“Give them all to Lieutenant Schuyler,” a stoic Crook instructed as the process continued. “We’ll see they are posted as soon as we reach Camp Robinson.”
For Donegan, just looking at those letters was like catching glimpses of anonymous ghosts.
Seamus put his hand inside his own wet coat, his fingers brushing the small bundle of letters he kept tied with one of Samantha’s hair ribbons, stuffed deep in an inside pocket next to his heart. Here remembering the one who awaited his return, he found his heart heavy as a stone, saddened to think how these letters written by Custer’s fallen troopers would one day soon arrive at their destinations back east, reaching fathers and mothers, wives and children and young sweethearts—seeming so much like haunting voices from the dead.
As much as he thought those grim souvenirs might blacken the angry hearts of Crook’s fighting men, what angered some the most was the discovery of several “good conduct” certificates among the plunder pulled from the lodges. One had been issued the previous January just before the deadline when Sherman and Sheridan had given Crook a free hand to march after the winter roamers.
Spotted Tail Agency, Jan. 14, 1876 The bearer of this, Stabber, belonging to this agency, will travel north to visit his people. He will return to this agency within 90 days, without disturbing any white man. If he needs any little thing you will not lose by giving it to him. This is true.
F. C. Boucher
And another, written a month later, read:
Whitestone Agency, D.T., Feb., 1876 To any United States Indian Agent: This is to certify that Charging Crow, an Indian belonging to Santee’s band, is a true man to terms of the treaty, and uses all his influence with his people to do right. I cheerfully recommend him to favorable considerations of all.
Yours, respectfully,
E. A. Howard, United States Indian Agent
The more plunder the soldiers pulled from the lodges, the more rage there must have been among the warriors on the nearby hillsides who were forced to watch this looting of their camp. From time to time they were able to walk some of their bullets in among the troops at the skirmish line.
Nonetheless it was still an unknown number of Sioux who had taken refuge in that brushy ravine who were proving to be the most bothersome to Crook’s men working among the lodges. Near the outskirts of camp, the concealed snipers kept the soldiers ducking and diving for cover until Crook decided he had no choice but to clean out the ravine.
The winding coulee meandered back from the creekbank for more than two hundred yards into the side of a jagged spur of ridge jutting off the face of the chalky butte itself. Eroded to a depth of nearly twenty feet along its steep sides, its bottom extended in width from some fifteen feet to as narrow as six feet, all of it a tangle of brush. None of the soldiers could get a clear shot at the hostiles who had taken refuge in the ravine because of that matted snarl of thorns and buffalo berry—unless a man dared to get right up on the opening of the ravine.
One soldier lay dead already for trying.
With Crook’s arrival some of Tom Moore’s packers had chided the soldiers for their slowness to rush the enemy trapped in the ravine. But when the mule skinners and a few foolhardy troopers made their own rush, they were immediately repelled by an onslaught of rifle fire from the hidden marksmen.
In the face of such stubborn resistance, the general had no choice but to deploy troops to advance on the mouth of the ravine. They set up a constant, withering fire, shooting into the brush in an attempt to drive the occupants out while more and more soldiers gathered on the slopes of the hills north of the action to watch the show. Hidden in the brushy ravine, unseen women wailed and children cried out pitifully. Above the curious soldiers,warriors gathering along the ridge shelves shouted encouragement to those who were trapped. On the hillsides across the creek bottom from the ravine’s mouth stood several hundred troopers and foot soldiers, all soundly cursing the Indians cowering in their cave, venting their spleens at their cornered quarry.
Crook, Bourke, Schuyler, and the rest of the general’s staff took up position west of the ravine. Just to the east of them and closest to the mouth hunkered some of Crook’s scouts: Big Bat and Little Bat, with Buffalo Chips Charlie stretched out between the half-breeds, given the general’s orders to talk to the Indians in their own tongue and convince them to surrender.
As Seamus and Grouard watched, they could hear only bits of the scouts’ talk to those in the ravine, what with the clamor and gunfire and hellish din of soldiers and warriors all yelling themselves insensible, as well as the screaming and wails of those squaws and children snared in what surely must be a death trap.
