Authors: Terry C. Johnston
“That bunch is Cheyenne, all right,” Shad replied. “Damn—but that’s one big shitteree of ’em too, boys.”
Less than two hundred yards away, the entire procession wound past the hilltop unawares, many of the ponies burdened with fresh, bloodied buffalo meat shot and butchered that very day. The seven observers fell quiet for long minutes as they peered down on the colorful, noisy cavalcade, until they saw the vanguard move out of sight among the brush as the village neared the mouth of the fork.
“Look at ’em, Mr. Sweete, and tell me if that bunch don’t look about as done in as Carr’s outfit is.”
“You ain’t far from the mark, Cap’n. Tall Bull’s village ain’t had it any easier than Carr’s cavalry—not with women and young’uns to tote along, what with all their lodges and truck.”
North turned with a grim smile crossing his crusted face. “I’ve swallowed enough dust to last a lifetime, but—we’ve got some news to carry to General Carr. Let’s get.”
“While the getting is good, fellas,” Sweete agreed. “I got a bad feeling that some of those bucks down there might just want to ride on up here and take a look-see around the country … like we done.”
North signed his Pawnee back from the top of the hill,
and together the seven trotted downhill to the grazing horses. Taking up their reins, the outriders walked their animals downstream more than fifty yards before mounting.
“You care to lead out, Mr. Sweete?” The tension and excitement of the evening’s momentous discovery was clearly etched on the soldier’s face as his eyes burned into the old trapper’s.
As much as he didn’t care for Lute North, Shad had to admit the major’s younger brother was acting downright civil about things. “Don’t mind if I do,” Sweete replied, turning to the five trackers and making some quick hand talk.
“What was that he told them, Cap’n?” asked Lieutenant Harvey.
North snorted as Sweete swung his horse around and put it into a quick lope that had worked itself into a hard gallop within ten yards. “That old scout just told them Pawnee they’d better lock themselves down on their ponies—because they were in for one fast ride!”
F
OR THREE NIGHTS
High-Backed Bull had cursed himself for not scraping together the courage to turn around and ride back among the Shaved-Heads, taking the scalp of the one he had shot in their raid on the soldier camp.
Not that any of the other Dog Soldiers found fault with him. Indeed, Porcupine and the handful of the others in on the horse raid all sang Bull’s praises for charging alone among the enemy to count coup. Bull realized Porcupine knew the truth: that the young warrior had been less interested in counting coup on the Shaved-Heads than he was intent on assuring himself that the tall man he had seen during the fight among the sandhills was not his father.
Still, the truth is ofttimes an elusive thing, likely dressed in the clothing of an impersonator and often hiding behind the paint of a warrior’s mask.
Perhaps if he had waited after the rest of Porcupine’s
raiding party fled the area near the soldier camp. Perhaps if he had stayed behind, not to take the scalp of the Shaved-Head he killed, but to lie just beyond the fringe of firelight. Watching. Patient. Then he might have caught a glimpse of the tall man his mother called Rising Fire, there among the soldiers and trackers. In the end Bull cursed himself, deciding he had missed the chance to kill the one who the white men called Sweete.
“There will come a time soon when we go after the soldier horses, to trouble them on our backtrail,” Porcupine had said.
“No. They’re getting too close for us to hit them and run any longer,” Bull countered. “The distance has narrowed so that we can no longer take the chance of leaving our village behind. Instead, the warriors must remain close to protect the women and old ones.”
Porcupine had looked at Bull strangely, then said, “Why do I have the feeling in my belly that those are only words to you—and not the guiding fire in your Dog Soldier’s heart? Why can I no longer trust that you really believe what you are saying?”
Maybe the truth did indeed parade itself in any costume to fit the occasion.
But he was not the only one in that camp who toyed with the truth. Why had Tall Bull and White Horse said they would gladly turn over their white captives to the soldiers, if only the soldier column would stop dogging their village? Bull knew better. Neither of the war chiefs would willingly give up their white women. Not without a fight. And in these last days, that was what troubled him most: brooding on what it was about those white-skinned ones—about his own white blood.
