Summer of the Sioux Read online

  SUMMER OF THE SIOUX

  By TIM CHAMPLIN

  A Dimension W Western

  Dimension W is an imprint of Crossroad Press

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Copyright © 2013 by Tim Champlin

  Cover Design by: R. Kent Rasmussen

  Background image: "The Silence War Whoop" by Charles Schreyvogel

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  Tim Champlin was born John Michael Champlin in Fargo, North Dakota, the son of a large-animal veterinarian and a school teacher. (Tim is a Confirmation name he uses as a pen name).

  He was reared in Nebraska, Missouri and Arizona, eventually graduating from St.Mary's High School, Phoenix, in 1955. His father was transferred to Tennessee and Tim moved there with his family where he later attended Middle Tennessee State College.

  In 1964, he declined a job offer to become a Border Patrol agent in order to finish work on his MA degree in English at Peabody College, Nashville (now part of Vanderbilt University).

  He and his wife, Ellen, have three grown children and ten grandchildren. He retired from the U.S.Civil Service in 1994.

  Twenty-two of his short stories and twenty non-fiction articles have been published in a variety of periodicals, including a short story in The American Way--American Airlines' in-flight magazine.

  Since 1981, 32 historical novels have been published by various publishers, including Ballantine Books, Berkley, Pill Hill Press and Thorndike Press. His agent is currently finding a home for his 33rd book.

  In 2013, his novel, THE SECRET OF LODESTAR, was a finalist for a Spur Award from Western Writers of America in the category of Original Mass Market Paperback.

  His hobbies include, sailing, tennis, shooting, coin and typewriter collecting.

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  SUMMER OF THE SIOUX

  For my wife, Ellen, and my mother, Elizabeth

  Chapter One

  The trip had been going badly from the start, and for the tenth time that morning I asked myself what I was doing there. But it was too late to turn back now, as I sat shivering in the unheated Union Pacific passenger coach that was slowly being dragged across the monotonous Nebraska prairie.

  Covering General Buck's upcoming campaign against the Sioux didn't promise to be the safest or most comfortable way to spend the summer, and the discomforts had started early. When I boarded a Northwestern train in Chicago two mornings ago, May 6, I was drenched by a torrential thunderstorm being driven horizontally under the passenger sheds by a high wind. Once aboard, I had to sit for four hours in wet clothes as the start was delayed by locomotive trouble. Due to the delay, I had missed my connection with the Union Pacific in Omaha but had taken advantage of the situation to stop and meet the famous General Daniel Buck.

  Even though it was Sunday, I had found him at his headquarters, poring over reports from his officers in the field. He saluted me curtly as I was shown into his office. I handed him the letter of introduction my newspaper had instructed me to get from his superior, General Phil Sheridan in Chicago. As he scanned the letter, I caught a quick impression of a man in his middle forties whose square frame made him appear heavier than he probably was. His close-cropped blond hair and forked beard were liberally tinged with gray, and the slightly beaked nose gave him a rather fierce, hawkish appearance. He looked every inch the soldier in spite of the fact that he wore no uniform.

  "Well, Mr. Tierney," he smiled, rising and extending his hand. "I'm glad to have you with us. This promises to be a tough campaign. Can you ride and shoot?"

  As he came around the desk, he moved with a barely discernible limp—the result of an arrowhead he carried in his right hipbone as a souvenir from an earlier campaign in Arizona. I could feel his piercing blue-gray eyes sizing me up.

  "I can ride fairly well, General, and I'll bet I can probably hit a haystack at a hundred yards."

  He laughed. "Very well, you'll ride with the cavalry. I'm going with my aide, Mr. Burke, to the agencies to get some friendly Indians to ride with us. I'm afraid we'll have to rely on the Crows and Snakes since the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapahos are disaffected, and may all join the hostiles.

  "You'd better go to Fort Sidney or Fort Russell where the expedition is being formed. You'll need an animal and can probably buy one at Cheyenne. I'll be at Fort Fetterman about the middle of the month."

  I had thanked him and headed back to my hotel room. When he mentioned that it would be a tough campaign, I knew he wasn't just making conversation or trying to impress me. General Buck had a reputation, even among seasoned cavalrymen, of being a hard driver who spared no one, not even himself. His words had echoed ominously in my head the rest of the night, and as I stepped aboard the westbound Union Pacific early this morning, I began to have second thoughts about this whole affair. Yet when Mr. Storey, the Vermonter who publishes the Chicago Times Herald, had asked me to take this assignment I had jumped at the opportunity eagerly. I guess what really underlay my decision was the unexciting prospect of reporting social events and politics in the stifling city heat. Sweating on the trail as a war correspondent at least was preferable to sweating out a deadline in a city room with the editor breathing down my neck.

  But sweating was one thing I definitely was not doing at the moment.

  "Natives call it blackberry winter," the portly conductor remarked when I complained about the unseasonable early May chill. "Not cold enough to fire up the heaters, though," he continued, shaking his gray head slightly as he handed back my ticket. I decided a layer of fat must be insulating him against the cold as I watched him sway his bulk on down the aisle with an air of unconcern. It looked as if his black coat would split if he took a deep breath.