“General,” scout White called out to Crook, “Big Bat tells me these Sioux are saying there’s more hostiles coming to jump us. Says Crazy Horse is camped nearby.”
“I couldn’t ask for a better birthday present,” Crook replied. “No matter that he’s a day late!”
Turning back to the half-breed scouts, White grumbled loudly as he crawled closer to the edge of the ravine, saying, “If you boys don’t have the nerve—I’ll show you a good shot myself!”
Once, then twice, the two half-breeds pulled at White’s legs, yanking him back from the exposed lip right below some thick brush.
“Leave me be, boys!” White hollered, trying to kick his legs free of the two scouts lying farther down the steep slope. “I can see one of the redskins in there, and I can put a bead on him in a heartbeat.”
One last time Big Bat reached out to get a new purchase on his fellow scout, but that third time White snapped his legs out of reach and rose slightly on his knees to quickly bring his carbine to his shoulder.
A bullet slammed him backward at the very instant that single gunshot thundered out of the ravine and rolled across the narrow creek bottom.
“Oh, God!” White groaned as he was flung down the embankment, his rifle tumbling out of his hand. “My God! I’m done for this time, boys!”
Garnier and Pourier scrambled down the muddy slope and were at his side in an instant. But it was plain to see by the bright, glistening stain on White’s chest that he was shot right through the heart. With his eyes fluttering, Charlie’s legs twitched convulsively for a moment more; then he went limp as his bowels voided.
“Lieutenant Clark!” Crook bellowed.
“Yes, General?” answered William Philo Clark, detached from the Second Cavalry to serve as one of Crook’s staff. Having come upriver by steamboat to join the expedition on the Yellowstone, he came bounding up to the general in a pair of fringed buckskin britches and a buckskin jacket, buttoned clear up to his throat, all of his clothes properly baptized with Dakota mud.
“Get those bastards!” Crook yelled as Clark loped up. “Call for volunteers, Mr. Clark! Twenty men—take them down there and clean out that nest of vipers!”
Clark saluted. “Very good, sir!”
Following the lieutenant, those men who had volunteered to flush the hostiles crouched forward more in a flurry of bravery and energy than in any good sense. Another barrage of shots from the ravine tore through the soldiers’ ranks. Private Edward Kennedy of C Troop, Fifth Cavalry, bellowed like a gutted hog as he went down, hit in both legs, most of one calf blown away and spurting blood in gouts. Nearby Private John M. Stevenson of Company I, Second Cavalry, dropped his carbine and wrapped both hands around his left ankle, blood oozing between his fingers as he pitched to the stream bottom, groaning in pain.
Along the side of the ridge at the top of the ravine some of the spectators pitched some burning brands into the brushy depths, but the torches had no effect on the hostiles, landing instead on damp ground where they were soon to snuff themselves out with no dry tinder to catch and hold the flames.
When more of the curious and angry onlookers edged forward, Crook ordered them back while Lieutenant Clark re-formed his men and prepared for a second rush of the ravine. From a protected lip near the mouth of the coulee, Clark had his volunteers fire three point-bl
ank volleys into the brush. Each round of shots was followed by a renewed wail from the women and even more pitiful screams from the children.
“Call your men back, Lieutenant!” Crook finally ordered, his face showing the strain of frustration.
Clark’s volunteers gladly withdrew from their suicidal mission.
As the soldiers backed away from harm’s way, the general hollered at Grouard. “Frank—how many women and children do you suppose are in there?”
“No way I can say, General.”
At that moment close to a hundred soldiers swarmed off the slopes and into the creek bottom, rushing the mouth of the ravine, seething with their own anger. Lieutenant Clark was forced to stand, exposing himself to a bullet in the back from the hostiles in the coulee as he railed at the enraged soldiers, attempting to physically restrain some of those at the head of the mob.
On the nearby hillside Crook cried out like a scalded cat, ordering every last one of his officers to regain control of their men.
