mean a damned thing to you, General.”
Donegan looked back at Grouard, eager to know. “They got an interpreter with ’em?”

“Yeah,” the half-breed answered, his eyes showing some curiosity with the Irishman’s question. “Why?”

“Who is it?”

“Bat told me it was a fella named Bwayer,” he pronounced the name with a French twist.

“Mitch Bouyer?”

“Yeah. You know him, eh?”

Seamus nodded. “He was trained by Jim Bridger. I met Mitch back in the winter of ’67. He was a sometime courier between Kearny and Fort Smith. Him and an old Crow by the name of Iron Bull. Met Bouyer and John Reshaw that winter.”

“I know of Bwayer before,” Grouard admitted. “Heard he was half-Sioux.”

That seemed to prick Crook’s caution. “Why’s a Sioux half-breed scouting for Gibbon?”

Donegan grinned with those big teeth of his. “General—I’d imagine there are a lot of half-breed Sioux willing to guide for the army. Especially when such a man marries into the Crow tribe. Especially when their scalps are wanted on Lakota lodgepoles.”

Seamus watched Grouard smile back at him with a look of some approval and a slight nod.

The half-breed said quietly, “I know how a man feels when his scalp is wanted something fierce by the Lakota.”

Crook stroked half of his red beard, his blue eyes bouncing back and forth between the Irishman and the half-breed. “So Bouyer’s Crows are with Gibbon now?” the general asked.

“Yes. Opposite the mouth of the Rosebud,” Frank had answered.

“And the Sioux? Where do you think they are now, Frank?”

Grouard set his coffee cup down. “Likely back this side of the Yellowstone. The Crow figure their enemies are somewhere on the Tongue. Between the Yellowstone and Otter Creek country.”

“What does Frank Grouard think?” Crook asked.

Seamus watched Frank heft that some in his mind before
he answered, “No matter what the Crow say, I’m pretty sure the Lakota ain’t on the Tongue, General.”

“Where?”

“Up the Rosebud.”

Crook asked, “Near the mouth?”

“No. Higher up.”

“And what of the Little Horn? No hostiles there?”

Grouard shook his head. “No, General. The Little Horn is clear of Sioux. All over on the Rosebud.”

The general signaled Bourke to pour some more coffee and sugar in Old Crow’s tin cup. “Now, that’s what I want to hear. Good news, at last! The enemy is closer than I had even allowed myself to think.”

Crook had been making sure the war chief’s coffee cup never went empty, nor was the Crow able to empty his tin mess plate of venison, biscuits with plenty of butter, or the stewed apples straight from an airtight the Indian had watched the lieutenant open with his knife.

“It was a grand idea asking for Captain Burt to go talk with them, Frank,” George Crook said.

“Just hope what he say to ’em works,” Grouard replied.

“It better,” Crook said. “I’ve aged ten years worrying about you in the last ten days. Damn shame I didn’t know about that wire being down to the Crow agency.”

Grouard smiled darkly. “Oh, the Crow already knowed about your soldiers coming from the south. Knowed that you wanted some Indians to fight the Sioux and Cheyenne.”

Crook looked highly skeptical. “How’d they know that without my telegram reaching the agency?”

“The Shoshone told ’em—Chief Washakie told the Crow he was sending a big war party to help you.”

“How in the hell did the Shoshone get word to the Crow?” John Bourke asked, the coffee pot steaming in his gloved hand.

“Washakie sent four or five warriors north along the west side of the Big Horns to be sure the Crow knew you wanted ’em to come fight the Sioux with you. Those Shoshone warriors come this way with us. Back there now with Bat.” Crook wagged his head slowly, a slight grin growing in
the twin-wrapped beard. “Why, I’ll be tied down and hornswoggled—”

“General!”

Most of those at Crook’s headquarters stood as the commotion grew. Getting quickly to his feet, Seamus was able to see what had caused the bustle to stir the soldiers’ bivouac. Atop one of the nearby hills a sentry waved a semaphore, signaling camp that horsemen were spotted to the northwest.

“Gentlemen!” Crook shouted, waving his arms for emphasis. “Form up your companies! Let’s make an impression on these warriors!”

Bolting off in all directions, the company commanders got their troopers ready so that a real spectacle could welcome the incoming warriors. What a show it was: fifteen troops of cavalry, all at parade readiness, standing five feet from stirrup to stirrup at close order for a front of some four thousand feet across the wide, grassy bottomland just north of camp at the junction of the Goose creeks. At the same time on the far side of the horse soldiers stood the five companies of the “walk-a-heaps” across a full three-hundred-foot regimental front, their freshly oiled Long Tom rifles, with bayonets attached, gleaming in martial splendor beneath the afternoon sun.

“By damn, don’t those warriors look pretty themselves?” John Finerty gushed there beside Seamus as they watched the horsemen approach Crook’s parade ground.

