Sioux Dawn, The Fetterman Massacre, 1866 (20 page)

The land sank into quiet once more, a quiet so intense a man could hear the greasy sagebrush popping back in the firepit or the wounded moaning deep down in their fitful dreams. A coyote yipped, at home among the western hills, up where the warrior and his red blanket had called the tune throughout their long summer's-day dance. To the north another coyote took up the call. Then a third—much closer—down in the creek-bottom cottonwoods.

“You see that … down there, Lieutenant?” Glover pointed north.

“Yes … I think I can.”

More a feeling than anything a man could see, they each sensed the movement of men and ponies beyond the creek. Faint yet unmistakable sound crept to their ears, carried on the breezes sweeping off the west slope of the knoll. The Sioux were on the move.

“Back East, when I was planning on making this trip west—I was told the plains Indian didn't attack at night,” Glover admitted with a sad chuckle.

“Seems we don't know as much as we think we did—about this land. And its Indians,” Wands replied.

“Already?” Frank asked, his voice unable to conceal his panic, eyes flicking at Abigail and the baby. “You mean they'll rush us at night?”

“Looks that way,” Wands gritted. “Gathering down by the creek. In this darkness they can creep up lot closer before making a full-scale assault on our position … on what's left of us.” He turned full round, facing those still standing, to talk all the quieter. “Don't any of you forget—save that last bullet for yourself.”

Frank sniffled, then drew himself up and wiped his hands down his dirty tunic.
That's what it means, this being a soldier … keeping a last bullet in your gun for your own head. Always wanted to be a musician. Never did mean to be a soldier.
He steeled himself.
Today's as good a day as any to start being one, I suppose.

“Perhaps it's better after all,” Noone looked back at Wands and Glover. “Better than waiting till morning.”

“Yes,” Glover agreed, responding to the young soldier's courage. “I doubt I'd make it through a long night of waiting again myself.”

Donegan had stayed in his trench. As far out of the firelight as he could, allowing his eyes to swell with the inky immensity of nightfall swallowing the high plains. While he listened to the murmur of voices behind him along the north wagons, Seamus made of his ears another set of eyes piercing the gloom.

So many nights like this before, he recalled. Yet, those nerve-twisting hours during the war were filled with the sounds and smells of horses. Listening to the quiet murmuring of your fellow soldiers passing among themselves a canteen of warm water or strong whiskey or sharing a plug of chew. This … this was something altogether different, Seamus decided. Easy it was for him to wait out the Confederates. Come dawn, a man knew what to expect. They were, after all, white men.

This Indian fighting was something new to them all. And the not knowing sent a cold spray of ice water down Donegan's spine as he lay in his trench, trying to make sense out of the night sounds and the shadows, spat where his eyes strained most to see.

Confederate Johnnies he could figure out. These naked, screeching warriors were something else.

“Seamus!” Marr held up a hand. “Look,” he whispered hoarsely, waiting for the soldiers and Glover to grow quiet. “Out there. Along the crest of that hill.” He pointed north.

If a man concentrated hard enough, he could make out movement of men and ponies along the ridge. But instead of Sioux riding down into the valley of the Crazy Woman, the warriors trailed northwest. Out of the valley. Away from the Montana Road. Leaving behind the knoll and its little band of defenders.

“They're going?” Frank asked, desperation in his voice.

“Don't count on it,” Marr answered.

“You think it's a ruse, Captain?” Wands inquired.

“Have no idea. I'd be ready for those devils to pull any kind of trick on us now. No telling what——”

“Lieutenant!”

Wands jerked with Donegan's call.

“Over here—double-time!”

Every man who could run bolted for the western trench where the big Irishman stood his watch. One by one they dropped into the dust and the dried blood, pulling their weapons into readiness.

Then fell silent. Waiting.

“What'd you see?” Wands whispered at Donegan's ear.

“Nothin'.
Heard
it. Out there.” Seamus pointed down the slope. “Hoofs. On some rocks. Maybe down by the creek.”

Every set of eyes strained into the murky gloom. A thumbnail moon limned overhead amidst a sprinkling of stars dusting the darkening horizon to the east.

“There!” Donegan shouted, spotting the rider.

“I see 'im!” Marr levered the action on his Henry.