Was it the evil of the white women that made the thinking of the two war chiefs run crooked? Was that why Tall Bull and White Horse thought more of themselves than they did of the rest of their people?
So was it his own white blood that caused Bull to test and push and strain at the truth? Was it the blood from the one the whites called Sweete that made it so easy for High-Backed Bull to lie?
No longer was Bull only angry. Now he was afraid. Feeling tainted and dirty, from the inside out—not sure if he could trust himself any longer.
As the sun
came boiling up over the far edge of the world that dawn after Luther North’s scout had watched Tall Bull’s village going into camp, Major Eugene Carr issued his simple marching orders for the tenth day of July:
Upriver at all possible speed to catch those Cheyenne.
Even Lieutenant Becher’s detail of ten Pawnee had themselves a running scrap of it with a small war party on the ninth.
The trail was about as hot as it could get, to Shad’s way of thinking. And to look around at the grimy, dust-caked faces of those young troopers this morning, a man could see there wasn’t a damned one of them who didn’t know he was headed into a bloody fight of it.
It was only a matter of time now.
Through that morning Shad and the Pawnee scouts came across two of the Cheyenne campsites, in addition to the camp he had watched Tall Bull’s people setting up the night before. In a matter of grueling, sand-slogging miles, Major Carr’s Fifth Cavalry had eaten up the Dog Soldiers’ lead by three days. It was there at the site of the enemy’s last camp that the regimental commander halted, ordering the entire outfit prepared for any eventuality from here on out. As well, Carr sent back a half dozen of the Pawnee trackers and two soldiers to bring in with all possible speed the supply train due down from Fort McPherson.
As the sun grew all the hotter and the men sat sweating beside Frenchman’s Fork, Shad watched a discussion on the command’s readiness turn into a petty argument as
tempers flared, embroiling both Carr and Major Frank North. While the civilian did all that he could to urge keeping the column on the move to catch the enemy before the Cheyenne reached the South Platte, Carr steadfastly clung to his need to resupply his command before coming in contact with that enemy.
“But if you’re suggesting that I have no other choice, Major North—then I’ll order a forced march with two battalions. The rest I’ll leave behind to await the supply train.”
“We’ve got to move now, General. That village finds out we’re back here,” the younger Luther North grumbled, “they’ll bolt on us. And we’ll be left with nothing but feathers—instead of capturing the whole goose.”
After grappling with his dilemma, Carr finally decided. To the North brothers and his officers he explained, “This is simply a gamble I have to take. I can’t push ahead recklessly, what with the certainty that I will scatter that village full of bloody-eyed warriors to the four winds … and have them bump into my supply train out there, somewhere, rolling in here with an inadequate escort.”
“You fail to put this command on the march right now, you might be missing the greatest opportunity of your career,” Frank North grumbled.
“Yeah,” brother Luther agreed. “General, what do you think Custer would do if he had that village of red bastards within reach?”
Such transparent goading clearly angered the distinguished Civil War veteran. Carr was bristling as he finally squared his jaw and glared back at the two North brothers. Shad admired the soldier all the more as the soldier’s words came out clipped and even, but with the ring of a hammer on a cold anvil.
“Major, and Captain—I’ll note your exception for the record of this campaign. Know this now, so that you do
not find yourselves attempting to bait me in the future. Eugene Carr will let others rush in for the glory: George Armstrong Custer and those like him. And while this regiment is under my command, our rear guard and all civilian teamsters in my employ will be protected. I’ll not have their deaths on my conscience for the sake of personal glory. By Jupiter—there won’t be a single Major Joel Elliott abandoned by the Fifth Cavalry!”
Shad watched Carr stomp away, his adjutant hurrying behind in the major’s wake.
“He’s still saddle-raw over last winter’s campaign,” Cody said quietly as he stopped beside Sweete.
“I heard your outfit came up empty-handed.”
Cody nodded. “Busting snow, saving Penrose’s brunettes, starving ourselves and killing our horses in a prairie blizzard—while all the glory for Sheridan’s campaign went to Sheridan’s favorite fair-haired boy.”
“Custer?”
