Sioux Dawn, The Fetterman Massacre, 1866 (10 page)

“Not allow us to build this fort?”

“Red Cloud wants you to understand, his Bad Faces will surround you, cut you off north and south. They plan to slowly strangle you, Colonel,” Jack Stead explained the Cheyenne chief's warning. “Red Cloud promises his warriors will kill your men one at a time, or a hundred at a time. Whenever they can. Red Cloud wants Black Horse to tell you that you sit on a small piece of ground. While Red Cloud's warriors own the hills encircling us.”

“Ask the chief how many warriors camp with Red Cloud now.”

Black Horse held a gnarled fist before Carrington, spreading five fingers he swept across his chest.

“He says Red Cloud's got five hundred warriors,” Jack whispered.

“Colonel,” Bridger interrupted quickly, “you best remember that's a drop in the bucket to what he'll have come next month.”

“Why more?”

“Now's the time most of Red Cloud's warriors are out hunting buffalo and antelope. By the time they lay in meat for the coming winter and head back to join the chief on the Tongue, there could be better'n twenty-five hundred warriors in Red Cloud's camp. All itching to make it a long winter for your soldiers.”

Carrington nodded. “Yes, Jim. Go ahead.”

“Worse yet, come next month when the tribes gather, they meet on the Tongue for the sun-dance held each summer. A sun-dance means Red Cloud and Man-Afraid will whip their warriors into a fighting frenzy right quick.”

Carrington grew thoughtful. “How far is Red Cloud?”

“Two days ride. North on the Tongue.”

“Ask Black Horse if he'll join Red Cloud to make war on the new friend he has made here today, the soldier chief who sits before him.”

As Jack Stead translated and signed, a few of the older warriors offered Black Horse counsel. The old chief inched closer to the council table where the soldiers waited for his answer. His voice began soft and low. Yet strong. Proud as ever.

“The Cheyenne are not many. Alone, they cannot fight the Sioux.”

Carrington whirled on Stead, interrupting Black Horse. “I know that! I'm asking if he's going to join Red Cloud's war.”

Jack bobbed his head several times as he signed, sensing the tension between the Cheyenne and soldier chiefs thicken like blood congealing on cold ground.

In the way of the Plains Indian, the old chief wanted to explain his answer before he gave the soldier chief his answer.

“It has been a bad year for the Cheyenne. A bad, bad winter. My people are hungry.”

Carrington nodded, making no sound. His eyes never left Black Horse. The old chief's gaze never strayed from the colonel. “Ask Black Horse what we can do for him. For his people.”

The chief inched closer to the table, as if shamed by having to ask. His hand rubbed his belly, and two fingers on his right hand went into his mouth. Then he wrapped his two arms around himself, sweeping them up and down his sides.

“They … his people are hungry. You can give them food. And the soldier chief can give them clothes.”

Carrington nodded. Stead fell silent. The old chief dropped his eyes, embarrassed in what appeared as begging.

That private place inside Bridger's gut knotted for these once proud people now caught between the white man who would feed and clothe them … and the Sioux who would slaughter them if they went to the white man for help.

“Colonel.”

Carrington started, perturbed as Lieutenant Adair bent at his elbow. “What is it?” the colonel snapped at the interruption.

“Captain Haymond, commander of the Second Battalion, just arrived from Reno, sir.” He gestured out the rear of the tent. “With his compliment of troops, you have the Eighteenth about back to fighting strength, sir.”

Carrington studied the clamor as four companies of soldiers, some 250 men, dismounted at Haymond's shrill order. He glanced at the Cheyennes, certain they noticed the arrival of these reinforcements.

Dull Knife angrily motioned Black Horse to the Cheyenne circle. In hurried, furtive words and glances, the chief and his advisers argued among themselves.

“Colonel!” It was Brown's whisper at his ear. Along with the smell of stale whiskey on the captain's breath. “Show the buggers our mountain howitzers. Let them see how one shell will kill many Sioux. It'll make the yellow bastards cower in fear!”

Like swatting at a troublesome mosquito, Carrington waved Brown back as he rose and left the tent to welcome his new captain. Carrington felt certain of failure.

Dear Lord, I prayed for your assistance in this meeting with the Cheyennes, asking for heavenly council. I've botched this badly. Have I asked more than these poor savages can give? Have I demanded that they make an alliance they aren't ready for? Asking that they join me against the Sioux—who would slaughter the Cheyenne as quickly as they'd slaughter my white soldiers?