“Hold on!” Wands whispered harshly. “There's only one.”

“One means they come to ask for our surrender,” Marr argued. “Rather'n wait till sunup.”

“No surrender,” Noone protested, his mind on Abigail and the baby.
Should I go now … to be with them before it's too late?

“No, Frank. There'll be no surrender.” Wands inched himself out of the trench to stand on the prairie.

By now the lone rider was plainly visible, sidling up that slope the warriors had hammered all day long. A horseman briefly backlit by the far-fallen sun peeled behind the Big Horns. The faint, plodding hoofbeats carried to them on the night-breeze.

“The blaggard ain't in no hurry,” Donegan whispered.

“Red bastard don't have to be,” Marr answered as he dug his left elbow into the dirt, making a firm rest for his rifle.

Wands wasn't all that sure—but from the dancing shadows, it appeared the rider wore a low-crowned, floppy hat. It was just a hunch he felt before he bellowed, “Halt where you are!”

Instantly the horse stopped, and set about nuzzling among the sage and dried grass, grazing for a tasteless morsel. Its rider as still as a statue.

Wands waited. Then waited longer. When the rider didn't move nor speak, his gut churned with worry anew. Scratching his chin, he stepped forward three steps, slipping his pistol from its holster.

“Who goes there, dammit?” he demanded, stronger this time.

A thin, reedy voice sang out of the gloom. “Friend.”

Wands grew concerned—yet relieved at the same time. Whoever was out there sure as hell knew some English. “What's your name?” he yelled.

“Jim … Jim Bridger.”

Wands turned as the others whispered behind him.

“A white man, by God!” peeled one soldier.

“Lordee! A white man!” sang out another.

“You believe that!”

“Ride on in, Mr. Bridger.” Wands didn't know whether to holster his pistol yet or not. “Slow—mind you. Real slow.”

“Like you say, son. I'll come in slow.” Bridger nudged his old gray mule into her lazy walk again. When he saw the riflemen backlit by the tiny fire, he snorted, laughing quietly, realizing every muzzle pointed his way. “A powerful lot of guns you boys got there. 'Specially when it takes but one to put this ol' man under. I ain't much a coup—no more'n parfleche and bones, boys!”

“How you come to be out here … this time of night?” Wands had a thousand questions he burned to ask.

Without a word, Bridger slid from his mule and led her straight past the soldiers into the compound. There he stopped, stunned by the wounded he saw gathered in the dust round the fire. The three grimy, bloodied women. A little boy hugging his mother's knee, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the old gray-beard. And last, his eyes fell upon a little newborn suckling at its mother's breast in the pale glow of the tiny fire. New life amid the stench and pain and blood.

“Lord a-mighty,” he murmured, tearing the old felt hat from his head. “Ladies,” he apologized. “Man out in this country long as I been tends to forget his manners a'times.” His eyes landed on Wands. “Officer, I'm scouting for a stupid captain, name of Burrowes. Out of Fort Carrington, up north a ways.”

“W-We're bound for there!” Noone gushed.

Bridger nodded. Looking over the wounded. “How many you dead, son?”

Wands swallowed hard. “Two. Lieutenant Daniels down by the creek…”

“That's the body I found,” Bridger admitted. “Any more?”

“Sergeant Terrel.” Wands pointed. “That's all.”

“Just two?”

“Yes,” he answered lamely, looking over the wounded himself, his eyes resting on Templeton. “The lieutenant there, he's commanding the detail——”

“Only two, you say.” Bridger sighed. “Be real proud what you done. I just watched a whole passel of Sioux warriors hotfooting it over the hills yonder. Tell me, just how long they have you forted up here?”

“Just after sunup, Mr. Bridger.” Templeton raised himself painfully. He didn't feel as feverish, what with a cool breeze blowing through camp now.

“In all my forty-four years in these mountains, this the first time the Injuns done this sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?” The big Irishman edged forward.

“A surround,” Bridger answered. “Stop you, circle you till you run outta water or ammunition. Whatever come first. My, my,” the old scout clucked. “This little rag-tag outfit of your'n held off all them warriors?”

“We had two more with us … earlier.”

“Where they?”

“Gone for help. Down to Reno.” Wands pointed south. “Took our best horses.”

