Sioux Dawn, The Fetterman Massacre, 1866 (41 page)

Once outside the office to begin their tour, Carrington stared a moment at the sky.

“Mr. Wands—appears good weather will hold for the day. Release the wood train for its first run to the Pinery.”

“Very good, sir.”

Bridger watched Wands leave. “You want your wagons heading down to the Pine Woods, Colonel?”

Carrington looked startled momentarily. “Why, do you sense trouble?”

“Probably nothing,” Bridger grumped, volving a painful shoulder. “Feel something in my bones. Maybe just a storm a'coming.”

Carrington smiled. “The way I see it, our wood train's safe for today at least. Why, if the Sioux send Two Moons to look over our fort, they'll wait until he leaves before trying anything, won't they, Jim?”

Bridger gazed at the colonel a moment before answering. “I rarely give a Injun the benefit of the doubt, Colonel. Just hope … better
pray
you're right.”

Chapter 32

Carrington's tour hadn't taken long. He showed the Cheyenne the powder magazine and all the stores laid in by the soldiers. Even showed the chiefs a “gun that shoots twice,” one of those dreaded mountain howitzers firing canister shot. To top it off, the colonel had a troop of men perform their close-order drill for the visitors.

The soldiers were ready, Bridger reminded Two Moons's delegation as he escorted them to the main gate. These soldiers were ready for any attack on the fort Red Cloud might plan.

The colonel returned to his office, spending the next hour readying his papers so that his month-end report to General Cooke might nearly be complete by the New Year.

“Indians!”

Carrington jerked up, hearing boots thumping the porch outside his window. From the door he saw that the children on the parade had stopped playing their blind-man's bluff and stood stock-still, pointing at Pilot Hill.

He wheeled.
Damn their red souls anyway!

Atop Pilot Hill waved the picket's flag. Down to the side and up. To the side and up.
Many Indians … wood train under attack.

“Bugler!”

“Here, Colonel!” Metzger came running, his bugle clanging against his knitting kit, itself rattling with ammunition as he buckled the pistol belt round his waist.

“Boots and Saddles, bugler! Blow, by god!”

Carrington boiled with sudden anger. Caught lowering his guard. Believing the Sioux wouldn't attack a wood train the same day the Cheyenne visited. He ripped his watch from a pocket.
Just before eleven.

“Colonel Carrington!”

He rushed to the bottom of those steps leading to the watchtower, cocking his head up the ladder. “What is it?”

“Two Injuns, sir!” the sentry shouted down, pointing. “They just come down the slope of Lodge Trail, big as life itself … crawled off their ponies t'other side of the Big Piney.”

“What're they doing, Private?”

“N-Nothing, sir! Just sitting there. Wrapped up in their blankets. Just sitting. And watching.”

“Watching what, soldier?”

“Us, sir. Watching us.”

“Colonel?”

He wheeled. “Captain Powell! You'll ride to the relief of the wood train as you did two days ago.”

“Your orders stand?”

“As they did then—do not take your troops over Lodge Trail Ridge.”

Powell smiled weakly. “I found out for myself. You don't have to convince me——”

“Colonel Carrington!”

He turned at the shrill voice. “Fetterman?”

“I demand to lead this relief!” Fetterman stomped to a halt at Carrington's boot-toes.

“On what grounds——”

“I'm senior to Powell here,” he snapped. “Besides, my Company A is ready to march as we speak.”

Carrington looked over Fetterman's shoulder. Soldiers stood at parade rest in front of their company barracks.

Carrington sighed. “Powell accounted well for himself on the nineteenth——”

“I won't waste time lallygagging with you here, repeating chapter, verse, and section … if you catch my drift,” Fetterman snapped. “I'm senior field officer of the Eighteenth. By god, I'll not have you snatch this from me!”

Carrington glanced at Powell with an apology in his eyes. He watched Powell sag, a look of relief loosening his features. Powell doesn't want to go anyway, he thought as he turned back to Fetterman.

“Very well, Captain. You'll have command of the entire relief party. Move out at once with your Company A … and a detachment of cavalry——”

“Where're they?” Fetterman barked.

