Summer of the Sioux Read online

  "You hurt, Duffy?" It was all I could do to keep from laughing, when he turned around and I saw him struggling to pull off the hat that had been jammed down over his face and ears.

  "A damn foine way to start a campaign," was all he said when he finally got it off.

  The team finally stopped about 200 yards away and were grazing quietly, while my luggage was strewn all over. Several orderlies were detailed to pick it up.

  I was quartered in one of the barracks overnight and the next morning several troops of the 2nd and 3rd Cavalry started the march toward Lodge Pole Creek, about eighteen miles north of Fort Russell. It wasn’t until the next day, May 18, that I got started, however, since Captain Wilder was ordered to hold up until then.

  The fort was all orderly confusion as hundreds of soldiers, wagons loaded with supplies, and a pack train of mules handled by civilian packers assembled and moved out in line of march.

  "Curt, I've got a couple of things I need to take care of in town before I leave. I'll catch up with you later today," I yelled at Captain Wilder as he swung into the saddle shortly after sunrise.

  "Okay. We'll be camping on Lodge Pole Creek, just a few miles out. The road is easy to follow. We'll see you there tonight." He touched the brim of his hat and wheeled his horse toward the waiting column.

  I had purposely waited until the last possible moment to send a wire to my newspaper, because I knew it would be some time before I would be able to get a dispatch by courier to the nearest telegraph office once we marched away from civilization. I had sat up the night before writing a short summary of my trip to date.

  There was another motive for my desire to delay joining the march, I admitted to myself as I rode back to Cheyenne. I had not been accustomed to riding for several years now, and I wanted time to myself to get toughened up to it before I made a fool of myself in front of seasoned horsemen.

  However, at the telegraph office I was glad I had held back for yet another reason, for I ran into another newspaperman, a seasoned veteran, Robert McPherson, representing the Los Angeles News Sentinel. He was a gray-haired man of about fifty, whose constant cough advertised him as a consumptive if I ever heard one.

  Why he would be joining such an expedition I couldn't figure, but since he was also late getting started, I waited until he had secured an outfit, and we rode out together about midafternoon. Since it was a fairly warm day and he was as out of practice at riding as I was, we lounged along on our horses, sitting on one cheek and then on the other. The road was clear and the country undulating and treeless, with very little vegetation of any kind.

  Finally, along toward sundown, we urged our horses to a trot and about twenty minutes later, came over the brow of a hill into sight of the white tents of the camp spread out along the banks of Lodge Pole Creek in a shallow valley. Some horses were grazing among the standing wagons. Several troopers were taking care of their mounts, and a few cooking fires were being kindled.

  Since most of the other messes were full, McPherson was invited to join Wilder, Von Bramer, Shanahan, and me for now. In no time we were all seated in Captain Wilder's spacious whitewall tent, putting away our first meal on the trail—and with plenty of food for everyone.

  "I see you two have had your hair cut short," Wilder said. "What're you trying to do—cheat the Sioux out of some decent scalps? They'd be laughed out of the village if they hung those trophies in their lodges."

  I just grinned. McPherson wiped his mouth and coughed his slight, hacking cough before he replied.

  "Captain, I, for one, propose to see that that does not happen. But in case it should, I sure won't be in any position to laugh at some brave's embarrassment."

  "Speaking of braves," Shanahan said around a mouthful of meat, "I believe a lot of people have underestimated the strength of the Indians we're going after."

  "Don't you think General Buck knows pretty well from the scouting reports what their force probably numbers?" McPherson asked from the head of the folding camp table.

  "Hardly. More and more of them are slipping away every day from the agencies to join the hostiles. Unfortunately, they’ve been well fed during the winter and are well armed. Whatever sketchy reports General Buck may have received are surely out of date by now. Not only that, but General Buck has been fighting the southern Plains tribes. These northern Plains tribes are all somewhat related and can forget their differences to join forces against a common enemy."

  "Well, I guess we can speculate from now 'til doomsday, but I believe what we're liable to encounter is going to be a surprise to everyone, including the general," Wilder said.

