His eyes narrowing, Donegan asked, “So what kind of meat is it?”
“Nothing we ain’t been used to lately,” Grouard answered with a wry grin. “Seems everybody in this country took to eating horse and pony.”
“What the hell you think Captain Jack’s up to?” Grouard asked a minute later.
Not far away the white scout Crawford hurried down the slope of a hill standing to the north of the village, pulling one of the packers’ mules behind him. At Crawford’s shoulder ran newsman Robert Strahorn. They stopped at the first crude rack of poles erected outside a lodge and began to tear the strips of drying meat from the rack, stuffing them into the canvas panniers lashed to either side of the mule’s sawbuck. In a momentary lull of fighting a shot suddenly echoed in that creek bottom. The mule sank on its forelegs, rolling onto its side as Crawford and Strahorn dived for cover behind a lodge.
“Hey, Lieutenant!” the poet scout hollered out.
On a nearby hill Frederick Schwatka answered, “What can I do for you, Crawford?”
“We got us a sniper out there.”
“Shit, we have us a whole passel of snipers!” the lieutenant bellowed.
“How ’bout seeing if you can catch sight of any smoke over yonder that will tell us where that sniper’s laying in.”
“Can’t see any gun smoke, Crawford!”
“You just watch with them glasses of yours now,” Crawford hollered. “He’ll be sure to make a try for me when I come out!”
Up bolted the white guide, jumping from cover and sprinting to the far edge of the creekbed some fifty feet away, where he turned in the slippery mud, then raced back as another shot rang out just as he reached his hiding place.
“The sniper ought to be over there,” Crawford instructed, huffing and breathless. “Try your glasses over by that big tree.”
Sure enough, Schwatka wasn’t long in declaring, “I got him in sight, Jack.”
Crawford asked, “Send some of your boys over to root him out, will you?”
After a squad of the lieutenant’s men made short work of the sniper, Strahorn and the scout went back to the dead mule and succeeded in pulling free one of the canvas panniers, filling it with the stringy pony meat they took to share between the hospital and those officers overseeing the fight from the nearby hilltop north of the village.
“What they yelling about now, Frank?” Donegan asked minutes later when some warriors among the rocky ledges across the creek began to holler again.
“They say Crazy Horse is coming.”
“Crazy Horse,” Seamus repeated. “His own self, eh?”
“They say there’s a lot of camps in the area—just what I told Mills before he got us in this fix.”
“So Crazy Horse is gonna come rescue the Sioux before Crook can come rescue us—that it?”
Grouard nodded. “Something like that, yeah.”
“Hey, cheer up, you damned half-breed,” Donegan said. “Just remember that Crazy Horse doesn’t know what we know.”
“What do we know he don’t?”
“That Crook’s coming.”
Frank wagged his head. “Yeah. He’s coming. But he might just get here too late to help us.”
Donegan looked around at the village, letting Grouard wallow in his despair. They had flushed the enemy from their homes and driven them into the hills, driven them up the bluffs that commanded a view of the camp. True, Mills did control the village and half of the hostiles’ pony herd— but the captain hadn’t been able to capitalize on his victory. A fierce and determined counterattack by the Sioux had forced the soldiers to dig in and establish a defensive perimeter, fighting with what they had left of their meager and dwindling ammunition.
“No matter what,” Seamus finally remarked as he watched the movement of warriors on the distant shelves along the face of the bluffs, “at least Crook’s got him his first victory of this goddamned Sioux war.”
“Forty lodges,” Grouard replied. “It ain’t much, is it?”
“After months of frustration, trailing the hostiles all over the territory—I’ll bet the army will take what victory they can get after disappointments at the Powder River and the Rosebud, after Custer was butchered at the Little Bighorn.”
Grouard grinned. “Any little win better than nothing, eh?”
“I guess we’ll just have to wait till Crook gets here,” Seamus said morosely a while later.
“Yes, Irishman. Crook or Crazy Horse,” Grouard replied. “We just have to see who gets to us first.”
