Heart of the Sandhills (17 page)

“The soldiers aren’t any real kind of threat. They’re spread too thin over too much area and the Indians know it. They promise to be good and they get ammunition—for hunting. Then they have their buffalo hunt and sun dance. Next comes a good fight at one fort or other, or a few raids where they get more horses and goods. This autumn they’ll have another hunt and then retire to their winter camps, content that the soldiers won’t follow them. And they’ll be right. They’ll have a quiet winter and next spring it will start all over again. From their point of view, just because the enemy wears blue uniforms and has white skin doesn’t change a thing. It’s been their way of life for as long as their tribe has a memory and a history. Why should they care to make peace?”

Elliot smiled sadly. “Have you ever heard of an Indian named Ah-jon-jon?” When Picotte shook his head, Elliot explained. “About forty years ago the Hudson’s Bay Company escorted him and a group of his friends East to impress them with the power of the United States. My father told of the transformation that took place in the old chief. In a few months time he went from being a proud warrior to a strutting dandy, complete with top hat and umbrella. But the part I remember most was that when Ah-jon-jon first headed East, he kept track of every white man’s home he saw by making notches on his pipe stem. When the pipe stem was covered, he used the handle of a war club. Then he covered a long stick. It wasn’t long before he threw his counters into the river.”

“And your point is?”

“My point is,” Elliot concluded, “that just as Ah-jon-jon had no concept of the power of the nation that was swallowing up his homeland, so it is with Sitting Bull and the warring tribes to the north. They simply do not know what they are up against.”

Zephyr pointed out, “Even if they know, they won’t sit and do nothing while the border whites destroy them one road at a time, one buffalo at a time. It isn’t in them to take defeat without a fight. They are men, after all.”

There was an awkward silence, after which Big Amos spoke up. “You can’t solve all the problems for this people,” he said. “Do the best you can. Like you did in Washington for us. Collect the information, learn as much as possible, and then go home and talk to your Senator Lance. As my Rosalie would say, leave the rest to God.”

Zephyr Picotte spat on the ground. “If God cared about the Sioux he’d have eradicated the first white people that climbed off the Mayflower.”

Big Amos thought for a moment. “There’s one thing the whites brought that have done the Indian some good.”

“And that would be?” Picotte challenged him.

“Jesus,” Big Amos said.

Picotte spat again. “Don’t tell me you’re one of them Bible-totin’ converts to Christianity? You of all people got to know all the things that have been done to your people in the name of sweet Jesus!”

Elliot Leighton spoke up. “The existence of fool’s gold does not mean there isn’t real gold in the mountains, Mr. Picotte. And the existence of hypocrites who misuse religion for themselves does not mean there isn’t a God in heaven who loves His children and sent His Son to die for them.” He stood up and stretched. “Never confuse professing Christians with Christ, Mr. Picotte. The former will disappoint you every time. Christ never will.” Elliot said good night and headed for his tent, leaving Picotte staring at the embers of the dying fire.

Gen and Daniel came back toward camp, skirting the edges of the campfire’s light just enough for Big Amos and Willets, Picotte and Aaron to see Gen’s gleaming, waist-length hair rippling like a dark river as she ducked into their tent.

Captain Willets got up and excused himself, as did Big Amos. “That little girl don’t look old enough to be your ma,” Picotte said to Aaron. “How come you call her Ma?”

“That’s a long story,” Aaron said.

“I like a good story,” Picotte said. “Maybe somewhere along the way you can tell me how Jesus pulled them into the fold. Never did understand what an Indian would see in a religion like that.”

“What do you mean?” Aaron asked.

“Braves are brought up to take vengeance on their enemies without mercy,” Picotte said. “They need a horse, they take one. And if the taking involves deception, that’s even better. Christians are told to turn the other cheek and let Jesus take care of everything.” Picotte did not try to hide the sarcasm from his voice.

“I can’t defend Christianity very well,” Aaron said. “If that’s what you want you better talk to someone else.”

“Don’t get riled, son,” Picotte said abruptly. He squinted up at the moon and looked back at Aaron. “You tell me a story about your ma. I’ll tell you a story about a moonlit night when I nearly got scalped.”

It seemed an even trade.

