by Jim Fergus
Comin’ down a side valley of the Rosebud we run across Buffalo Calf Road Woman, the first member of our group we’ve seen since we got split up. She’s ridin’ now with the warrior band of her brother, Chief Comes in Sight. We don’t have time to ask if she knows where the rest of the Strong-heart Women are, and even if we could, we probably wouldn’t be able to find ’em because after all the movement and confusion, we ain’t even sure exactly where we are.
As we come back into the main valley of the Rosebud, we encounter another detachment of cavalry and Comes in Sight leads us in a charge against them. He’s shootin’ a Winchester repeatin’ rifle, and he swings onto the side of his horse, hangin’ on with one arm around the neck, and one leg hooked over the horse’s hip, firin’ the rifle with one hand from underneath the horse’s neck, just like Phemie showed us how.
But it seems that some a’ the soldiers have figured out how to deal with this strategy, for one of ’em shoots Comes in Sight’s horse, who goes down hard, the chief himself rolling free, but clearly hurt in the fall, and he’s lost his rifle. He manages to get to his feet as several soldiers ride toward him, firin’ their revolvers, bullets hittin’ the dirt all around him. He does not run, but stands his ground, pulls a knife from its sheath, and begins to sing his death song. Just before the soldiers reach him, his sister, Buffalo Calf Road Woman, swoops in on her horse, holding her arm out to her brother. Comes in Sight grabs hold, swings on behind her, and together they make their escape. It is a beautiful thing to see and a right proud moment for us to witness, and me and Susie give our best Indian yell in appreciation. And that is why this battle will always be known to the Cheyenne as Where the Girl Saved Her Brother.
Not long after this, the Army troops begin to withdraw from the battlefield, the shootin’ becomin’ more and more sporadic until it dies out altogether. We figure we’ve whipped ’em and they’ve had enough. We hear cries of triumph from different bands in the hills around us, who must be thinkin’ the same.
We begin makin’ our way in what we believe to be the general direction of our village, following the flow of the other bands, everyone exhausted and filthy from the long fight. As we’re ridin’ the crest of a hill, we see down in the valley below, our Strong-heart Women travelin’ with other bands, headed the same direction as we. Me and Susie give one of our kingfisher whistles and the lasses look up and see us. We wave at each other, and we ride down to join ’em, so happy to be reunited.
Christian Goodman watches us ride up and as we get close the look on his face changes from one of relief to see us alive to one of horror. “God help you,” he says in a real low voice. I guess we kinda forgot how we look, with scalps hangin’ from our belts, our faces, hands, arms, and clothes splattered with the blood of those we killed, four pair a’ bollocks danglin’ in a bloody sack off the pommel of Susie’s saddle. “God help you,” says he again.
“Well, it’d be a wee bit late for that, Chaplain,” says Susie. “As you can plainly see, Meggie and me have gone savage, and God has surely forsaken us.”
“God help you,” he says a third time. “I should have been there to stop you.”
“You could not ’ave stopped us, Christian,” says I. “Of that we can assure you. We were possessed by the devil.”
“That I can clearly see.”
“And did ya have any luck stoppin’ these lasses?” asks Susie. “Surely you all fought, and killed, did you not?”
“We did,” says Phemie.
“But we don’t see any scalps on your belt, Phemie,” says I.
“I do not take scalps,” says she. “Nor, as you girls know, is it a practice I encourage. Warpath Woman took them, as did Kills in the Morning. I’m sure you will hear of it tonight in the victory dance … if, indeed, a victory it was.”
We can’t help but notice that Phemie seems awful subdued, distracted, and as we look around at the others, we realize there are a couple missing. “Where are Molly and Pretty Nose?” Susie asks. “They get separated from you, too?”
Phemie shakes her head and looks like she’s about to break down. We ain’t ever seen her like this, she seems … she seems weak. “They’re gone,” she finally manages to say.
“Gone?” says Susie. “What the fook does that mean, Phemie? You mean dead?”
“Dead or taken prisoner,” says she. “We’re not sure which.”
“But what in bejaysus happened?”
