Until then hug yourselves for me. And tell my son that his father loves him more than breath itself. Know that I love and cherish you more, much, much more than I do my own life.
Samantha crumpled into the overstuffed pillow, trying her best to muffle her whimpering sobs. This not knowing, this simple matter of just plain enduring day after day…. Was she strong enough to be Seamus Donegan’s wife?
She cried and cried and cried some more that afternoon and didn’t realize until the baby’s cries awoke her that she had cried herself to sleep.
Quickly she went to the child’s tiny bed, swept the boy into her arms, and clutched him to her tightly, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Dear God,” she whispered there as she cradled her child, “just as I am holding the son of Seamus Donegan in my hands, I pray you’ll hold Seamus himself in yours.”
She worked quickly at the buttons on the front of her dress, pulling aside the linen bodice to free one breast. The boy took to it eagerly.
“Keep Seamus warm,” she whispered, laying her lips atop the child’s warm, furry head. “Holy Mother, watch over your wayward child in the wilderness.”
BY TELEGRAPH
WASHINGTON
The Black Hills Committee.
WASHINGTON, December 26:—The president today sent to the senate a message enclosing the report of the proceedings of the commission appointed to treat with the Sioux Indians for the relinquishment of their right to the Black Hills. He calls special attention to the articles of agreement by the commission. Among the other advantages to be gained by them is the right of citizens to go into the country of which they have taken possession, from which they cannot be excluded; ordered printed and tabled.
No one knew how long it would take for the Sans Arc runner to reach the Sitting Bull camp.
Many suns ago Crazy Horse had asked for a volunteer, a man who could ride day and night, switching back and forth between three ponies, galloping north to find the Hunkpapa people. He was carrying Crazy Horse’s request that Sitting Bull trade for ammunition with the Red River Slota north of the Muddy Water River.* Trade for as many weapons as the Hunkpapa could get their hands on.
Then he asked Sitting Bull himself to bring the rifle cartridges to the Shifting Sands River,† where the Hunkpapa camp circle would rendezvous with the Crazy Horse people. And once more they would be strong enough to turn back, perhaps to wipe out, all wasicu soldiers—with enough bullets and guns, the Titunwan Lakota would never have to bow their heads in shame like those who had been driven back to the agencies.
Day after day Spotted Elk watched and waited for the runner to return with word that Sitting Bull was on his way, especially now that they knew the Bear Coat’s soldiers were marching south toward the villages. With his slow wagons pulled by the plodding, lead-footed animals the white men were so fond of, it would take the Bear Coat many more days before his men were a threat to the women and children in the villages. Once the soldiers reached the ground Crazy Horse had selected for their battle, only then would the warriors ride out to engage them.
If the ammunition and guns arrived in time, then their war against the wasicu could go on, and they never would have to surrender, Spotted Elk realized. But if after he had delivered that precious cargo, Sitting Bull still desired to flee back across the Elk River, north beyond the Muddy Water River until he had crossed the Medicine Line into the Land of the Grandmother, then Crazy Horse would not try to stop the Hunkpapa visionary.
Then Crazy Horse would be on his own.
After the decoys left for the soldier post, the Horse ordered that the village move upstream from the mouth of Suicide Creek# to the sheltered mouth of Prairie Dog Creek, which flowed into the Buffalo Tongue from the west. With plenty of wood close at hand as well as a warm, seeping spring that did not freeze over even in the coldest weather, the camp raised their lodges, sent out small hunting parties of the younger boys, and kept wolves moving up and down the Buffalo Tongue day after day—watching the Bear Coat’s army advance through the deepening snow.
Just as Spotted Elk watched Crazy Horse.
What were they to do as leaders? Because the hunters could find too few buffalo that winter, their people were hungry. There weren’t enough hides to make lodges where every man, woman, and child would stay warm. And because this was the coldest winter any of the old ones could ever remember, many of the Lakota were sick.
Not just the red, raw noses sore and cracked inside because of the cold, dry air … but more and more were becoming truly sick. Even Black Shawl—the wife of Crazy Horse. In her chest rattled the dry rasp of death-coming. Spotted Elk never saw her without a piece of cloth she would use to cover her mouth each time she coughed, bringing up flecks of blood and tiny pieces of her lungs.
So Spotted Elk watched Crazy Horse, feeling sick in his spirit for the Shirt Wearer—for both of them knew it was only a matter of time before the woman took her last, painful breath.
Then no one knew for sure just what the Strange Man of the Oglalla would do.
Would he find himself another wife, who would be like a balm to soothe his mourning? Or would he be so consumed with grief that he would abandon his responsibility to his people and finally wander off from the village for good? So consumed with hate at the wasicu and his diseases that he would single-handedly attack the soldier column because he no longer wanted to live?
