Wind River

by Charles G. West

  Since this was a meeting of grave importance, a pipe was passed around the inner circle of elders. Younger members of the tribe, Black Feather and Little Wolf among them, were invited to sit behind the elders. After the pipe had been offered to the four points of the earth and smoked, Black Kettle spoke.

  “My brothers, I have talked to the white chief Hazen. He has said that we are not welcome in the new fort.” A low murmur of concern rose up from the circle of tribal members crowded inside the lodge. Black Kettle raised his hand to silence his people. “He says that he cannot sign the peace with us because we did not go to the reservation when the white father told us to go. Even now, a new army chief is riding against us with many blue coats to kill us and destroy our tipis. We must decide what we must do to defend our people.”

  An old warrior seated across the inner circle from the chief spoke. “The white man lies. The army blue coats don’t like to fight in the snow. It is too cold for them.”

  A younger man called Four Legs jumped to his feet. “What you say is true but I talked with a Kiowa warrior two sleeps ago. He said he had seen many blue coats to the north on the big river called the Canadian. These could be the soldiers Hazen warned of.”

  The old warrior replied, “The soldiers have never liked to leave their warm fires when the snow is deep. The Kiowa most likely saw a scout party or a wood-cutting party.”

  “No,” Four Legs insisted. “This man said there were many horses and two of the guns that shoot two times.”

  Another brave offered, “The Canadian is too far north for the soldiers to be coming to fight us. Our village is the farthest south. There are Arapaho and Kiowa villages north of us. The soldiers hold no danger for us.”

  The discussion continued for the better part of an hour. In the end it was decided that, as a precaution, the village should move further south in case the white chief Hazen spoke the truth and this new threat, headed by General Sheridan, was indeed searching for Black Kettle.

  Just before the meeting was ended, Four Legs rose to his feet again and said, “I want to hear what the great warrior chief Little Wolf has to say on the matter.”

  Little Wolf said nothing for a few moments while all eyes around the council turned toward him. Up to that moment, he had been no more than an interested spectator, considering himself a guest and one who had already made up his mind to start back north before the sun in the morning. Now, considering Four Legs’ request, he paused to decide what, in fact, he did think about the decision facing Black Kettle’s village. He could not insult the old chief and his council by voicing his personal thoughts, that he thought the men of the village shamed themselves by going begging to the white man’s fort. He thought a moment more then rose to his feet. There was a low murmur of approval when he stood erect before the circle. His tall, lean bearing alone commanded their attention.

  “My brothers, I weep for your hungry children. It saddens my heart to see your hunters search the land for buffalo where there are none. I know that you must do what your hearts tell you is right. But I cannot speak for you. I can only speak for Little Wolf. Before the sun gets up in the morning, I will be on my way back to the high mountains. I am a warrior. I must go where I can better fight the white soldiers who killed my father, Spotted Pony, and my mother, Buffalo Woman. I will never live on the white man’s reservation, begging the white man for food. It is not for me to say what you must do but I believe that it is better to go back to the old ways. The whole tribe never came together in the winter in the old days. We used to break up into our smaller bands and scatter into the hills, back toward the high mountains, where the soldiers cannot find us.”

  There was a long silence when he finished speaking. Then some of the younger men, Four Legs foremost among them, began to nod their heads in approval. “Little Wolf is right. We should strike the tipis and go to the north in smaller groups so the soldiers cannot follow all of us.”

  Black Kettle remained silent for a few minutes while the elders talked anxiously among themselves, some arguing for Little Wolf’s advice, some against. When the discussion began to approach a state of general confusion, Black Kettle raised his hand and called for silence. When all had quieted, he spoke.

  “Little Wolf speaks with the fire of youth. I think it is right for him to travel to the distant mountains but it is too late for the old men, the women and the children. There is not enough food to eat now. Our people will die in the snows even if the soldiers do not find us. No, it is better for the tribe to move farther south, away from the soldiers.”

