Sioux Dawn, The Fetterman Massacre, 1866 (5 page)

Gibson remembered that Bridger had waited, letting the words sink in, his hard eyes watching a handful of the young officers gulp. One even ran his hand over his bald head.

“Don't worry none 'bout
your
topknot, son,” Bridger said to the officer. “What's the name?”

“Brown. Captain Frederick Brown. Regimental Quartermaster.”

“You got nothing to worry about,” Bridger went on, gesturing toward Brown's half-bald head. “Ain't a warrior gonna want your scalp!”

Most of them chuckled nervously, even Brown, who unconsciously ran a hand across his high forehead once more.

“'Sides, Colonel—you got the best scouts money can buy,” Bridger continued. “Jack Stead over there as your interpreter. He's had many a year with the Pawnee. Crow and Pawnee both know how fearsome the Sioux are. Fact is, I hear tell how the Sioux want Jack's scalp pretty bad.”

Next he turned and pointed his quirt toward the youngest scout standing on the outer fringe of officers. “That Henry Williams there, why—he's learned about everything I can show him already. We both tried to teach General Connor a thing or two up on his Powder River expedition last year. 'Cept, Connor was all gurgle and no gumption. Figured he had knowed everything about Injuns already.” Bridger let that set. He knew these young officers had heard how Connor froze nearly all his army horses, putting his entire command afoot … how the officer had been repeatedly whipped by the Sioux … how Connor had come limping back to Laramie, beaten and humiliated.

Carrington cleared his throat. “I'm sure I speak for every one of us here when I say we appreciate having men like you leading us into this Sioux country.”

“Were it up to me—and it ain't—I'd be leading you soldiers through Snake country.”

“I understand you took the first emigrant train from Laramie all the way to Virginia City back in 'sixty-four … through Shoshone land.”

“Damned right, Colonel. Up the west side of the Big Horns.”

“That's clearly the long way around,” Captain Brown said.

“Right.” Bridger glared back at the balding officer.

“And a good deal harder going, I hear,” Brown added.

Bridger spit into the dirt at his feet. “Ain't going to argue with you. My road's a mite harder going than the one John Bozeman picked out.”

“Bozeman laughs at your caution.” Brown felt bolder now. “Thinks you're a little too cautious using that easy road of yours.”

“Damned right I'm cautious—Bozeman's road runs dead to center through the prime Sioux and Cheyenne hunting ground. Maybeso that's why I still got my hair after forty-four winters in these parts. And everybody from Blackfoot and Sioux, Cheyenne down to Mormons wanting to boast of Big Throat's scalp on their lodgepole.” He squinted at Brown. “But you got that right. I am a little cautious, son. I figure on lasting a few more winters.”

“You'll spend this winter with us.” Carrington tried out his soothing, lawyer's tone. Along with that winning smile of his. “Up near the Big Horns, Jim.”

Bridger finally tore his eyes from Brown.

Gibson shuddered beneath his blankets, recalling the old scout's terse words. “That's right, Colonel. I'll stay this winter with your soldiers … them women and kids.” He shook his head sadly. “I'll damned sure do the best I can for you. But my medicine tells me some of you paper-collar officers won't be around to see green-up come next spring. Mark my words, boys—afore hard freeze-up, there'll be scalps flying from Sioux lodge-poles … or I ain't Jim Bridger.”

Chapter 2

The breeze nudged the loose hair along his left cheek. Up here on the ridge where he always came to sit and think, Curly gazed down into the valley of the Tongue River, watching the brown-skinned lodges nippling against the gold sky of sunset, lazy puffs of smoke rising into the summer twilight.

To think. And remember.

A thousand lodges had gathered on the plains surrounding the soldiers' Fort Laramie. Oglalla. Miniconjou. And Spotted Tail's Brule.

Old
Pegaleshka.
Once a brave and daring warrior with many honors, Spotted Tail had given himself to the white man the way a new bride gives herself to her husband on their wedding night. All because his young daughter had begged him to have her baptized with water in the white man way as she lay on her deathbed. A victim of the cruel winter of starvation the Sioux had suffered. She asked of her father to be buried in the white man's cemetery at the fort. Obediently, her father had slain her four favored ponies, their tails to hang on her funeral scaffold. Sadly, Spotted Tail had told the soldiers he no longer had heart to fight the white man.