  The discussion rambled on in that vein for a time, and shortly after we finished eating, a bugle sounded, and the horses were led up and put "on line"—tied by their halters to a strong rope stretched between wagons—curried, and fed.

  While we sat around the campfire, smoking our pipes in the cool of the evening, the mules set up their usual daily braying chorus. Just after full dark, the sentries were posted and we returned to Wilder's tent, stretched out on buffalo robes and blankets, and went to sleep. The last thing I was aware of was Wilder's snoring and McPherson's eternal cough.

  My dreams were suddenly shattered by the blast of the bugler sounding reveille. It was still dark when I stumbled out of the tent, stuffing in my shirttail and trying to get my eyes open. "What time is it?" I asked Wilder as he shoved a tin cup of black coffee and a piece of hardtack into my hands. I could barely make out his form in the low firelight.

  "A little after five."

  "Why in the hell does the military always have to keep such ungodly hours? This time o' year there's plenty of daylight." I sipped tentatively at the scalding coffee.

  He chuckled, squatting on his heels and poking at the fire. "Tradition and discipline mostly. But there is a practical reason, too. Sunrise is a favorite time for Indian attacks."

  My knee joints were so stiff and sore from my previous day's ride that I could hardly mount my horse.

  "Let me see your stirrups," Wilder said when I mentioned my trouble. "Ah, there's your problem. Lengthen those stirrups and you'll be okay. Indians usually ride with short stirrups like that for long distances, but I don't know how they do it. It would cripple me. Not only that, but I can get a better grip with my legs."

  I complied and got some relief as we swung out of camp by six o'clock.

  By the time the sun was well up, we were riding through desolate, powder-dry sagebrush country. The suffocating dust churned up by the feet of the animals in the windless air was coating all of us and sticking to our sweaty skins.

  Wilder rode up to me about midmorning, just as I was finishing the last of the water in my canteen. "Pretty dry, huh?"

  I nodded, squinting in the glare despite the hat shading my eyes.

  "Try holding a small pebble in your mouth. As long as you're not completely dried out, it'll trigger enough saliva to keep your mouth wet."

  "Thanks."

  The command was halted several times during the day to give the horses a chance to graze and the new soldiers to get some of the soreness out of their bones. Even though I never let on, I was profoundly grateful for every stop. About sundown we went into camp at a place called Bear Creek, where there was plenty of wood, water, and grass. It was almost a repeat of the first night's camp. We were up before daylight again next morning and pushed hard, making few stops, to catch up with the column that had started a day ahead of us.

  About noon the column was halted as a horseman came galloping down toward us from a ridge in front. It was a Lieutenant Otto bringing word that Colonel Peterman’s command was only a few miles ahead.

  We pushed our horses to a trot, leaving the wagons behind, and in about two hours caught up with the rear wagons of Peterman's advance column. The colonel was getting ready to make camp, but decided, because of the combined force, that there wasn't enough water and grass and pushed on for several more miles before camping. By the time we finally stopped, I was so gall
ed and saddle-weary and hungry that, when I unsaddled my horse and turned him out to graze and roll, I wouldn't wait for supper but went to chewing on a piece of raw army bacon and hardtack, washing it down with a tin of very bad water. Then I spread my saddle blanket on the ground and went sound asleep under a tree.

  It took Von Bramer's foot in the ribs to rouse me up an hour later to eat supper. But, in spite of my nap, I turned in and slept soundly through the night.

  I awoke the next morning to the sound of rain drumming on the tent and an orderly came by to tell us that if the rain didn't stop by eight o'clock, the battalion would stay put for twenty-four hours since the heavy wagons would mire down in the mud. That day, at least, we had cause to be grateful to the rain. Most of the day I spent resting, getting acquainted with the soldiers, and starting on a dispatch for Chicago. Late in the afternoon I was walking along the creek bank about a hundred yards from my tent when the sound of a familiar voice stopped me. It was coming from a group of teamsters huddled out of the rain under a shelter tent, playing cards. I walked toward them and peered under the canvas that was propped up to admit some air. The voice came again and there was no mistaking it.

