by Dee Brown
When McCall arrived, Forsyth took out his pipe and said: “All three of you know more plainscraft than I, but I am in command and must make the decisions. So let’s see what we agree on.” No one spoke while he lighted his pipe. “First, we’re all agreed the Indians have seen us, they know we’re following them, and they’ve scattered. Where do you think they’re heading for, Fred?”
Beecher frowned slightly. “I don’t know, sir. Most of them turned off west. That’s all I can offer.”
“Sharp?”
“As the lieutenant says, they seem to be edging west, but I reckon they’ll turn north again.”
“Do you think they’ll rendezvous somewhere?”
Grover spread his hands. “Maybe so, maybe no. But sooner or later they’ll all go on to their village.”
“McCall?”
“From what I’ve seen, sir, I’m inclined to agree with Sharp. They’re carrying booty and most likely will want to get it back to their village before they do any more riding.”
Beecher’s voice was without enthusiasm: “I’ll admit to that.”
Relief showed on Forsyth’s face. “Then it’s settled. We’ll keep going. From what you’ve told me, I’d judge in a northwesterly direction.”
“Up the Beaver Creek bottoms,” Grover replied. “They’ll be wanting game along the way, and they know they’ll find it on the Beaver.”
Forsyth knocked his pipe out against the rock. “Agreed, Fred?”
“What else can we do?” Beecher tried to keep moroseness out of his voice, but his legs were throbbing with pain. Forsyth gave him a sharp glance, then ordered McCall to ready the column for marching. When Beecher arose, he almost collapsed, but managed to conceal his distress from the others. It was an effort for him to get back into his saddle.
They headed westward, with the curving line of the creek on their left. In places the grass was lush, the soil almost black, and there were enough trees to keep scouting parties busy searching for concealed hostiles.
After a short halt for nooning, they moved steadily onward. To avoid thinking of his physical pain, Beecher chewed on his dried tea leaves, tried to remember snatches of poems, and devised difficult mathematical problems in his head. But inevitably, against his will, his mind went back to that day at Gettysburg five years before. It seemed more like fifty years.
On that first day of battle there was no way of stopping the Confederates. They swept in like a flood, and when his regiment made a desperate charge, the Rebs came in on the flank. Beecher remembered his flagbearer tearing the regimental flag to pieces to keep it from the enemy. After they retreated to the ridge, only forty men were fit for battle, and because no one outranked him, Beecher took command. The next day was worse, the battlefield filled with booming guns, chattering rifles and screeching shells. He closed his eyes and it all came back, the scream of flying metal, the sudden shock as something struck him and tumbled him backward, the wrench of pain. He was sure that he had been cut in two. He lost consciousness and when he awoke a surgeon told him his right kneecap was gone, his leg shattered. …
“You gone deaf, Lieutenant?” Grover’s voice snarled into his ear, and Beecher felt the pressure of the scout’s horse against his leg.
“Sorry.” Beecher brushed his gauntleted hand across his eyes. “I wasn’t minding my business.”
“The major’s been yelling for us back there.”
Forsyth was coming forward. “This creek’s about run out,” he shouted. “If my map is correct there’s no other water closer than a day’s ride north.”
“You mean to go into camp?” Beecher asked.
“We’ll camp, and send small details fanning out to see what they can find. Have you seen any sign at all?”
“Nothing but a long dead campfire,” Sharp answered.
The sun was only at midafternoon, but they made camp along the headwaters of the creek. Beecher selected six patrols of six men each, he and Grover leading two of them. For three miles out they scoured the country north of the Beaver, and late in the afternoon Dick Gantt’s patrol found fresh tracks of four unshod ponies moving northward.
By the time the scouts reassembled in camp to make their reports, it was too late in the day to start tracking. Major Forsyth advised the men to fill their canteens and turn in early; they would have to be mounted and ready to move before next sunup.
Beecher was grateful for a chance to hobble down to the creek and bathe his feet and legs. He found Dick Gantt there, soaking an ankle in the shallow water. An ugly scar ran the length of his shin.