Wheat Flour
was her name. The whitest thing Spotted Tail's people knew. Wheat Flour had told her father she ached to be like the white man. Eventually the weary chief grew certain his daughter's spirit had been adopted by the white man's god. No longer would he be one to make war against his daughter's adopted people.

With the remembrance of Laramie, something crawled inside Curly's stomach. Like the slow
plip-plip
of water on a rock. He straightened and sucked deep at the cooling air of twilight fallen on this high place.

Treaty-talk had been a waste of their time, after all. Better that the Lakota had followed the herds of buffalo and antelope across the prairie. Better that they had spent their time mending bows and filling their quivers with cherrywood arrows. Preparing for what surely lay ahead—now that the soldiers marched north, intent on crossing the Crazy Woman Fork. Coming to goad the Sioux into fighting for what had long been their favored hunting ground.

With a stick Curly scratched idly at the dirt before him, remembering the hairy-faced soldier chief with the slicked-back hair who had ridden up to the treaty-talk. A soldier chief accompanied by all his blue-shirted warriors. Until the moment that dark-haired soldier chief had marched into Laramie, Curly and the others had begun to think this treaty-talk might be different than treaty-talks gone before. This time the white man might talk straight.

But when the treaty-talkers had introduced the bearded soldier chief, a jolt of cold splashed down each warrior's spine. Realization as numbing as a January waterfall.

“Here stands the white chief marching north to occupy Powder River,” the Sioux were told. “Going to the Big Horn and Yellowstone country.”

Curly again tasted the bitter gall stinging the back of his throat. He and Man-Afraid had been right all along. The white man was indeed a treacherous devil! He would lie if he had to, making the Sioux leaders watch his right hand while his left hand plunged a knife squarely into the heart of their most sacred hunting ground. The bearded soldier chief and his columns of soldiers would be the knife the white devils would use.

But this time, the Lakota would be ready.

Even the old chiefs had admitted they had been tricked by the smooth sound of the treaty-makers' words, Curly remembered. But the bearded soldier chief had come to lead his soldiers into sacred Lakota hunting ground. And the lie to the white man's words had been laid bare. Shamed and saddened, the old ones had joined the march north from Laramie, back to their tribal lands where the Lakota would make their stand.

Curly savagely drove the stick into the loose soil at his feet, recalling the long blue columns arriving at the Laramie post. Twenty-two women and children had marched with the soldiers. This was no ordinary exploring expedition. Those women and children and wagons of household goods shouted it plain enough for any warrior to understand.

No longer was the white man content to pass through on his road to the Crow land. This time, the white man had come to stay!

“This is Colonel Carrington,” the interpreter had told them that warm afternoon in the
Moon of Fat Horses.
“He comes to protect the road that crosses the Powder River. His soldiers will garrison three posts between here and the Yellowstone country of the Crows.”

With that announcement Red Cloud had leaped to his feet on the platform placed immediately in front of a long table where the treaty commissioners sat. But the chief did not shout at the white men. Instead, he had turned to harangue his fellow Sioux.

“Do you see?” he shrieked. “The presence of this bearded chief and his soldiers are proof enough that the white man intends to steal our hunting grounds from us. Even without the treaty they want us to sign!”

The chiefs on the platform had stirred uneasily, hearing many of the young warriors crowded behind them grunt in agreement.
Huhn-huhn!
they had growled the courage words.

“Can you now see the white man's treachery? Is it not as plain as a hand held in front of your faces?”

Curly recalled how flushed Red Cloud's face had grown, how his old, scarred chest had heaved with short gasps of breath. Like a warrior riding into battle.

“The Great Father has sent us presents and asks us to sell him his road. But this soldier chief—he brings his soldiers to steal the road even before the Lakota can say yes or no!”

Man-Afraid had joined Red Cloud with the next heartbeat. “I have ears! I can hear the lies. I have eyes! I can see the treachery. Before this day we saw nothing, we heard nothing of the forts and the soldiers coming. Yet here we sit like fools, watching the white man's tongue wag at us with lies once more … while we should be making meat for the winter. It will be a long winter, this one.”