“And a mess of them Sioux on their tails,” Fuller added.

Bridger sank to his haunches by the fire, warming his hands. “They'll make it. Them horses stay under 'em … your friends'll make it to Reno just fine.”

Donegan knelt beside the scout. He worried the cork from the neck of his tin flask and presented it to the old scout. “Mr. Bridger, a betting man'd wager you could use this.”

Jim sniffed at the neck. “I thankee, son. You figure it's the proper thing to do, offering me some of your barleycorn. But scouting's my business. To stay alive in this country, a man's gotta smell and see and listen like a sharp-eared wolf. Awake or asleep. Hard drink like that gonna bumfuzzle my senses. Not that this child's ain't had many a hurraw in his day—selling my beaver to rendezvous. Love to taste that on my tongue—just don't dare now.”

“Man never gets too old to have a drink, Mr. Bridger.” Donegan gulped the fiery liquid.

“Ain't a matter of age, son. Only a matter of knowing when. Maybeso someday, we'll have us a drink and palaver. Now's just not the time … and here's not the place.” Bridger's eyes squinted as he studied the wounded and blackened faces illuminated by the cooper light.

Wands dropped beside Bridger. “I'm still confused. You say Burrowes's troops scared the hostiles off when they saw him coming … how did
you
know we were here.”

“Didn't. Just knowed someone was bound to have a fight of it down this way. Black Horse—he's a Cheyenne chief in these parts—he warned the soldiers up to Fort Carrington. From what he said, I figured there'd be trouble with the Sioux along the Road. And hell to pay at the Crazy Woman. But cheer up boys! That paper-collared captain Burrowes got two hundred men with him, and they're not long behind on my trail.”

Templeton tried a smile, the first since racing across the Crazy Woman after the buffalo at Daniels's side. “How'd you know there'd be trouble here at the crossing?”

Bridger sniffed at the dark meat hung on the bayonets. “That mule? Smells to be. You folks mind I have me a chaw on some?”

Wands handed him a piece, but before Bridger ate, he continued. “Captain Burrowes—now, he is a stubborn one. Were it up to him, he'd be in camp right now up to the Clear Fork.”

Wands gasped. “What do you mean? That's north of us … miles away.”

“You're right about being way back yonder, son.” Bridger tore off a chew of the stringy meat. “Ahhh … nothing like a mule haunch when a man goes hungry. In all my winters out here, I've tasted the best. Some claim it's buffler hump. Others stand by beaver tail or painter meat. My, but I've always favored a fat mule haunch.”

Bridger chewed thoughtfully a moment, then went on. “Had to pester that captain something fierce all day after running onto sign telling 'bout the big fight. Hell, if'n I didn't make myself a burr under that captain's ass, he'd be plopped down at Clear Fork right now … and you folks'd be waiting for sunup to be rubbed out, I'd reckon.”

Wands gazed down at Templeton. George nodded weakly.

Wands turned back to Bridger. “You still haven't told us how you knew there'd be trouble here at this crossing. Those Cheyenne of yours?”

“Injuns, yes. Cheyenne, no.” With the browned stubs of old teeth, Bridger chewed on more of the unseasoned meat. “Plain as I ever seen it writ in forty-four winters. To any man what wants to read.” Bridger studied the eyes round the fire. “I reckon you figure me for a man don't write or read. Well, you're right. Not English, leastways. But this child learned Injun long ago—in a Shoshone lodge, it were—I first come to these'r mountains.”

“These Injins wrote down that they were going to jump us here?” Donegan sounded dubious.

Bridger nodded and swallowed. “Told you. The Sioux painted it on every buffler skull from here clear north to Carrington's fort. All saying the same thing: ‘Big fight at the Crazy Woman. All come fight the soldiers.'”

“Painted on buffalo skulls?” Fuller inquired.

“Yep. The creek here. With pictures of rifles and arrows, son. Rifles broke in half … says the Sioux would whip you soldiers. Sure as sun I knowed there'd be hell to pay here on the Crazy Woman. Almost had to shame that captain into following me here.”

“We're damned lucky you nagged Burrowes into marching down.” Wands sighed, leaning back, some of the tension draining from him at last. “I suppose the captain'll bivouac down by the creek. I, for one, vote that we stay right here for the night … since we're safe now.”