  "Wiley Jenkins, is that you?" I asked. The voices stopped as the mule packers and teamsters looked up curiously.

  "Well, if it's not my old friend from the Eagle Saloon. How've you been? I don't believe I ever did catch your name." I was surprised that he remembered me at all, but perhaps he had not been as drunk as he appeared. The man who thrust out his hand bore little resemblance to the man I remembered from the week before. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground, dressed in a pair of buckskin breeches and boots, and a coarse, red cotton shirt. But it was the same wavy hair and sardonic smile. And this time he was sober.

  "Matt Tierney, here," I said automatically, still bewildered to find him here. He gripped my hand, pulled himself up, and stepped outside with me. The men inside resumed their card game as we walked a few steps away under the trees.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" I managed to get out.

  "Working as a mule packer. What else?"

  "But I thought you were really against this expedition. And besides, I had you pegged for one of the spoiled, idle rich who could sit back and offer commentaries on the world without having to work to change it."

  He grinned. "Well, I do have some money, but it's fast running out, so I needed some kind of employment. And I wouldn't accept money from the old man even in the unlikely event he were to offer it. As for joining this expedition, well . . . I’m still young enough to be foolish, I guess. Besides, my curiosity got the better of me. It's one thing to study about wars in the history books and newspapers, but quite another to be an eyewitness to man's inhumanity to man. The better to criticize and comment, as you say." He stepped back to avoid some water dripping from the overhead branches. "Besides, I've had a little experience throwing a diamond hitch, so . . . here 1 am. But don't get me wrong. Even though there's likely to be some fighting, you're not going to find me in the middle of it. I'll find a way to stay out of range. Civilian packers are under no obligation to help tame the savage hordes."

  I made noncommittal noises while privately deciding to keep an eye on Jenkins, if only because his views provided some perspective on the military.

  The rain stopped that night and we finally dragged ourselves out of the camp mud the next morning at ten. It was only a short march to Fort Laramie where we arrived about one P.M. A few more troops joined us there. Since Fort Fetterman was still some ways off, Colonel Peterman moved us out with only an overnight stop. In the early morning the entire command crossed the Laramie and North Platte rivers in the face of a raw northeast wind. The weather was a pleasant break from the earlier heat.

  Our seven companies of cavalry were an imposing sight, as I watched the columns ride up and away from the river, their accoutrements rattling. The various companies were differentiated by the colors of their horses—Company K of the 2nd was Lieutenant Hogan's gray-horse troop, Captain Butler's Company C of the 3rd was a white-horse troop, and so on down the line. My own bay matched the bays of Captain Wilder's Company B.

  Most of the men were fairly young, lean and athletic, wearing the broad, felt hats of various styles and colors, with either blue or buckskin pants and blue shirts. The majority of the noncoms and officers were distinguished by the yellow leg stripe. Since the standard-issue dark blue uniform trousers weren't known for their durability, some of the men had sewn leather across the seat and down the insides of both legs. No uniform code is strictly enforced on an Indian campaign. Each man carried sixty rounds of fixed ammunition in his belt for the single-shot, breech-loading Springfield carbine he carried slung across his back or in his saddle loop. Each had a supply of revolver cartridges as well. Sabers had been left behind as useless encumbrances.

  The first ten miles we marched that morning was through undulating grassland not far from the North Platte. We paused about nine for a few minute's rest in a little natural amphitheater and from there on, the' march was sheer hell, as we entered a labyrinth of bluffs and canyons. Some of the cuts were so narrow that it was single file in the twisting and turning trail. Then up and down hills, some of them so steep that we were forced to dismount and lead our horses, as they slipped and slid on the loose rocks.