“You move out with your infantry and the cavalry at once,” Carrington fumed. “I'll see Lieutenant Grummond is dispatched with his mounted infantry. They'll catch up with you, Captain.”

“Hopefully before we reach the wood train.”

“In plenty of time to drive the warriors off.”

“There'll be no cat and mouse today, I'll have you know.” Fetterman turned on his heel to shout back. “It's a fine day to get our licks in at last!”

“Halt, Captain Fetterman!” Carrington shouted, jarred by the flamboyant boast, suddenly remembering he hadn't issued specific orders.

Fetterman whirled, fuming. His hands clenching, barely containing his excitement. “What now, goddammit!”

“Captain, you'll support the wood train,” the colonel began. “Relieve the wood train and report back to me.”

Fetterman's bragging—the way he struts. He wants my chair! Gaining that promotion by beating the Sioux at any cost.

“Do not engage or pursue the hostiles at the expense of the wood train, Captain! Under no circumstances are you to pursue the Indians over the ridge … Lodge Trail Ridge.”

“Is that all?”

He couldn't believe Fetterman had answered with that question. “Do you understand your orders?”

“That's all there is, Colonel?”

“Yes, Captain. That's all.”

Fetterman saluted, turned and dashed across the grassy parade, waving. Sergeants barked orders along the columns as the foot soldiers right-faced, lit out for the south gate.

“Colonel?”

He turned to stare into the red face of young Lieutenant Wands.

“Request permission to join Fetterman, sir.”

Carrington glanced at Fetterman marching along officers' quarters, nearing the south gate. He wheeled back on Wands. “Request denied, mister. You'll stay with me——”

“But, sir!”

“I need you with me, Lieutenant! You can damn well see that!” Henry sensed the first fissures fracturing his little world, beginning to widen. I'll hold on, he thought. Everything will quiet soon enough.

“As you wish.” Wands turned to go.

“Lieutenant.” Carrington put a hand out to stop his adjutant. “Catch Fetterman at the gate. Be certain you repeat my orders.”

“Y-Your orders?”

“Make sure he understands he's to relieve the wood train … and not pursue the Indians over Lodge Trail Ridge.”

Wands wheeled without saluting, tearing across the frozen parade, puffing steamy clouds as he ran. It doesn't matter him not saluting me, Carrington brooded.

He glanced at his watch.
Eleven-fifteen. Get your men moving, Fetterman!

Carrington whirled at the sounds of shouting, hoping to find the lieutenant in sight.
Where the devil is Grummond?

Across the parade the colonel watched Wands stop Fetterman in front of the Grummond house, next door to Carrington's home. The captain leaned off his horse, appeared to be listening to what Wands had to say. Then Fetterman rared back for a moment before he presented his hand to the adjutant. They shook. Wands stepped back. Fetterman waved his foot-soldiers and the twenty-seven cavalry forward at once. Accompanied from the stockade by a spotted dog.

To Henry's left arose the shouts and clatter of the mounted infantry, scrambling from the cavalry yard, Grummond in the lead. He halted his detail before Carrington.

“Lieutenant, you understand your orders?”

“Report to Captain Fetterman. Relieve the wood train. We're not to pursue over the ridge.”

“Remember the lessons of the sixth, Lieutenant. Report to Fetterman. Obey his orders, and never leave his side.”

Carrington didn't wait for a response but turned on his heel and strode quickly down the line of mounted infantry. Inspecting rifles. Here and there he found a man with a faulty weapon or one who hadn't reported in complete light-marching order. He dropped those few from the ranks.

“Colonel Carrington—request permission to join the relief party, sir!”

He whirled, ready to bite another head off. He sighed instead, recognizing the trusted old veteran, Pvt. Thomas Maddeon before him, fully dressed and armed. “Your weapon in good repair?”

“Positively, Colonel! And itching for some action, sir. For months you've kept me busy so I couldn't get a lick in on them red bastards, sir. Excusing the language.”

“It's all right, Maddeon. Permission granted. You'll take your personal mount?”

“Aye, I will.”

“Fall in with the rest of H Company. You'll ride with Lieutenant Grummond.”