  After discussing it for a while longer, the elders of the village sided with the old chief once again and voted to stay together. But all agreed that it might be prudent to move the village. So it was decided to start making preparations to leave the next morning, never suspecting the devastation about to descend upon them.

  CHAPTER 14

  First Lieutenant Tom Allred sat stiffly in the saddle, hunched against the biting cold of the November wind sweeping across the rolling prairie. The wound in his back had long since healed but the cold weather made it throb like a toothache. He had been lucky that day that Andy Coulter had been there to pull him out of the river. He missed Andy. When he was sent back to the hospital at Fort Laramie, Andy had remained with his old troop, which had gone on to Fort Lincoln after Fort Phil Kearny was abandoned to the Sioux. Now Tom wasn’t sure he liked his new unit. He was back in the Seventh Cavalry, led by the flamboyant Colonel George Armstrong Custer. Tom’s immediate superior was Captain Stewart Payne, a man who had seen service under Custer during the war between the states. Captain Payne’s troop had joined other forces at Fort Dodge which were being assembled to mount an expedition against the hostiles believed to be camped in the Antelope Hills in Oklahoma territory.

  He still felt like an outsider in his new regiment, though it didn’t bother him unduly. It was a natural thing. Most of these men had been together for a couple of years, even before Custer assumed command. Payne seemed a fair enough officer, Tom had no complaints there. And, thank goodness, he had very little contact with Colonel Custer, or Longhair, as the Indians called him. From what he could see at long range, Custer was a mite too impressed with himself for Tom’s taste. But as long as he didn’t have to report directly to him, Tom didn’t care how eccentric the man was. His thoughts were interrupted by a trooper galloping back toward him.

  “Captain’s compliments, sir. The captain says to walk ’em a spell.”

  Tom turned to the sergeant beside him. “You heard the man,” he said.

  “Yessir,” the sergeant replied dryly and gave the order to dismount.

  Tom welcomed the order; much longer in the saddle and he feared he would be frozen in that position. It felt like thousands of needles were pricking his feet as he took each step. Gradually some feeling returned to his toes as the blood began to circulate once more. He glanced down at the snow he was slogging through. No more than half a foot deep, it was trampled and dirty from the horses and men ahead of him. Damn! he thought. It’s too damn cold to be stomping around out here in the middle of nowhere. Veterans of the Western campaign told him that in the old days, they only fought in the summertime. When the snows came, there was very little activity on either side, the army or the Indians. Tom could guess with a great deal of assurance why that was no longer the case. The army had had their rumps kicked too many times trying to fight the Plains Indians on the Indians’ terms. The Cheyenne Dog Soldiers and the Sioux warriors on their fleet ponies could strike and disappear before the blue coats could regroup and pursue them. Then the Indians seemed to simply dissipate into the rocks and hills when the army searched for them. The generals had finally concluded that the only way to defeat the Red Man was to attack his villages when the tribes went into their winter camps. Tom didn’t care much for this kind of warfare because more times than not it involved wanton massacre of women and children. Annihilation seemed to be the order of the day and this man Custer seemed to want to extermin
ate the Indian all by himself.

  When they left Fort Supply, a temporary camp only recently set up, they had marched out into a howling snowstorm. Custer himself led the march. Their orders were simple; look for Indians and kill them, since all Indians not on the reservation were considered hostile. The column marched southwest along Wolf Creek before turning further south toward the Antelope Hills. When the storm let up, a scouting party was sent out ahead to look for sign. About midday the scouts returned with the news they had found an Indian trail across the prairie toward the Washita River. This was the news Custer was waiting for and soon Tom heard the bugle sound officers’ call.