“In that very first fight when we lost sight of you girls,” she says, “we ended up joining a large band of Lakota, chasing the Crow down valley. At least, we thought we were chasing them … But they led us into a ravine where there were many more of them hidden in the hills above. It was a trap. Pretty Nose and Molly were riding at the head of our charge and when the cross fire ambush began, Pretty Nose’s horse went down. It rolled over on her and pinned her to the ground. Molly dismounted to help her. They were quickly converged upon by Crow warriors who came out of the river bottom. That is the last we saw of them. Those of us with guns were firing at the attackers, while trying to ride up the slopes of the ravine. It was a bloodbath, at least two dozen Lakota warriors went down. It was a miracle all of us weren’t killed.”
“You mean to say you left Pretty Nose and Molly there?” says Susie. “What about the cardinal rule you said was so important, Phemie? How did it go?… ‘We do not leave one of our own wounded on the battlefield. We are the Strong-heart Women. We take care of each other.’ Ain’t that what you said?”
“Yes … that is what I said,” says she. “And it was I, as second in command after Pretty Nose, who ordered the others to retreat. It would have been suicide to stay in that ravine, and I was not prepared to sacrifice our entire society.”
“Or yourself, that is to say,” says Susie.
“Sister, that is enough!” says I. “You can’t be talkin’ like that to Phemie. You know as well as I if there’d been anything else to do, she’d ’ave done it.”
“It’s alright, Meggie,” says Phemie. “Susie is right. Molly and Pretty Nose were trapped one way or another, and I made the decision to cut our losses. I take full responsibility. I’m not proud of it, and perhaps I should have sacrificed myself with them. As it is, I am resigning my position in the Strong-heart Women’s Society, because … yes … I broke the cardinal rule. And if the tribal council wishes to banish me for it, I will accept that punishment, too.”
“Utter … bloody … nonsense!” Lady Hall speaks up. “Phemie did everything possible. She defended the rest of us heroically, standing her ground in the ravine, riding back and forth shooting at the ambushers in the hills and providing cover while the rest of us fled to safety. Had it not been for her actions, all of us would have been killed. And had you girls been there to witness it, you would understand that.”
Suddenly Susie breaks down and starts to bawl, as if the full horror of the day has descended upon us with this news. “I’m awful sorry, Phemie,” says she, “I had no business talkin’ to ya like that. I know you ain’t a coward. I am so sorry. Please forgive me. I … I just can’t believe we’ve lost Pretty Nose and Molly.”
“Nor can we, Susie,” says Phemie. “Our first battle … It is a dark day for us all. And it was I who convinced Molly to join our society against her wishes.”
“Jaysus Christ,” says I, “if they were taken alive, we know what’ll happen to ’em. Remember, Gertie told us Jules Seminole would be leadin’ the Crow war party? If that filthy bastard gets hold of ’em, they’d be better off dead.”
When we arrive back at the village that afternoon, with the other bands also comin’ in, there is a strange mix of celebration and mourning—trilling by the women at the return of their victorious warriors, and keening for those brought in dead or wounded, lying across the backs of horses or dragged on travois.
It is considered that we have won the battle, for it is the Army that retreated, and later that night, though me and Susie don’t feel like it at all, we are obliged to attend the victory d
ance. The scouts report that General Crook, having suffered heavy losses, has withdrawn all his troops from the area, and is on his way back to his supply camp to lick his wounds. Course, none of us can stop thinkin’ about Molly and Pretty Nose, wonderin’ whether they be dead or alive, and if still alive what terrible fate has surely befallen them.
We are required by tribal etiquette to dance and display our trophies of war … it’d be rude not to, for to the Cheyenne these provide physical proof of the victory, and offer them solace for our own losses … or so they believe. It is said by the others in the dance who were among our group when we engaged the infantry, that me and Susie, Ma’ovésá’e’ heståhkehá’e … Red-haired Twin Women they call us … led the first charge, and our courage inspired the other warriors to follow us into battle … but we know that ain’t true, for we weren’t bein’ brave … it was just our stony hearts of vengeance that drove us to do what we done. Aye, it’s true we are savages ourselves, incapable even of feelin’ remorse for our actions … or so we believed.