Henry glanced at Pilot Hill. The flag waved to the left again and again.
Big party of Indians on the wood road. Big party
——

“Colonel, I've asked Jimmy if he'd let me ride Calico.”

Carrington turned, finding Fred Brown riding up on the spotted pony Brown himself had given the colonel's son better than a year before.

“Why you, Fred?” He already knew.

“Like I told you last night—not that much time left here. Job's done. Paperwork's all in line. They want me at Laramie before the new year. By damn, I'm eager for one more chance at these savages, Colonel! Something tells me today's my day! I'll bring back Red Cloud's scalp myself and throw it on your desk before the falling of the sun!”

Carrington glanced down at the little pinto beneath Brown. “Just … remember the pony. The boys love him so——”

“Nothing'll happen to him!” He tapped heels and whirled the pony past the waiting soldiers. “What glory mantles our shoulders when God's work we do!”

“Colonel Carrington,” Grummond called out. “Two civilians will be accompanying me.”

Carrington glanced at the eager volunteers, recognizing faces but not remembering names.

“You are?”

“Issac Fisher,” the first answered, tapping the barrel of his Henry repeater against his hat brim.

“James Wheatley.”

“Your wife runs the mess down by the stockade,” the colonel answered. “You look suitably well-armed.”

“Better'n your poor boys with them muzzle-loading Springfields.”

“Your repeaters might come in handy at that. Take them with you, Lieutenant.”

Wands trotted back across the frozen parade, skidding beside Grummond's horse. “George,” he cried out breathlessly, his eyes flaring with apprehension. “I had no idea you'd go too!”

Grummond chuckled. “Of course, Alex. Why not?”

“Good god—your wife! Your child,” he stammered, licking his dry lips, catching his breath. “She's standing at your door, in positive dread and horror at the thought of your going.”

“Dear girl——”

“She can't believe you want to go … after knocking at death's door but three weeks——”

He clamped a hand on Wands's shoulder. “Tell her not to worry, Alex.”

“Please, George,” he pleaded. “For your family's sake, be prudent … avoid rash movement. And above all, heed the order not to dash over the ridge. Powell obeyed and he wasn't——”

“Alex! I'm surprised at you! To think my wife worked you up into such a lather. Be assured, my friend—I have no intention of laying my life down for some half-dressed savage who worships rocks!”

Grummond righted himself in the saddle, saluted Carrington, and moved out. The company sergeant shouted his orders, bringing the files behind Grummond.

“Column half right … march! Left! Front into line!”

The lieutenant turned in his saddle and waved. “Goodbye, Alex! Tell Frances there's nothing to fear!”

The hair along Carrington's neck stood on end as he glanced across the parade, noticing Frances Grummond huddled beneath the eve of her doorway, thick shawl crumpled around her shoulders. His heart ached of a sudden.

With his next breath Carrington dashed across the parade. Up the ladder, two steps at a time, he clambered to the banquette above the south gate in time to call out.

“Lieutenant Grummond! Halt!”

“Colonel? What the——”

“For god's sake, Lieutenant, for everyone's … remember: under no circumstances are you to cross Lodge Trail Ridge——”

“I heard you the first time, Colonel.”

Grummond turned away, signaling to the sergeant he had drilled repeatedly over the past month.

“Column of twos! Center guide—HO!”

Henry watched until the last soldier trotted out the gate, then tore the pocket watch from his tunic.
Eleven twenty-eight. Half an hour gone
 …

*   *   *

Jim Bridger had watched Carrington lumber across the graveled walks and frozen grass of the parade, scurrying up the ladder to the banquette. After Carrington glanced at his watch, he gazed north, toward the bony ridge once more.

“Where the blazes is Fetterman going?” the colonel asked of no one at all.

When Bridger turned from the stockade wall, it surprised Carrington. “How long you been standing here, Jim?”

“Long enough to see a lot, Colonel.” Jim nodded toward Fetterman's columns. “I figured he'd head down the wood road to relieve the wagons. 'Stead, it looks like Fetterman's marching northwest, gonna cross the Big Piney at the foot of Lodge Trail.”

“Why the devil's Fetterman doing that?” Carrington leaped to the wall, tearing the looking glass from a sentry's hands.