“Leg bothering you, Gantt?”
“Like a hot poker, Lieutenant,” the Southerner replied in his soft voice.
Beecher pulled off his boots and socks and started rolling up his loose trousers. “War wound?”
“A Yankee Minie ball caught me at Gettysburg,” Gantt explained. He stared at Beecher’s legs. “Looks as if you got it worse than I did, sir.”
Beecher laughed without humor. “We were on that same battlefield Gantt.”
Gantt shook his head. “I reckon we’re living proof of what your General Sherman said about war.”
Footsteps crashed in the brush behind them, and Beecher turned. Forsyth was there, a muslin towel slung over one shoulder. “Nobody hates war more than a soldier,” said Major Forsyth.
9
Major George (Sandy) Forsyth
September 12–15
WHEN THE SCOUTS LEFT Beaver Creek at dawn on September 12, Major Forsyth asked McCall to lead the column while he rode forward with Beecher and Grover. Forsyth was worried about Beecher. For two days the lieutenant had been dispirited, almost unsociable, and Forsyth decided to find out what was troubling him.
The sun quickly took the chill off the land, and the day showed promise of being another fine one. Birds were singing and white-rumped antelopes were frolicking on the plain as though it were springtime instead of almost autumn. To make conversation, Forsyth said: “We’ve had good weather, at least.”
Beecher replied with only an affirmative grunt, but Forsyth pressed him: “Something bothering you, Fred?”
Beecher’s face flushed. “I suppose I have been a bit sullen, sir. Leg’s paining me. Tried not to let on, but you’ve noticed, I see.”
“I’m sorry.” Forsyth remembered General Sheridan saying something about Beecher’s bad leg wounds but that Grover and Comstock had both insisted he was the only officer they wanted to scout under. “You were at Gettysburg, weren’t you?”
“That’s where I got the worst one.”
“I served most of my time with Sheridan in the Shenandoah. Took four Rebel bullets myself. None bad.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Oh, I ache here and there occasionally. Always reminds me I’m lucky to be alive.”
Beecher pulled his horse abruptly aside, peering down at hoofmarks cutting into the trail. Off to the left, Grover raised an arm and called: “Now we’re tracking five, Major.”
“That’s encouraging,” Forsyth replied.
Beecher asked: “Weren’t you with General Sheridan when he made that famous ride to Winchester?”
Forsyth was pleased that Beecher wanted to talk. “Yes, he chose two of his cavalry aides for that gallop—to rally the troops at Cedar Creek. But the day I’ll remember most was at Appomattox Court House when General Lee surrendered. For the first and only time in the war, it seemed to me that all the misery we’d gone through had some meaning. At last it was all over.” They talked about the war and men they had soldiered with, and exchanged anecdotes about military life until suddenly it was time for a noontime halt.
After reminding the scouts that they would probably find no more water that day, Forsyth unsaddled his horse, rationed himself a small piece of dried beef, took a swallow from his canteen, and then relaxed against a hummock of tall grass. A few feet away Beecher was sprawled with his head on his saddle. Forsyth rummaged in his bag until he found a small and badly worn book. “When I’m in the fi
eld I always carry a volume of Dickens,” he explained. “Wonderful for taking one’s mind off matters which can’t be mended. Have you ever read Oliver Twist?”
Beecher’s eyes were closed and he gave no indication that he had heard, but Forsyth began reading aloud and was still reading when McCall’s shrill whistles signaled the noon halt was ended.
They marched forty miles that day, reaching water on Big Timber as the sun was setting.
At next dawn they were again in their saddles, and spent the morning following the trail along a series of small streams. After studying his map, Forsyth was convinced that the Indians were heading into Republican River country—stronghold of hostile Sioux and Cheyennes.
Most of the creeks were small, and seemed to be struggling for existence among quicksands. The land had become like a desert, with bare sandhills everywhere. Early in the afternoon, however, Sharp Grover reported that they were nearing a branch of the Republican, and when Forsyth raised his field glass he could see a green fine of swamp willows to the north.