We leave the dance just as soon as we can and return to our lodge. We are knackered and all we wish to do is to crawl under the buffalo robes and sleep like the dead. But even that luxury we are denied, for in the middle of the night Susie shakes me awake.
“You’re havin’ nightmares, Meggie,” says she, “you’re cryin’ out in your sleep. I thought at first you were awake. You said, ‘Holy Jaysus, what ’ave we done, sister?’”
“Aye, Susie, I was dreamin’ … I was havin’ a nightmare … it was terrible … I was dreamin’ that we were murderers you and me, we were cuttin’ the hands off babies … they were screamin’, lookin’ us in the eye and screamin’ … we killed babies, Susie…”
“No, Meggie, no we did not, we would never do such a thing. We killed soldiers today, not babies, remember?”
“They were just boys, Susie. That first soldier we killed was just a scared kid.”
“He was shootin’ at us, Meggie, he was tryin’ to kill us.”
“We ain’t spoken of this yet, but we may as well now. That boy was a Paddy, and you know it as well as I do. Did ya not hear his brogue, Susie, when he begged me not to kill him? He was an Irishman.”
“Aye,” says she in a tiny voice, “I heard it, Meggie, but I didn’t want to say.”
“Jaysus Christ, sister, we cut off his damned bollocks, didn’t we?”
“That we did, four pair of ’em we got. It’s what we’ve always said we were goin’ to do … remember? An’ today we finally got our chance. We got our revenge.”
“Did it make ya feel better, Susie? Did it bring our girls back, or make ya feel better about their dyin’?”
Susie doesn’t answer that question for a long time. She gets back under the bed of buffalo robes and blankets, puts her arm around me and cuddles up, like we’ve done to comfort each other since we were wee girls … and just when I think she’s fallen asleep again, she whispers at last: “No, sister … no … it did not.”
And now Molly and Pretty Nose are gone … two more dear friends lost in these wars. Is there no end to it?
LEDGER BOOK XII
Hell
I spotted him when they were still a little distance away, leading his party down the hillside into the encampment … a man, if one can call him such, whom it would be impossible to mistake for another. Greasy black hair falling in curls to his shoulders, black Army Stetson worn sideways with the top cut out and eagle feathers protruding from it, black knee-high cavalry boots, the seam split halfway down, navy blue cavalry jacket and pale blue breeches with yellow stripes, all filthy, stained, surely never washed … I could almost smell his stench from here, could feel the bile rising in my throat, the cold fear washing over me. I knew that this time there would be no escape …
(from the journals of Molly McGill)
17 June 1876
Hell … and more to come … I will tell from the beginning … as long as I have strength to write, and am permitted. Our women’s warrior society’s first battle went terribly wrong … and right from the start. We were riding with a mixed band of Lakota and Cheyenne, in pursuit of a mixed band of Crow and Shoshone who were fleeing down valley from our superior force … or so we thought … they led us up a side canyon, riding hard, turning to fire at us. I rode beside my partner, Pretty Nose, who returned fire, although I did not.