  I muttered some uncomplimentary things about the U.P.'s management as I turned away to stare morosely out the grimy window at the dull brown prairie crawling past under a leaden sky. The day promised to be cold and bleak, with a brisk north wind. I shivered and pulled my corduroy jacket closer around me, feeling the cold air seeping in around the window. Might as well get used to it, I decided, since being in the field for about three months was sure to bring more discomforts than this, and more danger, too.

  The coach I rode in was about half-empty. Those passengers headed for points farther west—Cheyenne and the West Coast--were ensconced in the Pullmans. And that's where I wished I was at the moment. But the money had not been available. Even if my paper could have spared the extra funds, I probably would have saved it to help outfit myself for the trail at Cheyenne.,

  With nothing to read and only gloomy thoughts to go with some fresh hunger pangs, I settled my hat over my eyes, twisted into a more comfortable position, feet on dunnage, and closed my eyes for some much-needed sleep.

  I was able to doze only intermittently during the rest of the morning.

  Following the supper skip at Kearney, I stood out on the rear platform of my car to get some fresh air. The northerly had finally blown the cloud cover away to the south, leaving the air clear and crisp. The setting sun wa
s softening the humps and hollows of the barren landscape. It appeared the whole Platte River valley must be honeycombed with the burrows of prairie dogs, since these rodents abounded by the millions. They looked like small, brown rocks until the passage of the train alarmed one of them, and the "rocks" suddenly came alive as they all rushed for their holes.

  The twilight deepened into dusk and I remained on the platform, in spite of the chill breeze, smoking a cigar and enjoying the sight of the moonrise over the countryside. As I watched its silvery reflection flashing along the shallow Platte, I thought of the millions of buffalo that had overrun this area only a few short years ago and the tribes of Indians who had freely hunted them before the advent of the railroad and white civilization. Now both Indians and buffalo had been nearly driven from this region of Nebraska. There was no telling what the passage of the next few years would bring.

  I forced myself to stand and pace and think in the cold draft until my body and brain were fatigued. When I finally popped open the case of my Waltham, the brilliant moonlight showed me it was nearly midnight. So I retired to the relative warmth of the coach, stretched out in the double seat with my coat over me, and immediately fell asleep.

  "Sidney! Sidney! Next stop! We'll have a forty-five-minute breakfast stop here."

  The fat conductor went out the end door of the car, and I sat up, rubbing my gritty eyes, feeling as stiff and cold as a corpse. The clicking of the wheels was already slowing as I looked at my watch. It was 7:05.

  When I stepped down onto the platform, a brisk wind hit me in the face, clearing the cobwebs from my brain. The platform was crowded with both civilians and soldiers. Nearly all of the military wore the yellow facings of the cavalry, since the barracks of the post were located close to the town.

  By the time I was seated in the spacious depot dining room smelling the delicious odor of coffee, I was wide-awake. It was bacon and eggs, fried potatoes, and flapjacks, and I did justice to everything in sight. I was halfway through my second helping before I looked up long enough to notice a blue-coated cavalry officer who, for some reason, looked familiar in this crowd of strangers. Then I realized I had just seen him debarking from my train. He was too far away down the table for conversation, but as soon as I had stuffed myself and paid my bill, I accosted him as he stretched his legs.

  "Pardon me, Captain, didn't you just get off this train?"

  He gave me a quick, curious look.

  "Yes, I did," he replied, turning away.

  "You wouldn't by any chance be heading for Cheyenne, would you?"

  "Yes. I'm rejoining my command there."

  "General Buck's command?"

  A pair of brown eyes regarded me quizzically from under his blue hat brim. He was slightly taller than my own five feet nine inches. Unlike many of the soldiers I had seen, he was clean-shaven and his lean face was slightly tanned by wind and sun.

  "Are you a reporter?" he finally asked.

  "Yes, but not local. I've been assigned to cover General Buck's campaign for the Chicago Times Herald."

  He turned to resume his walk. "In that case, you and I are headed for the same place."

  I knew the upcoming campaign was no military secret and that it was generally known in the East, so I was curious as to why he had wanted to know if I was a reporter.

  “Based on many of the accounts I’ve read in the papers about previous campaigns,” he replied to my query, “I’ve almost come to the conclusion that most reporters, or editors, will write and print any type of sensational tripe that will help circulation."

  He made no apologies for present company. But, after all, I was the one who had started this conversation. "Well, that's one of the reasons my publisher wanted me to come along on this campaign—on-the spot accuracy and detail."

  At this he seemed to soften a little. He paused again in his stroll.

  "My name's Curtis Wilder, Mr….?" He thrust

  out his hand.

  "Matt Tierney, Captain Wilder." I gripped his hand in a firm handshake.

  "All aboard! All ab00000rrrdd!" The conductor's call came faintly on the wind from the other end of the crowded platform.

  "If you're traveling alone, Mr. Tierney, would you like to join me? It's been a long ride and I'd appreciate the company."