There really was no telling, Spotted Elk decided—because Crazy Horse was not acting like himself these recent days of endless cold. At one time Spotted Elk would have declared he knew what was held in the heart of Crazy Horse … but no longer was he so sure. Never before would he have thought Crazy Horse the sort of leader who would keep his people in the village by force. This was a strange thing for Crazy Horse to do: ordering his akicita to kill the ponies of those who tried to sneak back to the agencies, to cut up their lodges, break their lodgepoles, steal their powder and bullets.
Aiyeee! This was a strange and terrible time for the Lakota people who tried hard to remain steadfast in their loyalty to the great mystic of the Oglalla.
Maybe it was as Crazy Horse tried to explain. “You see,” he told the other camp leaders, “I make it plain what will happen to any who attempt to return to the agencies.”
“What are you so afraid will happen to those who go in?” asked Long Feather.
“The wasicu will shoot them,” Crazy Horse declared.
Many clamped their hands over their mouths in amazement.
“This is not a strange or silly notion,” Crazy Horse argued. “Just look what happened to our chiefs who went to talk to the Bear Coat about surrender.”
“Perhaps Crazy Horse is right,” He Dog said to that hushed council. “There is no life in surrender. Only death—death from the white man’s diseases, from the starvation, perhaps even from the wasicu’s bullets once the soldiers and agents have robbed us of our weapons and we can no longer protect our families.”
For a time there even the Shahiyela wanted to break away. When Crazy Horse decided the village should head on up Hanging Woman Creek toward the eastern divide, Little Wolf, Morning Star, and the other chiefs stood their ground and declared that it was better to find game for their starving people if they continued due south, up the Buffalo Tongue River, as fast as possible to get as far as they could from the Bear Coat’s soldiers.
Those had been hard days for Crazy Horse, with his friends wanting to desert the struggle, and hearing no word from the Sitting Bull camps. And now the Shahiyela were going their own way. Yes, Spotted Elk ruminated: it must have made Crazy Horse feel very lonely. With all the bands deciding to take their own trail, no more were they a powerful people able to withstand and even defeat the finest pony soldiers sent against them, time and time again.
They had watched Morning Star and Lone Wolf take the Shahiyela south along the leafless cottonwoods bordering the Buffalo Tongue. For three sunrises the Crazy Horse camp had moved up Suicide Creek while the great chief brooded m
ore and more. Eventually, Crazy Horse turned his people around and went south in search of the Shahiyela.
Once rejoined, he told the Ohmeseheso that they would all continue up the Buffalo Tongue River to the warm spring near the mouth of Prairie Dog Creek. There they would choose the place where they would make a stand. Here among the bluffs they would await the soldiers.
Hunhunhe! Shameful the things that so strong a leader as Crazy Horse must do to hold together his fragile confederation at the moment the Bear Coat was marching his soldiers toward their village! What torment for a proud man to swallow his pride for the sake of a thankless people.
Enough shame and torment that even the strongest of Lakota hearts would feel small, cold, and on the ground.
*The Missouri River.
†The Powder River.
#Present-day Hanging Woman Creek.
Chapter 22
30 December 1876-3 January 1877
BY TELEGRAPH
MISSOURI
Another Radical Outrage
ST. LOUIS, December 27.—In accordance with orders from Washington, all ordnance stores at the St. Louis arsenal, formerly Jefferson Barracks, are to be removed, the cannon, over 800 in number, to Rock Island, and the guns, and pistols to the New York arsenal. The removal will commence at once. The arsenal here is to be converted into a cavalry recruiting station.
NEW MEXICO
Big Strike of Mineral at Silver City
SILVER CITY, December 27.—A large body of first-class ore was uncovered in the “Seventy-six” mine on the 23rd inst…. The first ten tons of ore were broken from the mass in a few hours by one drill, and is estimated to be worth from $500 to $1,000 per ton…. The miners and all the citizens of this place are greatly excited.
On Saturday the thirtieth the column was forced to cross and recross the frozen Tongue more than ten times. The order of the march issued by Miles dictated that the column begin its journey for the day shortly before or at first light. Each morning a new company would take its place at the head of the march in rotation, while other companies moved along the flanks, and a rear guard protected the wagon train.
That afternoon they forded Pumpkin Creek, which flowed in from the east, and made their bivouac for the night in a spot that not only offered water and wood, but was easily defensible if the Sioux should decide to turn about and attempt an attack. At each camp the colonel established a tight ring of pickets, allowed the animals to graze the best they could until dark, then brought the horses, mules, and oxen within the corral of wagons for the night, where the men continued to feed the animals on strips of cottonwood bark.
During their march on the morning of the thirty-first they found the valley growing wider, the spare, naked bluffs on either side of them now topped with stunted pine and cedar. Nonetheless, the twisting path of the Tongue required Second Lieutenant Oscar F. Long’s engineering detachment to work far in advance preparing the banks for the supply wagons to cross the frozen river several times throughout that short winter day. Along the trail they passed more than a dozen dead cattle before finally catching up to Captain Dickey’s and Lieutenant Mason Carter’s battalions. At this point they had put forty-six miles behind them since leaving the Tongue River Cantonment.