Chapter 40
Moon When Leaves Turn Brown
American Horse thought they would be safe camped beside Rabbit Lip Creek at the foot of the cliffs that nearly enclosed their village on three sides. These bluffs had been carved over time by rain and melting snow, cut by smaller ravines and larger canyons running jaggedly to the valley floor, sculpted by the ever-present wind that blew along their heights to form every terrace, every one of the shelves that made climbing easy for the children who came here to play.
As protected as this place was, still the soldiers had found them.
Long time back scouts said the soldiers divided. Some staying on the Yellowstone while another army marched east, then turned south on the trail of American Horse’s own Miniconjou and the other villages camped in the area. But, those scouts reported, the soldiers were running out of time: their horses were failing them, and more than half of the white men were already afoot.
Most of the old men agreed that the soldiers were not a threat. The army could not travel fast enough to catch up to American Horse’s people before the Miniconjou reached Bear Butte.
But now he peered through the leafy bullberry and other brush at the mouth of the ravine where he and some of his people had fled with the opening shots—as the ponies thundered through camp and the soldier bullets fell on the taut lodge skins soaked by days of rain like the falling of hailstones.
Out there on the muddy side of the creek bottom lay Little Eagle’s granddaughter, only minutes old when the soldiers attacked. The young mother had no husband, for he was one of those killed in their great victory over the soldiers on the Greasy Grass. A glorious death!
But now Little Eagle’s daughter was alone. Without a husband she lived again with her parents while her time drew close. She carried a warrior’s child in her belly.
With the first hoofbeats, warning shouts, and gunfire, she had stumbled from her birthing bed with the newborn infant wrapped beneath her blanket, frightened and screaming while Little Eagle slashed a hole in the side of the lodge and her mother shoved her into the cold wind and rain. Around them madness swirled as ponies and people stampeded out of camp, away from the hairy-mouths and their angry guns.
Running for the creek bottom, the woman had been struck by a bullet. As the mother fell, the newborn pitched from her arms into the brush. The soldier’s bullet had passed through the mother’s shoulder and smashed into the infant’s head the instant before the woman stumbled and fell.
Forced to leave everything behind but what they had on their backs, American Horse and his woman came across the young mother moments later in their own escape, finding her blood seeping into the puddle of mud below her. They bent to lift her, raising her between them, and quickly hurried on, dragging the young mother into the ravine with them. Already there were some hiding back in the shallow cave. No matter that there was little room in that cave—the tangled brush and a few short trees hid them all, and the soldiers could not see into the ravine.
At the same time, American Horse and the others could watch everything happening on this west side of the village without being discovered. At least not until the soldiers dug a rifle pit and one soldier started to approach the ravine.
Moments ago he and the other warriors had decided they would give up their lives at a terrible price—killing as many of the white men as they could until they were rushed. Still, American Horse kept praying to the Great Mystery that help would come from the other
villages.
Sitting Bull and his warriors. Crazy Horse’s fighting men.
Maybe they would not have to wait long until someone came to rescue them. But until rescue came, American Horse and the other men would guard the ravine the way a sow grizzly defended her cubs.
If necessary, they would give up their lives to save their families.
Knowing that Crazy Horse or Sitting Bull would soon be here to avenge their deaths.
Fifteen more horses gave out in Crook’s push to rescue Mills. Fifteen more troopers put afoot to follow along the best they could.
After punishing their mounts through the mud and the mist, through the gumbo and sheets of driving rain at a trot for some four and a half hours, the cavalry came into earshot of the village. Charles King could hear sporadic gunfire echo from the chalky bluffs that hulked beneath the low-hung clouds.
Some two dozen warriors surprised some of the rescuers when they swept over the brow of a hill at the rear of the column’s march, waving blankets and snapping pieces of rawhide, shouting and blowing on whistles to frighten off what they could of the trail-hammered horses stumbling along on the tail end of things. As soon as some of Captain Henry E. Noyes’s battalion of the Second Cavalry halted and fired a volley in their direction, the hostiles withdrew out of carbine range.