Thou shalt not covet . . .

—Exodus 20:17

July 10, 1867

Dear Amanda,

I am thinking you might be interested in what the days are like now that I am in the United States Army—almost. The bugle sounds reveille at dawn, which is a little after four o’clock. (Captain Willets says that once the heat of summer comes, we will be marching from 2 A.M. until early morning and laying by during the heat of the day to save both man and beast.) By the time roll call sounds (again from the bugle) we are to be dressed and have our things in order. Breakfast as well as striking tents, packing, loading, and saddling up must all be accomplished by six o’clock so that everyone is ready to march. The scouts head out first and actually are often already gone by the time the rest of us saddle up. Our procession is always in the same order, with half the mounted men in the lead followed by cook wagon and supply wagons and ambulance, and then about twenty cavalry as a rear guard.

After about an hour’s march in the morning, we stop for about fifteen minutes to rest. Then we march on foot, leading our horses for another quarter of an hour before remounting. About ten or eleven o’clock, if there is good grass nearby (the scouts have been out to locate this), we stop half an hour or more to feed and water and then go on. The men do not eat, only chew on a bit of hardtack or biscuit while in the saddle if needed. Once again, the scouts go far ahead of us to select a good campground for the night. We make camp some time between two and five o’clock. Tents are pitched baggage unloaded horses unsaddled and watered picketed to grass, fires built, supper cooked and then once again comes roll call. If we have corn (and we do not at the moment have any), we bring the horses inside the camp lines and feed them. Once that is done, guards are set, the counter-sign exchanged and everyone retires. Once lanterns are out things are quiet except for the call for guard relief or the occasional howling of wolves or coyotes around the camp.

Daniel, Robert, and Big Amos, along with Captain Willets, do not go to bed until everything is still. They often go out to test the guards by crossing lines in the night to see whether they are awake and will challenge promptly and properly.

Most of the time I get five hours’ sleep, and it seems enough.

My bedroll is an India rubber blanket spread upon the ground, then a buffalo robe given me by our interpreter Zephyr Picotte, followed by the small quilt Gen made for me. For the first few days that we were out in the field, I woke each morning stiff and sore, but that has passed now and I sleep pretty well.

You wouldn’t approve of me at all if you saw how I am dressed today. A broad-brimmed drab-colored hat, a flannel shirt over a muslin one, a dark blue woolen blouse, sky blue regulation pantaloons, cavalry boots reaching to the knees, and spurs. I have buck-skin gauntlets, a belt with a revolver, cartridge box, cap box, etc., all attached. I look very like an army man except that I have no saber. Daniel tells me this makes no difference. I gather that he does not see much value in a saber.

We eat the same things every day unless someone has luck at the hunt, and a few of the men are beginning to show signs of scurvy. Captain Willets says this will pass quickly as soon as we reach the Platte, where a ranch house will provide potatoes and a few meals of vegetables. That will make things right again. Some of the men are riding in the ambulance because of fever or other complaints, but no one is seriously ill.

There has been one death, a private who was thrown by his horse gone wild because of rattlesnakes, and then bitten by one of the biggest rattlers we have seen and we have seen plenty. Daniel and Zephyr personally clubbed about fifty to death one day—and all out of one hole! We gave the poor fellow who died a proper burial with a solemn escort to the final resting place, a sermon from Big Amos, and a fine hymn sung by all the men. Extra volleys were fired over the grave, which was hidden from any future disturbance. Genevieve has a little bundle of the soldier’s personal effects with her, and we will send them home when we reach the ranch on the Platte, which is where this letter will be posted to you. So while you may be missing me (and I hope you are), think of another who will receive that unwelcome package through the same mail service, and pray for them.

Your friend, Aaron

Within two days ride of Fort Laramie, they dropped south to the Platte River.

“Look at that,” Gen said, pointing in the distance to a shimmering flood of water seeming to fill the entire valley in the distance.