Lieutenant John Bourke and Captain Samuel Munson of the Ninth Infantry joined in, putting their bodies between the soldiers and the enemy. For fevered minutes it became a free-for-all there on the edge of the coulee, as much a wrestling match as a shouting and cursing fest. For all their stouthearted courage Bourke and Munson were overwhelmed and knocked off their feet, sent sailing into the depths of the ravine, where they landed among some women and children splattered with plenty of mud and blood, all of them screaming like banshees rising right out of the maw of hell at the sudden appearance of the soldiers in their midst.
Surprised and caught off guard, the warriors didn’t have time to turn from where they had been intently watching the mouth of the ravine in time to see the two white men before the pair of officers scrambled up the soft, giving side of the ravine, shrieking for help and hands to pull them to safety.
“Bejaysus, Johnny!” Donegan grumbled as he hauled back, yanking Bourke up the muddy, sodden side of the ravine.
The lieutenant landed squarely on Seamus as the screams of the women and children died behind them.
“Thanks, Irishman,” Bourke huffed breathlessly, his face smeared with mud as he crawled off Donegan. “I owe you for that.”
“Aye, Johnny—you do owe me,” Seamus said, grinning. “Once we ride back to Fetterman, I’ll expect your gratitude in a whiskey glass.”
*The Plainsmen Series, Vol. 5, Devil’s Backbone.
* United States Indian Department
Chapter 41
9 September 1876
The lieutenant called Bourke was more than muddy from his spill into the ravine; from what Baptiste Pourier could see, the soldier was shaking like a wet dog when the Irishman pulled him out of danger. As far as Bat knew, the wide-eyed, frightened young officer had never been that close to the enemy before—ever. Not even when the Sioux nearly surrounded and captured him on horseback during Crook’s battle on the Rosebud.
As he crouched there beside Frank Grouard waiting to see just what the soldiers and their officers would do next, Pourier heard Crook suspend the assault on the ravine. Then Crook called for Bat and Grouard. The half-breeds crawled back from the mouth of the ravine, turned, and headed over to see what the general had on his mind.
“Talk to them,” Crook said, a little desperation creeping into his voice. “See if you can get them to understand I don’t want to have to kill every last one of them.”
“It ain’t gonna do no good,” Grouard grumbled. “Them are Sioux in there.”
“Frank’s probably right,” Pourier agreed. Everything he knew of the Lakota told him they wouldn’t give up. “They sooner die than come out.”
“I asked you to give it a try,” Crook repeated, this time glaring at the two scouts. “Do I make myself understood?”
“Pretty plain to me, General,” Grouard replied before he turned away with Big Bat.
Pourier said nothing as he slid back down the creek bank and returned to the mouth of the ravine.
Frank called to the Sioux in their own tongue, “You will not be killed if you come out now.”
“Why don’t you come in and get us, Grabber!” was the bold reply. “Come in and get us with your soldiers!”
“Seems they know your voice good, Frank,” Pourier said, poking an elbow in Grouard’s rib.
Against Crook’s orders some soldiers answered the courageous Sioux taunt with rifle fire directed into the ravine. It took some perilous minutes before officers silenced those guns and ordered their men back so the negotiations could continue.
“You think maybe these soldiers kill us by mistake?” Pourier wondered. “Maybe they shoot us in the back—they want those Sioux so bad, eh?”
Ignoring Bat, Grouard again pressed his offer.
“This is how you tell us to surrender?” came the loud voice from the ravine.
“It was a mistake!” Bat hollered in Lakota.
“Is that the other trader’s son out there?” demanded the angry voice in the ravine. “The one who came with Grabber bringing soldiers to destroy our camps, to kill our women and children?”
Grouard told them, “The soldier chief wants to let your women and children come out before they are killed.”
The warrior replied, “But you send bullets to prove the lie in your words.”
“No—the soldier guns are quiet now,” Grouard answered.
“We do not worry about the soldier guns, Grabber. Very soon Crazy Horse will be here to take every one of those guns from your soldiers!”