“This is part of the bunch that butchered Custer!” hollered one of Mills’s men who rushed up on foot, waving some object as the men of King’s K Troop drew up.
“Dismount!”
More than two hundred dropped to the ground raggedly, their worn-out horses shuddering, troopers flinging rain off their coats and gum ponchos.
King called out to the Third Cavalry soldier, “Let me see what you have there!”
He trotted over, shaking a cream-colored, blood-splattered glove for all to see. “Just take yourself a lookee here, Lieutenant. These here was Captain Keogh’s gauntlets— read for yerself. Got his own name right inside!”
“And the red devils got their goods off them goddamned agencies!” attested another soldier trotting up to the crowd knotted around King, holding up a half-filled flour sack emblazoned with the stamp of the Indian Bureau.
Glancing around at the dead ponies sprawled in the mud, the lieutenant quickly assessed the scene and handed the gauntlet back, saying, “Looks like you fellas have hung on by the skin of your teeth.”
“Yes, sir,” the trooper with the bloody gauntlets replied. “Colonel Mills was never a man to let go once he’s sunk in his teeth.”
“Yup. Just like a bulldog,” the second soldier responded. “Once he’s got a village in his jaws, Mills won’t let go.”
“Good for him!” King cheered, then turned to give his squads their skirmish orders, sensing the hot flare of pain shoot through that old Apache arrow wound. The continued cold did this, every time. He swallowed down the bile that threatened to come up. No matter. There wasn’t much of anything in his stomach to begin with.
“General Carr!” Anson Mills shouted, jogging up. “Good to see you!”
“What’s your situation?” Carr inquired as he swung down from the saddle of his weary horse.
“We’re holding,” Mills replied, recapturing his breath. “We’ve got possession of the village, but the hostiles have the heights above us. Lieutenants Bubb and Crawford have skirmishers dug in and holding the perimeter from lunettes and rifle pits. There is one troublesome bunch of holdouts. Down there, sir.”
“In the creek bottom?” Carr inquired.
“Against the south bank,” Mills explained. “We’ve got some of them trapped in there. They’re socked in there real good. So good they’ve already killed one of my men and wounded at least three others.”
“Perhaps we should avoid that ravine for now, Colonel.”
“As you wish, General.”
“We’ll let Crook decide what he wants to do with that bunch when he comes in.”
Mills asked, “Is the general coming with the rest of the column?”
“No, he came with us,” Carr answered, looking behind them. “Should be here any minute.”
“Grouard informs me that he fears some of the escapees have gone to alert the other villages in the area.”
Carr appeared grave. “Other villages, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” Mills said, his eyes alive with something more than worry now. “So I’ve got most of my men holding a picket line to the south. Watchful for any hostile reinforcements.”
Carr turned to some of his officers and sent them off with orders to bolster Mills’s skimpy defenses.
“Damn, sir—but it’s good to see your men show up so quickly,” Mills said effusively. “With as much ground as the couriers had to cover, I was fearful it wouldn’t be until tomorrow morning at the earliest until—”
“Crook was lucky this time, Colonel,” Carr interrupted.“Instead of laying over in camp as he had planned, we pushed on. It likely saved us a day in getting to you.”
“And in all probability it saved my command, General.”
“But you’ve held on, Colonel Mills. Job well-done!”
“Thank you, General! I’m damned proud of my men: called on to move through the darkness and pitch into a village of unknown strength raised here in the heart of an unknown wilderness on the heels of the Custer disaster. You can bet I’m proud of these soldiers!”
Crook came into camp near the tail end of the rescue column, hearing the warnings of Mills and the rest concerning snipers. Instead of taking cover where he could direct the fight from a position of safety, he chose to wade right into the action himself. The general had Bourke and Schuyler plant his personal flag on the highest knoll northeast of the village proper. At the same time, Carr established his regiment’s headquarters a little to the west of the village. And when Merritt rolled in, he chose to raise his flag a ways to the north of Carr, on the hillside where Schwatka had begun his charge.