  While the column stood down for the noon meal, all officers assembled in a tent hastily set up in a grove of cottonwoods. In the center of a circle of his subordinates stood Colonel Custer. A man of average height, he appeared taller than he actually was because of his thin, chisled features. His face was clean-shaven except for a mustache that tapered to a fine point on either side of his chin. He wore a broad-brimmed campaign hat, cocked to one side, from under which his long tresses hung down to his shoulders. He remained silent for a long moment but, as he gazed around his circle of officers, his clear blue eyes almost sparkled. It was as if he knew a secret that no one else knew. He was by no means a handsome man but Tom had to admit he was impressive. When he was satisfied that he had every man’s undivided attention, he spoke.

  “Gentlemen, our scouts report a sizable hostile trail heading toward the Washita. It’s my guess we’ll find Black Kettle camped at the end of that trail. Our scouting reports indicate he is wintering somewhere in this area.” He paused to gaze around the circle again, obviously looking for excitement in their faces. “We may have them catnapping!” Again he paused to test the reaction to this news. When some of the more astute of his staff realized that he was looking for a positive response, they displayed some emotion, even if it was less than genuine. This pleased their commander and he continued, “If we press on we can be upon them before they know we’re even in the area.”

  “Sir,” one of the officers pointed out, “the Washita is almost a day’s ride from here.”

  “That is correct, Mr. Raintree. But if we leave our supply wagons here, we can cover the distance in a night march and be ready to attack the village at dawn.”

  Inwardly, Tom groaned. A night march meant a long, cold, sleepless night in the saddle. And there was the possibility that there was no village at the end of the Indian trail.

  “Mr. Allred.”

  Tom jerked his head up in surprise to hear his name singled out.

  “It may be of some interest to you to know there may be a certain Cheyenne war chief visiting in Black Kettle’s camp. One of my scouts is almost certain that the renegade Little Wolf is with Black Kettle.” He smiled as he added, “I believe you had a little run-in with that gentleman, didn’t you?”

  This captured Tom’s attention straightaway. “Little Wolf!” he blurted, then, “Yessir, I have met the gentleman.” Without thinking, he reached up and rubbed his chest where the bullet had lodged after entering his back.

  “Then I know you’ll be keen to proceed after the bastard as soon as possible.” Still smiling, he went on to outline the order of march and dismissed his officers to see to their men.

  The colonel had suceeded in striking a deeper chord inside Lieutenant Tom Allred than he had imagined. In spite of Andy Coulter’s argument that Tom was not to blame for leading his men into a crossfire in the middle of that river, Tom still felt responsible for the lives lost on that bleak afternoon. Little Wolf had set that trap and Tom had spent many a restless night at Little Wolf’s expense. Now, far south of that river near Fort Reno, he was to cross paths with the Cheyenne war chief again. Tom could feel his heart pounding in the scar in his back. This time it would be different.

  They marched straight through the night, following the trail across the snow-covered prairie. There had been no more than a few flurries of snow after the noon meal with a gradual clearing of the sky. By nightfall the puffy clouds had drifted away, leaving a deep starlit night. There was no moon but the stark white prairie reflected the starlight, giving the long dark column of soldiers a ghostly quality. There was very little conversation, just the soft plodding of the horses’ hooves and an occasional clink of metal against the constant creaking of saddle leather. Sometime after midnight, the column halted at the foot of a low line of hills and the order to dismount was quietly passed along the line of cavalry. On the other side of the hills an Indian village lay in a bend of the Washita River. In the darkness, Custer deployed his troops before the unsuspecting village and waited for the dawn.

  * * *

  Little Wolf, awakened from a sound sleep, started to speak but a hand was gently placed across his lips and a voice whispered softly, “Shhh . . . Do not wake the others.”

  He blinked hard, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes. “Morning Sky?” he whispered, his still-sleepy brain trying to grasp the situation.

  “Yes. Come, follow me. Do not wake the others.”

  “What is it? What is wrong?” he asked as he raised up on one elbow.

  “Nothing is wrong. Just follow me. I must talk to you.” She turned and moved silently past her sleeping uncle and his wife. Puzzled, he followed, taking up his buffalo robe to protect against the cold night outside. He glanced briefly at the sleeping lump next to him that was Black Feather to see if he too was awake, but there was no sign of life under the heavy skins.