Two hours later as they were fording the stream, Beecher discovered an abandoned wickiup on the north bank. Forsyth turned aside to look at the crude shelter which had been made by bending willows to the ground, interlacing the branches, and covering the top with grass.
“Throw a blanket over that and a man could sleep cozy,” Forsyth said.
“Two Cheyennes slept there last night,” Beecher replied. “We’re now trailing seven.”
The trail turned west, following close to the river which flowed swiftly over a sandy bed, and was bordered by stands of elm, cottonwood and white oak. Beecher sent flankers out on both sides of the stream.
Late in the afternoon, Jack Donovan and Martin Burke came galloping in, their huge mustaches waving in the breeze, to report finding another Indian night camp. “How many were there?” Forsyth asked.
“Burke says three, I say two,” Donovan replied.
“You Irishers better get together on your estimates,” Forsyth remarked with a grin.
“No Irish ever agreed on anything, sir,” Burke declared. But the veteran of the Queen’s Army was vindicated a few minutes later when Sharp Grover reported that tracks of three more ponies had entered the trail.
They camped that night on another fork of the Republican, resuming pursuit at dawn in the same westerly direction. Almost hourly the trail grew more distinct, with additional hoofprints coming into it. At the noon halt, Forsyth asked Beecher and Grover how many Indians were now in the party. They agreed that there were probably twenty or twenty-five horsemen.
“The same raiders we started pursuing at Sheridan City?” Forsyth asked.
“Anybody’s guess,” Grover replied. “I’d wager some are the same.”
“How old are the tracks?”
“Yesterday’s, and if the runagates slowed down to do any hunting we may catch ’em today.”
Forsyth shook his head. “We don’t want to overtake them until they reach their village.”
A faint hint of a smile showed on Grover’s usually stolid face. “I figgered that. And if you’re smart as I think you are, Major, you’ll stay clear of their village, too.”
Forsyth felt his temper rising, but held his tongue. He glanced at Beecher, who responded by suggesting that he and Grover move out a mile ahead of the column. During the afternoon, he added, if the main body of scouts marched at a slower pace, that would reduce the danger of alerting the Indians to their presence.
After consulting his map, Forsyth agreed to Beecher’s recommendation. He was confident that even if the raiders should gain a few miles on them, another day’s march would surely bring the scouts within reach of the hostiles’ main camp.
Next morning, September 15, Forsyth ordered Sergeant McCall to inspect rations. McCall reported that coffee and salt were in good supply, but that most of the scouts had only enough hardtack and meat to last through another day.
For the first time on the march, Forsyth assembled the company in military ranks, gave the command to mount, then turned his horse to face them. “As most of you men undoubtedly know,” he began, “we’re in the heart of hostile country. Today or at least by tomorrow we should discover the location of their big village. If we succeed in this, some of you will be asked to ride faster than you’ve ever ridden before. The rest of us will have to maintain observation, possibly defend ourselves until regular troops arrive. You also know how low the rations in your saddlebags are. I’m asking you to make them last two more days. For another day or two we cannot risk disclosing our presence by firing weapons to kill any of the game which is in such abundance around us. Any questions?”
There were no questions, and they moved out in the chill dawnlight, still following the branch of the Republican. The land was now covered with great swards of buffalo grass. In some places the prairie was as smooth and green as moss, with occasional patches of a reddish grass that Forsyth had never seen before. The more luxuriant the country became, the broader the Indian trail grew until it became almost a beaten road with marks of travois poles several days old.
Around ten o’clock, Beecher came trotting back to report a split in the trail. “Up there it looks as if a regiment had passed over it,” he said. He asked for a dozen volunteers, and sent them ranging far out toward a line of low hills on the north.
To keep from raising a dust cloud, Forsyth turned the column out of the trail onto the grass, and then increased the marching pace. He could sense an air of expectancy among the men. Had they been regular soldiers he would have passed a warning back to keep alert. With these seasoned plainsmen, he knew it was unnecessary.
At the midday halt, Beecher rejoined the column. He informed Forsyth that he had sent Jack Stilwell and two other men to scout the right fork of the trail. “Most of the lodgepole markings and dog tracks turned that way. About a week old.”