  "My pleasure."

  We filed aboard with the other passengers, and a few minutes later Sidney was behind us as our train continued chuffing along the wide, flat Platte River valley. The train was moving slower now on the long, gradual upgrade toward the Rockies.

  I retrieved my luggage and brought it forward to the next coach. Even though Captain Wilder had invited me to share his car, he didn't seem disposed to talk. I was cudgeling my brains for some remark to break the ice when he unexpectedly spoke.

  "Beautiful country," he remarked, almost to himself, staring out the window at the undulating prairie that was streaked with a greening carpet of spring. "I like the wide-open spaces."

  I was not inclined to agree, but said nothing.

  "Have you been out this way before, Mr. Tierney?" he asked, apparently remembering my presence.

  "No. This is my first trip."

  "Going to be great ranching country before many more years," he mused. "Look at those antelope."

  I followed his pointing finger and could just make out several dun-colored pronghorn bounding along the plains, about two miles distant.

  We rode in silence for a few minutes.

  "Where is your home, Captain?"

  "Philadelphia, but I haven't really lived there in about thirteen years—since I enlisted at nineteen."

  "Civil war?"

  “Yes.”

  "Been in the army ever since?"

  "Just about. When I was mustered out in the summer of sixty-five, I managed to get an appointment to West Point and started in sixty-six. Graduated in seventy and was ordered directly to the Department of the Platte as a second lieutenant in the cavalry."

  "So you've served in the West for about six years."

  He nodded.

  "You've advanced pretty quickly. Going to make it a career, I guess."

  "Plan to. But then, nothing is certain."

  I glanced sideways at him and wondered what was behind that preoccupied stare. "Weren't you part of the strike against the Sioux on the Powder River in March?" I asked.

  “Yes.”

  "Pretty tough campaign, from what I've read."

  "The weather was. Below zero every night, and the snow was deep."

  "What about the Indians?"

  "Well, from my point of view, it was a very frustrating expedition." -

  "Oh . . .?”

  "We didn't really accomplish what we set out to do. It was somewhat of a standoff."

  "How do you mean?"

  "We took them totally by surprise, burned their village and set 'em afoot. But later that night they stole back most of their horses we had captured. Very few casualties. The scouts indicated it was Crazy Horse's village, but we found out later he wasn't even there. We proved they are not safe even in their remote winter encampments. Other than that we didn't do them much damage except waste a lot of good buffalo meat we couldn't carry off, burn their tepees, and butcher a lot of good Indian ponies we couldn't herd."

  "I heard General Buck brought charges against Colonel Reynolds, who headed the raid. What was that about?"

  "Well . . ." He paused as if reluctant to air the army's dirty laundry in front of a civilian. "There was a little internal dissension about the way the battle was conducted."

  "Any opinion about it yourself?"

  "Not if you're planning to report any of this to your paper."

  "No. All of this is past history. My paper would only be interested if or when the court-martial is held. I'm just trying to get the lay of the land, because I'm sure some of these same men are going to be involved in this upcoming expedition. Just want to know what attitude to expect from the men I'll be bivouacking with."

  "I think Colo
nel Reynolds did everything that could be reasonably expected from a commander under the circumstances. There were charges brought by two or three of the company commanders against each other and against Colonel Reynolds. Professional jealousy and personality clashes, in my opinion. Also, under fire, small slights and small mistakes take on exaggerated importance. Human nature is such that when things don't go perfectly under stress, then people have to look for someone to blame."

  He smiled ruefully.

  "Colonel Reynolds was blamed for leaving the body of a dead soldier behind on the field to be scalped and mutilated and for allowing the Indians to recapture the pony herd. He was also criticized for burning up several tons of buffalo meat when our command was in need of food. Actually, we couldn't have carried it all away without wagons and plenty of time to load them. And besides, the Indians were firing at us the whole time from the hills just beyond the village, and darkness was coming on. Even though it was bitter cold, the men had taken off their overcoats so they could fight unencumbered, and through some mix-up, about half of the coats were left behind."

  "As fast as things seem to be moving with the Indian problem, the court-martials may be moot by the time the army gets around to holding them."

  "You could be right."

  He brightened up, as if shaking the whole thing from his mind.

  "By the way, have you made arrangements to mess with anyone?"

  “No.”

  "Well, I'll be forming a mess with two other junior officers I know. You're welcome to join us if you like."

  "Thanks. I appreciate that."

  He grinned slightly. "The army feeds its enlisted men but lets the officers forage for themselves. Maybe they feel I can afford it on two thousand dollars a year."

  Chapter Two

  In the early afternoon we passed through the long snowsheds. As we emerged from them we could see Long's and Gray's peaks in the distance to the southwest—our first view of the Rockies. And, less than an hour later, we were steaming into Cheyenne. Again the depot was crowded. Captain Wilder and I shook hands and parted company for the time, as he headed for Fort D. A. Russell, only three miles from town. I hired one of the loafers on the station platform to help me haul my luggage to the Savoy Hotel where the rooms came cheap, if not luxurious.