“A mirage,” Captain Willets said. He had taken to riding alongside the cook’s wagon from time to time while Daniel and the other scouts were out ahead of the main body of soldiers. “Watch what happens as we get nearer,” he said. Sure enough, the nearer they came to the Platte River, the more the floodwaters receded, and the U-shaped expanse of bluffs that had seemed to rise from the waters appeared as they were, a few miles from the river, although no less magnificent. What had appeared as only a blue mound in the distance the day before, now took on the shape of a massive medieval city. It took little imagination to see towers and fortresses, minarets and grand halls in the rock formations, now deserted and dotted with little pines and scrub bush. Across the river and near what Captain Willets said was a road ranch, strings of white moved along toward the bluffs. “A wagon train,” Willets said.

They were joined by Zephyr Picotte, who offered that traffic on the road was nothing like it had been a few years back. “There was wagons as far as the eye could see then” he said, motioning into the distance. “A steady stream of ‘em. Like nothin’ I ever saw before or since.”

After crossing the Platte, which at this time of year lived up to its name and proved to be a shallow and very “flat water,” they camped near Fort Mitchell, a rectangular adobe fort, portholed for defense with a sentinel tower at one corner and a log corral next to the river. A half-mile downriver stood the road ranch built of cedar logs. Although it boasted dirt floors and a sod roof, the ranch was large, with several rooms and a store. Knowing the store would make whiskey available to his men, Captain Willets denied them leave to visit the ranch. But once he had telegraphed their arrival at Fort Mitchell and the payroll was sent up the Platte by stagecoach, Willets was forced to relax his orders. The men flocked to the store, shoring up their outfits with buffalo robes and elk skins, buying new shirts and, to Captain Willets’s dismay, whiskey.

One evening as they camped in the shadow of the mighty bluff, Zephyr Picotte recounted the tragic story behind the naming of Scott’s Bluffs. “There’s almost as many versions of the story as there are tellers,” Picotte said as he introduced the tale. “But I got mine from Jim Bridger himself, and he knew Hiram Scott. So I suppose I’m telling you as close to the truth as will ever be known. Hiram Scott trapped and traded for the Rocky Mountain Fur Company up on the Green. But in ‘28 he came down with the fever. When he got so sick he couldn’t sit a horse, they made a bull boat for him at Lebonte’s Cabin on the Sweetwater.” He stopped abruptly and jerked his chin up at Aaron. “You know what a bull boat is, son?”

Aaron shook his head.

“It’s a round contraption, made by stretching skins across a reed framework. Bull boats are clever . . . but they have their limitations. The one hauling Scott and his two companions downriver broke up among the rapids in the Black Hills. They lost everything and barely managed to keep Scott from drowning. Nine days later they arrived here, half-starved, with no provisions and no way to get any since they’d lost rifles and ammunition to the river. The two healthy bas—” Picotte looked at Aaron. He swallowed. “The two healthy scoundrels convinced themselves Scott was going to die anyway, so, telling him they were going to reconnoiter for food, they left him in the shade of the bluff with a gourd of water at his side. Then they headed for civilization.” Picotte waited for the meaning of his words to sink in. “Sublette found his bones the next year,” here Picotte paused and looked at the circle of men listening to the tragic tale, “nearly
one hundred
miles from where his worthless friends had confessed to leaving him.”

“No!”

“Aw, Picotte . . . now that’s a tall tale,” Edward Pope drawled.

Picotte withdrew his pipe and shook it at the doubters. “Think what you will,” he said slowly, “but never underestimate the strength of the old mountaineers. I believe it as I heard it, gentlemen.”

After a two-day layover at Fort Mitchell and with no success at finding any Indians for Elliot Leighton to interview, the company headed up the pass toward Fort Laramie. It was the most rugged land they had yet encountered, a winding and torturous ascent dotted with huge boulders fallen from above. The road cut down into the sandy clay, sometimes so deep only a single wagon could pass through.

Daniel had spent the last few weeks teaching his stallion to abide two riders. When they came to the pass, he pulled Gen up behind him and they rode through together, craning their necks this way and that, taking in the amazing formations of rock on either side, marveling at the dozens of names carved into the walls of the pass.
S. Taylor, 1852 . . . Rufus Sage, 1841 . . . E. Bird, 1854 . . . H. Carpenter . . . William A. Carter . . .

When they stopped to rest, the two climbed up one rock wall. Gen traced a name, murmuring, “Where do you suppose
R. Burton
is right this minute?”