“A hard winter not only for the Lakota!” Red Cloud harangued his chiefs and warriors while the treaty commissioners and army officers shifted nervously. “This will be a very long winter for the white soldiers they send to guard the road!” He had finally wheeled on the treaty-talkers, lunging at the long table to spit his words into the face of the soldier chief who would lead his troops north into Sioux land.

“For every mile you march beyond Crazy Woman Fork, a new grave will mark the dying place for one of your soldiers!”

Curly remembered how many of the young, hot-blooded warriors had growled in agreement. After fifteen winters of white treachery, each one thirsted for soldier blood.

“I swear this before you,” Red Cloud had continued, his lips flecked with angry spittle as he pointed his finger like a copper lance at the soldier chief heading toward the Powder. “I will kill every man, woman, and child who crosses Crazy Woman Fork! Mark my words—for that land will be your grave!”

“Aiyeee!”
Man-Afraid stepped in front of Red Cloud, slamming his fist down on the table. “I have been driven from one gully to the next, like a buffalo in search of grass. I have been hunted down and wounded like an animal by your soldiers. Not once has the Great Father's hand been offered in kindness to his red children. But from this day forward, we are no longer his children! I will not stand by and watch the white man take away the very ground
Wakan Tanka
gave to our ancestors in the time gone before. Lakota bones have always whitened beneath the sun above. Our land is where our warrior dead lie sleeping! No longer will your road disturb their dreams!”

Red Cloud moved to the table once more. “We have passed a winter when bellies pinched in every lodge. No man can forget the cries of the little children.” He spoke softly, with words gritted between yellowed teeth. “No white men will kill our game. Nor chase the animals from our hunting lands as he travels this road into the land of our enemies, the Crow. Hear me! No more will our lodges be filled with tears and the keening of hungry women and children this winter. Your lodges will echo with the cries of widows and fatherless children!”

Man-Afraid straightened himself, still angry, his courage like a cloak about his muscled shoulders. “Red Cloud has promised you what will happen to every man, woman, and child who crosses the Crazy Woman Fork. Now this I promise you: before two moons have come and gone over your march north, not one hoof will be left your soldiers.”

Smiling now, Curly recalled how the fire in those threats had shaken the white treaty-makers, especially the soldier chief, who stood riveted, his fingers pressed against his silent lips.

“Mark these words,” Man-Afraid had finished, his voice no more than a whispered growl, “first we will steal your ponies and run off the spotted buffalo you bring on your march. Then we will take your scalps. One, by one, by one…”

Man-Afraid had leaped from the platform accompanied by the grunts and cheers of the young Oglalla warriors. Red Cloud had joined him after stomping past the soldier chief's horse and the wagon where the soldier chief's wife sat petrified in silence and fear.

Once more it stirred Curly to remember how his heart had beat with so much pride at that moment. To defy at last the treacherous white treaty-makers. To stand strong before the bearded soldier chief, warning him of the soldier deaths to come. On the horizon loomed what Curly had waited for all these years.

War.

One long, sweet breath of rose-tinged twilight he drew into his lungs. Its medicine filled Curly's spirit with this place and this time. A place of glittering, jewel-bright air. A land like no other flung beneath a stinging sun—carved by harsh winds that drove before them the endless seasons of rumbling thunderstorms and blinding winter blizzards.

A land as much a mother to him as any person could be. That ache he had carried inside for seventeen summers now. No mother to call his own. Curly had been born in the moon of
Wild Goose Honking,
during the great cholera outbreak of 1849. The white man's disease took his mother from him. This land had become his one true mother.

The sun sank like a red ache beyond the western hills, backlighting the Big Horns in one splendid moment of fiery glory. Curly rose, stiff in the sitting. His muscles tingling, ready for what lay at hand. All those years of training. Stealing horses. Learning the bow. Fighting Crow and Pawnee. Killing enemies of the mighty Lakota. Curly stood ready to protect his people against the greatest danger they had ever encountered. The white man, hungry for land.