Late that afternoon, Forsyth noticed dust swirls against the sun. He raised his field glass and counted four riders returning at a trot. In a few minutes he recognized Grover and Stilwell. The other two were Louis McLaughlin and the young lad, Sigmund Schlesinger. With a slap of his reins, Forsyth put his horse into a gallop and raced forward to meet them.
Grover pulled up beside Forsyth and reported: “The boys found your big village, Major. Trouble is, the hostiles already vamoosed.”
“How long ago?” Forsyth demanded.
Stilwell answered: “Campfire ashes still warm, sir. This morning, maybe.”
“They must have sighted our approach. How far away is this camp?”
“Two hours ride.” Stilwell pointed to the north.
“Which way did they go?”
McLaughlin spoke up: “I scouted a short piece of their trail, Major. Into a canyon beyond their camp.”
Forsyth glanced at the sun. “We can make it there before dark. Sharp, you round up Lieutenant Beecher and the other forward scouts, and try to catch up with us. Stillwell, you and McLaughlin move out as guides.”
“I, too, sir?” Schlesinger asked.
“Sure, go ahead, lad. You’re learning fast.” Forsyth raised his arm and ordered the column to swing to the right. They were heading straight for a line of gray hills which in the slanting rays of the sun gradually changed to a hazy purple.
Near dusk they entered a draw that led into the wide mouth of a canyon, and there Stilwell pointed out the abandoned camp. Beside a large spring of clear water, Forsyth noted several rings of abandoned stakes where buffalo hides had recently been stretched to dry. It was obvious that the Indians had departed in some haste. “We’ll make camp here,” he told McCall.
A few minutes later, Grover, Beecher, and the other forward scouts rode in, and as soon as guards were posted, Forsyth asked the company to assemble around him. “Our Indians know exactly where we are,” he said, “so tonight we’ll have hot coffee.” The men cheered. “Coffee is about all we have left, anyway,” he added. “Stilwell and his scouting party tell me they counted some six hundred lodge cir
cles on the ground around us. That would mean something like twice that many warriors, wouldn’t it, Sharp?”
“Thousand at least,” Grover replied.
“Twenty of them to one of us,” a scout said. “We’re asking for real trouble, pushing them like this, aren’t we, Major?”
In the deepening twilight, the men’s faces were indistinct so that Forsyth could recognize only those in the front ranks—hard-bitten plainsmen like Donovan, Trudeau, and the older Farley; adventurers like Burke, Gantt, and the anonymous Galvanized Yankees; mere boys like Schlesinger, Stilwell, and the younger Farley. “Every man of you was told before enlisting what the mission of this scouting company would be,” he said firmly. “We shan’t attack, but we will defend ourselves. Did you not enlist with me to fight Indians?”
“Aye, sir, we did that,” declared Martin Burke. Someone else cried: “A thousand hostiles don’t faze us, Major. If they’re looking for a fight, we’ll see they get one.”
Later, Forsyth took a stroll with Grover around the borders of the camp to inspect outguard positions. Suddenly he heard a faint jingling of bells. He raised his head, scanning the horizon. Against the pale twilight sky on the rim of the low canyon appeared the silhouette of a mounted Indian. A second later the Indian vanished. Only the fading tinkle of bells assured Forsyth that he had not imagined the intruder.
“I heard them same bells the night Bill Comstock was killed,” Grover said somberly. “That was Two Crows.”
10
Two Crows
September 15–16
WHEN TWO CROWS TURNED his pony away from the bluff, he struck his chest with his fingers and then flung his arm outward in a gesture of contempt toward the scouts’ camp. Because the white men were burning their campfires openly, he had shown himself openly. Riding away, he shook his legs so the silver bells on his leggings could be heard clearly.
He let his pony set its own pace through prairie grass which in some places was as high as the animal’s back. By the time he reached the crest of a low ridge, the stars were very bright in the sky. Spotted Wolf and the other Dog Soldiers were waiting there.