  Even though Colonel Peterman attempted to keep scouts out ahead and on both flanks, it was nearly impossible, since the bluffs were perpendicular in the cut-up terrain and the scouts were forced to follow the only trail there was--the one the column was on. I noticed several of the officers nervously sweeping the tops of the bluffs with their field glasses—and with good reason. Had any Indians chosen to attack us there, we would have been helpless. A small force could easily have trapped the command and wiped us out. Fortunately, no Indians appeared. A lone elk was the only living thing I noticed, watching us from the top of a distant cliff.

  After two hours we finally untangled ourselves from this endless gorge and came out into red-clay country that couldn't even support enough grass to feed our horses, so we wound up pitching camp in the early afternoon in a bend of the Platte. Because of the road we had come over, we had left our wagon train about five hours behind, but they caught up to us by dusk.

  We were on the move by six the next morning, and I was beginning to get toughened up to the trail. In order to find a road decent enough for the wagons to travel, we were forced to strike away from the river across a searing desert of blinding sand and rocks. Some of the men with weak or sensitive eyes were forced to wear tinted goggles to protect them from the dazzling reflection off the white sand. And not a drop of water was to be had for the entire day's march of thirty-five miles. Everyone's face was scorched by the striking glare. Even though the officers cautioned against it, the men stampeded for the water and drank to satiety when we struck the river again that afternoon. I was among them.

  As I lay flat on my stomach, my face in the shallow, murky water, Captain Wilder moved up beside me. He led his horse into the scant shade of a mesquite bush and dropped the reins as his mount thrust his muzzle into the water. "Why in God's name the U.S. government keeps a standing army in the field to take away this kind of land from the Indians is beyond me." He splashed some water on his reddened face, then made a cup of both hands and drank. "Lukewarm and full of silt, but it's the best stuff I've tasted in a long time." He grunted.

  "Try straining it through your teeth. Takes some of the grit out."

  "Are you sure this beats big-city reporting?"

  "Don't ask me that now." I rolled over on my back and blew out an enormous sigh.

  Chapter Four

  "Boots and Saddles" put us on the trail again the next morning, and we found ourselves right back in hilly country of red sandstone, cut up by hundreds of ravines, some of them terrifically deep.

  Since our company led the march the day before, we formed the rear guard and marched a little more at leisure. The terrain was beginning to have a bad effe
ct on the mules. Their legs were swollen and their backs were galled by the constant rubbing of the heavy packs. While watching the mules, I began to wonder about Wiley Jenkins. I had not seen him since our chance meeting a few days before. But, since our battalion was strung out for several miles, it was not surprising. He seemed to have the ability to adjust to any type of company and play any role, from dandy to mule skinner, so maybe he was blending in like a chameleon.

  We'd had the snowcapped landmark of Laramie Peak in sight in the distance on our left for a couple of days, and it appeared to be changing positions due to our twisting and turning course.

  "I'm going to try a short cut," Wilder announced, riding up to me about eight. "Want to join us, and explore a little of the country?"

  "Sure."

  .1 spurred my horse after him and three of his men as they headed straight across country in the direction of Fetterman. Curt was an excellent horseman and took on some ravines so steep I would have bet no man could climb them, much less a horse carrying a man. I was bringing up the rear and assumed they would dismount and lead their animals. But no. When I saw them leap straight up the steep banks, their horses lunging and clawing, I dared not do any less. I followed their example by letting the reins go, giving my horse his head and leaning my weight forward, holding my breath. Somehow we made it. But coming down was just as hair-raising. The horses nearly stood on their heads. One slip, and horse and rider would have cartwheeled to the bottom with broken necks and backs. But, given free rein, these horses were as surefooted as mules.

  I eventually lost count of how many of these gulches we climbed in and out of, but Wilder finally paused on a high ridge and we spotted a long, low white building on a bare bluff off to the northwest—our first sight of Fort Fetterman. We paused for a few minutes to let our horses blow, and one of the men with us, a Sergeant Killard, pulled a long twist of tobacco from the wide top of his boot and bit off a chew. "Damnedest place I ever saw," he observed, working the quid into his cheek. "I was garrisoned there for a year some while back. It's the Sahara in the summer and Siberia in the winter. Oughta give it back to the Indians—exceptin' they wouldn't have it."