There was little need to picket or sideline the horses. Most of the outfits decided there simply wasn’t enough strength left in any of the animals that would allow the warriors to run them off. Instead the companies sent their horse-holders back a few hundred yards to the north and well behind the skirmish lines, taking the horses to the narrow feeder creeks, where they could be watered and allowed to graze after their punishing race.
Taking K Troop to the picket line, Lieutenant King glanced over the village, counting thirty-seven lodges, along with four more sets of lodgepoles standing on the periphery without any hide covers.
As King squatted down in a muddy buffalo wallow, joining the weary troopers already there, an old sergeant in the Third Cavalry growled, “These sonsabitches been sucking at the government teat, they have, Lieutenant.”
“Sort of like the rest of us, eh?” the officer replied.
“I’m serious, Lieutenant,” the soldier said with a sharp wag of his head, his bushy eyebrows narrowing so that it appeared the two had become one. Tobacco juice dribbled from his lower lip, darkening the crease that ran from the corner of his mouth into the yellow-stained bristle of white chin whiskers. “In them lodges back there we found us some reservation tobacco, ’long with agency cloth and corn. A goodly bunch of flour sacks too.”
King shuddered. “Hell—if you’re half-right, Sergeant—sounds like the government’s been feeding these Indians better than it has us!”
With the way Crook’s rescue column got itself strung out in that four-and-a-half-hour trot, the head of Chambers’s infantry was right on the heels of Merritt’s straggling cavalry riding to the rescue by the time those last horse soldiers came in sight of the village.
Except for that time back in seventy-two when he had expected Captain Jack’s Modoc to kill him in the Oregon Lava Beds,* Seamus couldn’t remember when he had been so glad to see the homely faces of so many soldiers. God, was it good to have the company!
As soon as Crook assessed the scene and put plenty of men out on the picket lines, he gave Mills’s attack force first crack at a
ny and all souvenirs they could pull from the lodges before he ordered details to go in search of everything edible in the camp. Only then, he said, would he get serious about the destruction of the Sioux village.
“I’ll wager he remembers how stupid Reynolds was on the Powder,” Donegan told Grouard.
“Damn right,” Frank replied. “All that food and them buffalo robes Reynolds had his soldiers burn. Could’ve filled our bellies and kept us warm, they would.”
What a horn of plenty the Sioux lodges proved to be: besides flour, corn, beans, and tins of jellied fruit, the men found haunches of freshly killed game as well as over two tons of dried meat. Little matter that it might be pony meat. No one with a hungry belly complained.
In addition to the food, soldiers dragged out all sorts of saddles and harness, bolts of calico, cloth dresses and shirts, iron cookware and kettles, along with some tinware—including plates, knives, and spoons. As well, they counted more than two thousand raw buffalo, elk, deer, and antelope hides the women had yet to flesh and tan. And the soldiers found more than a hundred blankets inked with the stenciled letters: USID.*
Still, one pile drew the greatest attention as more and more plunder was laid atop the growing mound where Crook himself stood in silence, watching as cases of ammunition, cartons of percussion caps, revolvers, old muzzle-loading fusils, and modern repeating carbines were all thrown into the heap. And a man had only to watch the general’s face to read the simmering anger written there as soldiers discovered more and more souvenirs taken from the Little Bighorn in those lodges destined for destruction.
Besides the I Company guidon and Captain Myles Keogh’s buckskin gauntlets, the troopers found more than a dozen McClellan saddles. Among the pony herd Lieutenant Schwatka’s men reported counting at least three bearing the Seventh Cavalry brand. From here and there soldiers brought up a handful of orderly books in which some of the Indians had begun to draw their pictographs; more cash and army scrip; an officer’s blouse; a great many letters written to and by members of Custer’s ill-fated five companies, some sealed and ready for posting home to families and loved ones at the time those companies marched down into the valley of the Little Bighorn.
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