Donegan had to admit, it was quite a sight to behold: more than 175 Crow warriors and that handful of Shoshone couriers, each with a spare pony in tow, coming in behind Reshaw, Pourier, and Captain Andrew Burt. Every one of the Crow had performed his personal toilet, making himself ready for this grand entrance dressed in his most splendid regalia. Feathers, stuffed birds, wolf-skin hats, and eagles’ wings adorned the heads. Fringed war shirts and beaded blankets about their shoulders, leggings of blanket strouding and deerhide, complete with strips of porcupine quills and scalplocks, as well as long and flowing breechclouts were the order of the day. Every warrior clutched the very best weapon he owned. While most had a pistol stuffed in a belt, there were very few modern rifles among
the Crow. Most, Donegan noticed, carried old muzzle-loaders. Even some old smoothbore fusils. Nevertheless, they were proud of their martial show as they entered that honored parade ground and marched slowly past the waiting cavalry and infantry of Lone Star Crook. Painted faces and ponies were streaked and daubed with earth colors, feathers and totems tied in manes or on those tails bound in preparation for battle. And bringing up the rear were three squaws—wives of the chiefs who had joined Old Crow in this journey: Medicine Crow, Feather Head, and Good Heart.

As the procession began to stream past, Finerty exclaimed, “They are a handsome people, Irishman! The most prominent cheekbones I think I’ve ever seen. Damned regal looking. Gad, will you look at the length of the hair on those fellas!”

“C’mon,” Donegan said. “Let’s mosey down where they’ll set up their camp and see if we can find someone I know.”

“Somebody you know?”

With a shrug Seamus replied, “I was up at Fort C. F. Smith in Crow country for the better part of half a year. Met some Crow during my time on the Big Horn. I figure my fight in the hayfield nine years ago wasn’t far from where Grouard ran into those five hundred warriors on the riverbank.”

“You’re a man of many surprises, I’ll give you that,” Finerty said with no little admiration when the pair set off.

As the warriors quickly dismounted on a large patch of bare bottomland, turning their prized war ponies over to a dozen young boys who had come along to care for the war party’s horses, they dispersed in all directions to begin erecting their war lodges—bending over young saplings, lashing together the tops to form small domes over which they threw blankets and buffalo robes. With the Chicago newsman beside him, Donegan slowly moved among the Crow warriors, studying each face for a moment, but looking only for the older men. It had been nine years, after all. And in ’67 the face of the man he sought was already a well-traveled war map.

It took some time, but Seamus finally gave up. He had
seen them all, more than 175 copper-skinned faces—but not the one he had hoped to find. That evening just after six o’clock he found Baptiste Pourier just returning from an officers’ meeting at Crook’s headquarters tent.

“Bat!”

“Irishman!” the half-breed called out, turning and holding out his hand in greeting. “You been looking for me? I was over to the general’s—hearing the orders for his march to the hostile villages.”

Seamus replied, “Ready to march is he—now that he’s got the Crow to go with him?” They shook. “You and me need to talk sometime. Nothing important. But right now—I need to ask you about a Crow warrior I been looking for in that bunch come with you. Find out if you know him. If he came along from the village on the Big Horn.”

“So you do know someone in the tribe,” Pourier replied, but did not continue until the Irishman nodded. “What’s his name?”

“Iron Bull.”

The smile around the half-breed’s eyes slowly disappeared, and some sadness crossed his features as he looked away toward the western foothills where the sun was rushing to its nightly rest. “Iron Bull. Yes. I knew him too. He was a good friend to the white man. He had the power of the bull in his blood.”

Already Seamus doubted, but had to ask. “You said he was a good friend to the white man. He—”

Pourier shook his head and turned back to the Irishman. “Yes, friend. Iron Bull is dead.”

He took a deep breath. “In battle?”

“The Lakota, Seamus. On one of their many raids into Crow country each of the past three summers. Iron Bull staked himself at the edge of the village.”

“And he went no farther?”

“No. Right where he stood, he took four of the bastards with him, Seamus,” Pourier replied. “And the warriors rallied because of him. They came back from the far side of camp. Turned the Sioux away. Then buried Iron Bull with honors.”

“I didn’t know he was a war chief.”

“He wasn’t. Didn’t want to be. Just—I figure he knew when it come time for him to stand. And not move on.”

Putting his hand on Pourier’s shoulder, Donegan eventually said, “I’m proud of what you did, Bat. Holding these Crow—like Iron Bull would have, don’t you see? Because of you, they’re here.”

“And Lone Star Crook has his Apsaalooke warriors now.”

Finerty hailed them as he approached, pointing to the southeast. “I figure the general has some more warriors coming to join up too.”

It took but an instant for excitement to grow among the Crow warriors as well as the soldiers and civilians across the creek, each of the camps exploding into action. Hurriedly Crook once more ordered his cavalry into a regimental front; with both the Second and Third rallied, the blue-clad horse soldiers extended nearly a mile in length, a most impressive sight for the incoming horsemen. War ponies whinnied and danced against their picket pins in the Crow camp as Seamus, Bat, and the Chicago newsman joined the warriors in moving to greet the incoming procession.

“Look at ’em, will you?” Finerty asked. “Never thought I’d see such a thing—they’re riding up in disciplined ranks!”

“I’ll be damned,” Donegan exclaimed with no small measure of approval. “Whoever trained them Injins had to be a horse soldier himself.”