The canyon narrowed into a kind of ravine with steep bluffs on either side, and as our soldiers rode in, the trap was sprung. The gunfire began all at once from both sides of the bluff, and from the creek bed at the base of the ravine … an ambush, a bloodbath, chaos, horses screaming and falling to the bullets, our warriors shot out of their saddles, Pretty Nose’s horse was hit, went down on its knees, and rolled sideways. She scrambled to be clear of it but her right leg was caught beneath his withers as he fell. I dismounted to try to help her, taking hold of the horse’s bridle and pulling up with all my strength. Struggling to rise, he raised his head just enough to take some of the weight off her leg and Pretty Nose managed to drag herself free. The horse fell back, wild-eyed, flared nostrils running blood, but before we could both mount Spring, five warriors with rifles came running toward us out of the creek bottom. There was no point in trying to draw my Colt, and Pretty Nose had lost her Winchester in the fall. “Ooetaneo’o,” she said to me, which I knew meant Crow. They surrounded us, clearly surprised to see that we were women. They poked both of us with coup sticks. One of them snatched the reins from my hand, and the Colt from my holster, dragged us into the creek bottom, and threw us to the ground behind the embankment. The shooting continued … there was no escape for our soldiers … nowhere to run … except to turn and ride back out of the ravine, or try to ride up the hill to the bluffs above, ground held by our attackers … Our captors took up their positions behind the bank and resumed firing. I crawled up and looked out to see if I might identify any of our women … more of our warriors shot and tumbling from their mounts … others afoot, running, shot down, horses falling, screaming, flailing … the floor of the ravine littered with bodies of man and animal, some writhing in agony … cries, gunfire, mayhem … I caught a glimpse of Phemie riding hard on her white stallion, returning fire alternately toward the bluff and then toward the riverbank. I saw Christian Goodman also riding in the thick of things, hollering at the top of his lungs, though I could not make out what he was saying, a prayer no doubt … Before I could look further, one of our captors pulled me roughly back down beneath the undercut bank.
Gradually the shooting subsided, and the Crow and Shoshone who had been stationed on the bluffs rode back down into the ravine, as those in the creek bottom came out, all yipping, shaking their rifles in the air in triumph. Then began the grisly business of taking scalps, mutilating the dead, collecting weapons and horses that were still alive and uninjured. Presumably our captors felt that we represented sufficient spoils of war for they did not participate in these postbattle activities. Instead we were ordered in sign talk to mount Spring, and surrounded by the five Crow, now also mounted, we began to make our way out of the ravine. I could think of nothing but our compatriots, and could not imagine that any of them had survived the onslaught. Now as we rode through the killing field, I dreaded coming upon their bodies, or seeing them desecrated by these acts of barbarism. Yet I could not prevent myself from carefully scanning each body we passed, mildly heartened not to see anyone I recognized. Perhaps by some miracle our women had escaped after all.
Near and distant gunfire, bugles, Indian yells, and the cries of soldiers issued from the hills, valleys, and draws in what seemed like all directions, giving us some sense of the broad scope of this battle. When we reached the top of the bluffs, we kept mostly to the high ground, moving generally southeast. We had periodic sightings of skirmishes raging below. After traveling nearly an hour and traversing three valleys, we arrived at what appeared to be the main encampments of the Crow and Shoshone, the bivouacs of each tribe separated by a sizable herd of horses,
guarded by armed boys. There were also a dozen or so women in the respective camps, who as we rode in began to trill in victory when they saw that their warriors brought captives. All came out to inspect us, some grabbing at us roughly, uttering what were clearly insults in their mocking guttural tongues. “Keep your head high and your eyes straight ahead, Molly,” Pretty Nose advised me. “Do not look at them, do not show fear.”
When we reached the rope horse corral, the women who had followed dragged us off Spring’s back. One of the boys led her into the corral, uncinched her girth strap, slipped off the saddle and her bridle, and released her. I wondered if I would ever see my horse again, though that was the least of my worries.
Our captors seemed now to be arguing over which of them owned us. One of the women tugged at my hair and muttered something. Another grabbed Pretty Nose roughly by the arm and began to drag her, limping, away. It was clear that we were to be separated. Pretty Nose tore her arm free and made sign talk to the woman, obviously saying that she did not wish to be manhandled. Then she looked back over her shoulder at me, not pleadingly or afraid, but proud, defiant, with a small smile, as if to set an example and to give me courage … which she did.
Similarly, two women, one on either side of me, chattering angrily, grabbed hold of my arms and began to pull me away. They were surprisingly strong though far smaller than I, and I, too, shook free of them, raising a fist to make my intention understood. I walked between them then to a rough lodge set among a number of others … not exactly tipis but crude shelters made of curved willow branches with canvas coverings. They shoved me to a seated position, bound my hands together with a rawhide thong, and tied a rope around my ankle, the other end of which they attached to a wooden stake driven into the ground with a rock … I was tethered there like the family dog.