“He jumped a small village on the Washita, ran off the warriors, and captured some squaws. Then turned tail and skedaddled—as I hear the tale of it—leaving Major Elliott and eighteen men to get chewed up by the warriors from the villages camped farther upstream.”
Sweete said, “If I found Carr was the kind of commander what left any of his own behind—then I’d be the first nigger to pull up my picket pin and leave this campaign to the rest of you.”
Cody nodded. “Likely, I’d be pulling out with you. But Carr ain’t a Custer.”
After making camp
and waiting for his supply train to come in from McPherson, Carr ordered the fires extinguished before dark, suggesting the men get what rest they could.
Two hours past midnight on the morning of 11 July, he had them up in the gray, waning light of moonset. No fires were lit. No coffee was brewed. Only the cold leavings of
last night’s supper and a daily ration of hard-bread were allowed as the men saddled and counted cartridges. By four
A.M
. the major had his column moving out in light marching order.
This was to be the day Major Eugene Carr’s Fifth U.S. Cavalry hoped to chip away the last shreds of Tall Bull’s lead.
Theirs had been a gallant, courageous effort already: more than 150 miles covered in the past four days of endless, torturous march—driven to the point of utter exhaustion by the man who had stared, and stared some more at those tiny boot prints in the sand days back.
Once again Shad stood amazed at the hardiness of these youngsters as they grumbled back and forth through the darkness, at least until they were ordered to horse. Once in the saddle and moving out beneath the last of that summer starshine, the column fell silent. No sound but the squeak of prairie-dried leather, the chink of bit and crupper, the slap of carbine
On
a sling against a McClellan saddle: horse soldiers about their deadly business of bringing war to the Dog Soldiers who had for too long cut a bloody swath through the far-flung settlements of white families staking out new lives for themselves on the ancient buffalo feeding grounds.
The red man was in his time of the yellow leaf. And the soldier was come to hurry the final day.
By the time the night weakened its grip on this high prairie, holding morning in temporary abeyance above this tableland in far-eastern Colorado Territory, the Pawnee rode back to the head of the column to report that they feared the Cheyenne were breaking up into three bands. North delivered the bitter news to Carr, gloating a bit as he did.
“Thank you, Major—but Bill Cody already surmised as much.”
A gray cloud passed over Frank North’s face. “With
your permission, General: I’m suggesting you put out a reconnaissance in force, in three parties.”
Carr turned to his young scout. “Mr. Cody here believes the Cheyenne will be regrouping before going into camp.”
“They’re breaking up—and you’re going to let them slip right through your fingers, General!” North said, his voice cracking in anxiety.
Can glanced at Cody, perhaps experiencing some self-doubt. “How can you … how can we be so sure the Cheyenne won’t escape?”
Cody’s eyes flicked at Sweete.
“Go ’head, Bill. Tell the general what you and me talked about early this morning.”
Cody squared his shoulders. “General, Mr. Sweete and me figure Tall Bull is a cagey old bastard—just splitting up to throw you off his track. We’ll bet the farm that village already knows your pony soldiers are hot on their trail.”
A look of panic crossed the major’s face. “Then you’re agreeing that the village is splitting up.”
The young scout shook his head emphatically. “Even if he is splitting up the village to throw you off, in the end Tall Bull’s still in the same boat we are.”
Carr’s brow bunched in confusion. “Which is?”
“His people gotta have water.”
“And that means something to us?”
With a nod Cody answered, “They’ll have to regroup by the time they reach the Platte.”
“The South Platte?” Carr inquired, gazing into the glimmering, sunburned distance. “That means we’ve penetrated Colorado Territory.”
“That’s right, General,” Shad spoke up. “It’s time you pushed this outfit, dragged the last these men and animals can give.”
“Bound where, Mr. Sweete?”
But Cody piped up, “For the platte, General.”
“You get your outfit there first,” Shad emphasized. “Have your men between the river and that village when it re-forms and comes up for water.”
“And if we don’t get there before Tall Bull does?” Carr asked.
Sweete shook his head. “Those Dog Soldiers will get their families across the Platte and you’ll be eating their dust from here all the way to the Laramie Plains.”
“We miss ’em at the river, General,” Cody pleaded his case. “We’ll never catch ’em.”