Black Horse returned to the table. This time the old Cheyenne no longer held his eyes steady on Carrington. A knot of concern furrowed between his plucked eyebrows. The chief motioned Jack Stead forward. Black Horse whispered. In turn, the scout bent to whisper to Carrington. The other officers rocked forward to hear Jack's message.

“Black Horse fears that Red Cloud will find out that he stayed too long in the soldier chief's camp. Red Cloud will be angry. He'll find the village of Black Horse and sweep all the Cheyenne before him.”

Palms together, one of Stead's hands flew across the other, the ancient sign of rubbing out an enemy. Carrington gulped, watching Bridger's eyes narrow. The colonel wasn't new to this sort of fear. He had seen the same fear etched on a black man's face many times before. In the fifties, the colonel had been a passionate antislaver, even before it became fashionable in the North.

“Tell Black Horse that we'll protect him. Together with my soldiers, his young men will defeat Red Cloud.” Carrington straightened proudly, smoothing the front of his dark blue tunic, fingers caressing the bright crimson sash.

Black Horse shook his head only once. He whispered to Stead. Jack swallowed hard.

“The chief says you won't protect the Cheyenne. Only he can protect his people by going far away from the Sioux. All your soldiers can't help his people. When Red Cloud comes to fight … you … you'll not be able to … to save yourselves.”

Most at the table who heard Jack stutter gasped in dismay. Carrington and his officers fell silent. For moments now the tent had drawn close, the air steamy with rancid bear grease smeared on the black braids, heavy with white soldiers sweating in wool tunics. Bridger's arthritic joints ached in sitting so long on the ladder-backed chair.

“Captain Brown.” Carrington's voice cracked uncontrollably. “Bring the gifts for our guests.”

The quartermaster signaled six soldiers who scurried forward, their arms heavy with gifts they laid on blankets before the Cheyenne chiefs. Into the stacks of presents the old warriors dove, the eldest and highest-ranking selecting the best for themselves: some secondhand army tunics, brass buttons polished for the occasion, every tunic seeing service in the bloody war the 18th had survived to arrive at this place in history.

When the clothing had been distributed, there remained the two shakos Carrington presented to Black Horse and Dull Knife. A few soldiers giggled as the old chiefs placed the tall, cylindrical ceremonial hats on their heads, bright plumes swaying in the air. Above the laughter, the Cheyenne murmured in appreciation. Bridger understood—to a warrior, appearance meant everything.

Next came sacks of flour, coffee and sugar. At Carrington's request Jack explained the many miles and many sleeps it had taken for these gifts of food to travel to the Big Horns. Two Moon grabbed one of the greasy, waxed bundles bound with brown twine. First he sniffed it. Then tore a strip of paper free for a better smell. Pronouncing it good, he bit off a corner of the slab bacon, a little grease dribbling from the corner of his mouth as he grinned, smacking loudly for all to see his good fortune.

Jack Stead signaled for quiet. “The soldier chief says that he does not want the Cheyenne people to go hungry. Never more. When Black Horse and his people have bellies that pinch, they should not come near the road to beg of the white people on the road. The Cheyenne must go to Laramie, where they will be fed. There the Cheyenne will receive more presents for keeping the peace with the white soldiers.”

The colonel turned to his adjutant. “Phisterer. Bring the letters of good conduct I had you prepare. Jack, please explain to the chiefs what my letter says … what it means to them.”

Before Stead began interpreting for the chiefs, he quickly read the colonel's letter of safe-conduct.

TO MILITARY OFFICERS, SOLDIERS, AND EMIGRANTS:

Black Horse, a Cheyenne chief, having come in and shaken hands and agreed to a lasting peace with the whites and all travelers on the road, it is my direction that he be treated kindly, and in no way molested in hunting while he remains at peace.

When any Indian is seen who holds up this paper, he must be treated kindly.

Henry B. Carrington

Colonel, 18th U.S. Infantry

Commanding, Mountain District

Black Horse signaled his chiefs to gather their gifts and make ready to leave. Only then did the old Cheyenne step directly before Carrington. He laid a hand on the soldier chief's left breast. Then he tapped his own bare breast where lay the image of President Andrew Jackson on a peace medal tarnished over many winters.