  Outside the tipi he found Morning Sky waiting for him. Before he could speak, she motioned to him to follow and then turned and walked briskly toward the river. The woman has gone crazy, he thought, but followed after her. The night sky was dark. There was no moon and the stars were so bright that they appeared to be just beyond the tops of the cottonwoods that lined the banks of the river. The air was cold and crisp when he breathed deeply to fill his lungs in an effort to awaken his senses. Just ahead of him, Morning Sky continued her brisk pace, taking a path she used every day to fetch water. Just before she came to the edge of the river, she turned and walked along the bank. When she reached a thicket of small trees and scrub, she paused briefly to make sure he was following then, bending low, she made her way into the middle of the thicket. He followed.

  He found her kneeling on her heavy robe, which she had spread over the snow between the laurels. She motioned for him to sit down. “Morning Sky . . .” he started, but she stopped his question by placing her hand gently on his lips.

  “Let me talk,” she whispered softly. “I know that you leave when the sun comes again.” She hesitated a moment, forming her thoughts. “I cannot bear the thought of seeing you leave me again.” Amazed, he started to speak again. Again she silenced him. “Let me say this. I have been thinking about what I want to say ever since you returned.” He settled back, dumbfounded, and heard her out. “I love you, Little Wolf. I have loved you for as long as I can remember, and in my heart, I have been your wife ever since we were together at Sand Creek. I think if you will listen to your heart, it will tell you that you love me too.” She paused to let him speak.

  His mind was reeling. He didn’t know what to say. His brain was being bombarded with so many different emotions that he was unable to sort out his confusion. She had taken him so much by surprise that he had not had time to build a facade to maintain a sense of dignity. Instead, he fairly stammered, “Morning Sky, I . . .”

  “You do love me?” she interrupted, seeing that he might never be able to finish his statement.

  “What?” he stammered. “Morning Sky, you shouldn’t ask me that. Have you no shame?”

  “Don’t talk to me about shame. I don’t care about shame. You say you are going away again. I must know what your heart tells you. Do you love me or not?”

  “Yes,” he blurted, then, “I mean, no . . . I don’t know.” The girl’s boldness mesmerized him.

  “Then you do love me. Good. I knew you did if you would only listen t
o your heart.”

  “I didn’t say I loved you.” He didn’t know why he was arguing the point. He had thought about her ever since he had returned. Still, her aggressiveness unnerved him and the fact that the matter was being handled backwards left him feeling defensive. After all, he reasoned, if he wanted to marry her, he should be the aggessive one and go to her uncle with gifts and horses—and it wouldn’t be in the middle of the night when a man was half asleep.

  “Then you don’t love me?” she demanded and settled back on her heels, waiting for an answer.

  He didn’t know what to say. He looked at her, exasperated. He could no longer deny his feelings for her. He sighed and said, “Yes, I love you.”

  Again, her response confounded him. Instead of joy, she exhibited anger as she demanded, “Then why haven’t you come to my uncle to ask for me?”

  Again he was on the defensive. He didn’t answer at first because he didn’t know for sure that he loved her until this moment. “I could not take a wife with me. My warriors and I have been living like the wolf and the bear in the mountains, fighting the soldiers. It was no place for a woman. It is too dangerous. Besides, I did not own enough horses to offer your uncle.”

  She did not answer at once. When she spoke, it was with a tenderness he had not seen before. “I am your wife, Little Wolf, no matter if you give not even one horse for me.”

  He didn’t know what to say. It didn’t matter because she did not wait for his response. She reached up, taking his hands in hers, and pulled him down to her. “I was meant to be your wife. If you leave me in the morning, I want you to leave me with child. If the soldiers kill you, at least I will have part of you.” Her lips were almost touching his as she whispered softly, “Come, we will marry each other tonight.”