Grouard turned and slid back down the slope with Pourier. At the bottom he signaled Crook with a shrug. The frustrated general waved his arms, shouting his command. In turn his officers ordered their men to resume their bombardment of the ravine.
“By Jupiter,” Crook grumbled to his staff, “when will those Sioux see just what will happen if they don’t surrender?”
Bat hunkered low on the cold ground with Grouard while the renewed barrage continued, wishing he had a cup of hot coffee. After more than an hour the general again called a stop to the noisy siege. As the gunfire died off, Crook asked his half-breed scouts to take up negotiations once more. While Grouard started talking to the hostiles again, Pourier crept up the slope, inching along the edge of the ravine on his belly beneath the thick brush, hoping to get himself a look at its occupants.
Suddenly, to his surprise, right below Bat huddled a woman who muttered as if she was talking to herself.
Leaping down the side of the coulee, Pourier found her very frightened, shivering with cold and painted with sticky mud. Although she immediately lunged away from him, Bat spoke softly to her.
“Come with me. Meet the soldier chief. See that he will not harm you if you surrender now.”
For a moment more her wild, wide eyes held abject fear. But when she began to babble, pleading for her life, tears streaming from her eyes, Bat knew he had convinced her. If he could get one of the Sioux out safely, the rest would come as well.
Slowly he reached for her muddy hand when the brush behind her parted. Through the branches appeared a warrior with a pistol in his hand, pointed at Pourier. Between the two of them huddled the squaw.
Bat grabbed the woman’s hand, whirling her around, shoving her in a heap toward the warrior. As he dived to get out of the woman’s way, the warrior yelped in anger, finding himself suddenly without his pistol. Pourier had ripped it from his enemy. Now Bat had them both covered. The woman argued with the man, but he said nothing. Only his hate-filled eyes spoke volumes.
While the half-breed debated with himself how he was to get his two prisoners out of the ravine without the soldiers shooting them all, a very old woman appeared from the brush. Under her arm was a young girl he supposed could be no more than nine or ten summers. Grandmother and granddaughter were both splattered with mud and blood and gore.
Pourier quickly motioned with a pistol barrel, pointing to the mouth of the ravine. “Go. We show you now the soldier chief is a man of his word. Hono
r. He will not kill those who surrender.”
Near the brushy mouth of the coulee Pourier ordered his captives to halt. Then he hollered so the soldiers could hear. “Get me General Crook!”
“Who the hell is that in there?”
“Pourier!”
“The scout?”
“Yes—get me General Crook!”
“How the hell did you get in there with the goddamned hostiles?”
“It don’t matter—just get me Crook. I come out if I talk to him!”
“C’mon out, Bat!”
Relief flooded over him. It was the general’s voice. “I got some prisoners for you, General. Some of those what wanna give up.”
Cautiously he pushed through the brush into the open, his chest hammering like a steam piston as he looked at all the muzzles of those rifles and pistols pointed his way. But Crook was there, extending his hand. Urging him on.
Turning slightly, Bat reached back into the brush and took the hand of the old woman. Even though her face registered her immense fear, she was the first to walk toward Pourier. Then the young girl, and at last the young woman came forward at a crouch, as terrified as a snow-shoe hare surrounded by prairie wolves.
“This cannot be Three Stars,” the old woman said to the half-breed. “The soldier chief?”
For a moment Pourier looked at Crook, then understood the woman’s confusion. The general wore no finery. In fact he had nothing on to indicate any rank at all. His boots were as muddy as any soldier’s, his long caped wool coat as ragged as those worn by the Montana Volunteers, and his nondescript hat was shabby protection from the rain that dribbled through his beard.
Pointing at Crook, he told her, “Yes, this is Three Stars.”
Almost immediately the old woman’s face drained of fear, and her expression reverted to one of relief when she realized she was under the care of the soldier chief. When she lunged forward to grasp Crook’s hand in a flurry, nearby soldiers jumped in, seizing her, scared for the general’s safety: But the old squaw only petted Three Stars’s hand, gripping it for her life, murmuring quietly at the soldier chiefs side.
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