“You're his friend now, Colonel.” Jack Stead's voice cracked slightly.

Carrington swallowed hard against the hot lump in his throat. “Tell Black Horse that together we can see peace brought to this land.”

The old Cheyenne's eyes moistened. “My people ride south with tomorrow's sun. We will stay off the road, and far from Red Cloud's camps. We … wish the soldier chief well.” Black Horse raised an arm to the heavens, quickly brought that hand to his heart, where it rubbed his left breast before he flung the arm toward Carrington.

Jack sighed, his own eyes a little misty. “Black Horse says … may the Everywhere Spirit of his people protect you, Soldier Chief.”

Black Horse turned, swallowed by his chiefs among their ponies. When the old Cheyenne had mounted, his new soldier tunic replacing the buffalo robe, his new soldier shako pulled down crookedly over his gray hair, Carrington strode to his side.

Squinting up into the sun, the colonel said, “God's speed, my friend. May the Lord hold you in the palm of his hand.”

Black Horse signed, rubbing his chest and extending his arm toward Carrington.

“May the Everywhere Spirit watch over you, soldier chief. May he keep you safe from all harm.”

A sudden cold prickled the hairs at the back of Bridger's neck.
Strange,
he thought. To have a chill under this sun. Then Jim realized why he felt such cold, clear down to his marrow. He had come to like this man Carrington. Really liked him. And the sad part of it was, Bridger realized, it would take Almighty God to protect the colonel from here on out. God, and God only. No amount of rifles nor mountain howitzers would keep Carrington out of harm's way now.

The goddamned army brass back East had sent this poor, simple … honest man out here to this bloody hunting ground—a man totally unprepared for what stared him in the face. The army sent Carrington here like a gauntlet thrown down to the Sioux. A slap across Red Cloud's face.

In forty-four winters of fighting to keep his scalp, Jim Bridger had never known an Indian to turn down a challenge.

Chapter 7

At Bridger's urging, Carrington dispatched a rider south to Fort Reno that afternoon, rather than wait until morning. If Black Horse was right that Red Cloud was already at work sealing off the Montana Road north from Crazy Woman's Fork, then all future detachments riding up from Reno would be endangered.

While the officers at Fort Laramie were able to communicate with the outside word by using the telegraph-key, these new posts thrown up along the Bozeman Trail had to utilize the ages-old dispatch and courier system. A system that trusted a handwritten message carried by a single rider piercing the red gauntlet the hostile Sioux had thrown up around their hunting ground. More often than not, as the army would one day grudgingly admit, these couriers mounted on the swiftest horse available would not make it to their destination. Most would simply become a small notation in the record of some post—“Courier missing.” All too often no trace of body, bone or even the courier's pouch itself could be found. The lonely hammering of each solitary rider's hoofbeats his only epitaph.

That brief farewell bid him as he swung into the saddle, ready to ride, his only eulogy.

Checking recent dispatches carried up from Laramie, Carrington found that a small detachment of new officers called up from Fort Sedgwick was scheduled to depart Fort Laramie ten days ago. If his calculations were correct, that detail would reach the Crazy Woman by Wednesday, July 18. The colonel was relieved that the army practiced one claim to foresight: as District Commander, he was kept informed of the makeup of parties coming north along the trail. Always informed, that is, if the dispatch rider himself made it up the Bozeman Road.

“Who leads the detail?” Carrington asked his assistant.

Phisterer studied his dispatches. “A Lieutenant Templeton, George. Second-in-command is Lieutenant Daniels, Napoleon H. Two replacement lieutenant's for your staff. In addition, Alexander Wands, your new adjutant when I'm reassigned. And a James Bradley.”

Carrington chewed on the inside of his cheek, staring off to the south, watching the Cheyenne climb across Lodge Trail Ridge. They would be marching west tomorrow. Safe. Beyond Red Cloud's grasp.

Henry had a reputation as a thinking man, not given to rash or impulsive acts, a trait not found among many of his fellow officers in this postwar army. Graduating from Yale Law School in 1848, he had begun practice in Columbus, Ohio, where he met Margaret Sullivant. A reflective man who studied the careers of great men, he read of Hannibal, Alexander, Caesar, Napoleon—and became expert on the military campaigns of George Washington. Those who served with Carrington knew he made no bones of aspiring to greatness himself.