Daniel, who had taken shelter in the shadow of a rock and was sitting watching his wife, just smiled and shrugged.

Just then Elliot waved them over to where he had found the fossilized remains of a massive creature jutting out of the bluff. “Look at that,” he said, pointing to a gigantic shell. “Ancient turtles.” He waved his hand in a semicircle. “And see that? The thing that looks like a giant horn? If I’m not mistaken, that’s some kind of mastodon.” Elliot put his hands on his hips and looked about him. “I wonder if anyone knows what a rich store of fossils are hidden in these walls . . .” Opening his notebook, he began to make notes.

Aaron and Edward Pope decided to scale the walls of the bluff, betting one another who could reach the summit first. They ended up nearly stranded on a high ridge, but when they descended again they reported having found an eagle’s nest and the skeleton of a buffalo, and they swore the sight of rain clouds dumping moisture on the Platte valley miles away was well worth their narrow escape.

That evening, Aaron wrote his adventures to Amanda. He told her the story of the ill-fated Hiram Scott and described the bluff.

The wind has created pinnacles and turrets and pyramids and mounds of every possible size, shape, and description here in this range of bluffs. Imagine castle walls and turrets that soar into the sky, and you will have only a small idea of what we are seeing. The trail itself looks like it has been cut by a sudden rushing of water pushing through the rock, making many twists and turns and at some points cutting out the rock beneath and leaving overhanging walls. Edward Pope and I scaled one of the walls to a dizzying height from which we saw a rainstorm pass in the valley miles below. We encountered an eagle’s nest, and since the occupants were away, I took the opportunity to carve a certain name high on the bluff where it is likely only God and I will ever know of its existence.

I will post this letter when we reach Fort Laramie. When you receive it, Miss Whitrock, I ask that you think fondly of the one who sent it, who today carved your name into the steep walls of a cliff in the West
.

“How will we ever describe this to our children?” Gen asked later that day as she and Daniel stood looking toward Fort Laramie from the highest point of the trail. Before them lay the valley of the Platte, the river itself studded with islands. The descent into that valley was made on foot. Edward Pope declined to drive his team down the torturous route but instead climbed down and tried to lead them, but more often than not he had to step aside while the team tumbled down a narrow passage while Edward’s mobile kitchen pitched dangerously from side to side, banging against the steep canyon walls and threatening to break apart at any moment. Edward finally caught up with his team and decided to climb aboard, riding the rest of the descent and successfully taking his team into camp near the river that evening.

Gen and Daniel had just settled into their tent that night when Captain Willet called softly, “Hate to bother you, Two Stars, but I need you.”

Daniel pulled on his shirt and pants and went outside. “Hope it’s not a problem, but look.” He nodded across the river to where a party of Sioux were setting up camp.

After watching them for a while, Daniel murmured, “They don’t mean any harm or we’d have been attacked by now. They are probably as nervous as we are.”

“Then why don’t they move on?” Willets wanted to know.

“They probably are wondering why we don’t move on,” was the reply.

Willets was quiet for a while. “All right,” he finally said. “I get your point. What do you think we ought to do?”

“Post extra guards.”

“Already done.”

“Bring the horses and pack mules into camp.”

“Right,” Willets said.

Just as they were talking, a chorus of cries and laments went up from across the river.

“It’s a burial party,” Daniel said. “They won’t bother us.”

“Right,” Willets said doubtfully.

“Can we take a delegation over to talk to them in the morning?” Elliot asked as he strode up.

“Of course,” Willets said. “Good idea.” He turned to Daniel. “Well then, get some rest.”

Daniel brought his white stallion into camp, picketing the horse just outside his tent. Then he crawled in beside his wife and went to sleep, unaware that just across the river a young brave named Hawk had been observing the camp through a contraption he had found after a battle with white soldiers a few weeks before. He held it up to his eye and brought everything near. Carefully, he inspected the enemy camp, concluding that at least for today his people were safe and the soldiers would not attack. He saw a man with white hair seated beside a tent writing. From time to time the white-haired man looked up and spoke to a yellow-haired boy. He saw soldiers playing cards, and one that was sneaking whiskey from a flask hidden beneath his jacket. His lips curled up in a sneer when he saw the Dakota scouts.