That New Year’s Eve there was little to celebrate, and most of the weary men were asleep well before midnight, quietly wrapped in their two blankets, back-to-back with their bunkie not long after dark had gripped the land. About all that any of them had cause to rejoice in before they fell into a cold, fitful, exhausted stupor was the fact that they were all together again—seven companies of infantry—along with those two pieces of artillery, a handful of scouts, and a hot trail left behind by the cattle thieves.
Miles had reveille sounded at four-thirty A.M. on the first day of 1877.
In that high-plains darkness most of the men stomped circulation back into their cold feet and legs around fires nursed throughout the night. Despite the bitter subzero temperatures most men did their best to act merry, toasting one another New Year’s wishes with their steaming coffee tins. At five-thirty they were marching south beneath a brilliant moon still reflecting silver light off the icy-blue snow.
Not long after sunrise it was plain to every man that the wind had shifted out of the southwest, warming in the process. By midmorning the first of the gray rain clouds moved in, turning the frozen, snowy trail into a slimy slush. Man and animal alike fought for a foothold, sliding this way and that every yard they slogged up the valley of the Tongue. It was a wet and sullen bunch of soldiers that neared Otter Creek late that Monday afternoon.
As Seamus rode off the muddy slope of the ridge and back across the bottomland toward the column marching on the far side of the valley, he remembered none too fondly the endless days and nights of rain and mud and soul-sapping despair as he and others led Crook’s stumbling, lunging command toward the Black Hills settlements. His stomach jerked with a twinge of nausea; those were memories that knotted a man’s belly with the stringy taste of horse meat—
The first gunshot echoed like a dull crack from the far ridges across the Tongue. Then there came a scattering of shots. Donegan quickly looked over his shoulder at the hilltops behind him—relieved to find them empty—then jabbed his small brass spurs into the roan’s flanks. The gelding burst into a lope, its hooves tearing up rooster-tail cascades of powdery snow.
On the far side of the frozen river he watched the lines of soldiers knot and unfurl, officers on horseback whirling and shouting, the wagon train brought to a sudden halt. Farther to the south at the head of the march, across the river past the naked willow and in among the cottonwoods, Seamus saw the flash of movement. Lots of horsemen. Now their foreign cries cracked the cold, bursts of frosty breath jetting from each dark hole in their faces as they screamed back at the soldiers.
Leforge and his last two Crow, along with Bruguier, were hammering heels to their ponies, darting into that cottonwood grove. From the south end of the trees exploded at least two dozen horsemen, feathers fluttering, shields clattering, voices yapping as they fled upriver.
Seamus yanked back on the reins with his left hand, and the roan shuddered to a halt in the snow. With his right hand he dragged the Winchester carbine from its leather boot beneath his right leg. Knowing there was already a shell in the breech, he dragged back the hammer with his thumb as he shoved the butt into his shoulder and peered down the barrel. Squeezing off a shot at the escaping horsemen, he levered another round into the chamber and fired a second time before he figured the Sioux were simply too far for him to make any good of a third shot.
On the far side of the river Kelly had Leforge and the Crow on the way with Bruguier and Buffalo Horn close behind, all of them yipping and yelling as if they were an entire company. Thirty yards to their rear Miles stood in his stirrups, watching expectantly, ordering some of Hargous’s mounted company into the chase.
Then, flinging an arm to the right and the left, the colonel bellowed orders no more than a muffled echo to Donegan. But as quickly the nearby officers were scurrying like ants among their outfits. While some instantly spread their men into a skirmish line on that eastern side of the river, others led their men cautiously onto the ice, across, and up the snowy bank on the far side, where they deployed the companies in a tight skirmish formation extending across the valley floor and up the slope of some slimy, icy bluffs, each man no more than five feet from the next.
Occasional gunshots cracked upstream, and from moment to moment Seamus spotted a glimpse of either the Sioux horsemen or Kelly’s outfit, all of the riders bobbing in and out of sight as they rode up and down the rolling landscape. Quickly dragging his field glasses from his off-hand saddlebag, Donegan twisted the wheel and attempted to focus on the far scene. More than a mile away, the enemy disappeared beyond a far bend in the river. The only riders visible now were Kelly and the rest. Luther flung his arm into the air, stopping those behind him as it appeared he bellowed out his orders to Leforge and the Cr
ow in front of him.
“Good man, Luther,” Seamus said in a whisper, his breath huffing in a great cloud above his face as a cold mist continued to fall. “Those red bastards suck you into a mess of quicksand before you know it.”
He sighed audibly when he saw the entire bunch turn and head back to the column behind Kelly. Maybe there wasn’t any coup to count this afternoon, but at least the Sioux hadn’t sprung any trap—no ambush, no casualties, for that short, hot, running fight of it.
“By Jupiter, we could use Crook’s cavalry, couldn’t we, Donegan?” Miles roared as Seamus pushed the roan off the ice and into a grove of old cottonwood.
“As hard as these men might want to catch Crazy Horse,” Donegan replied, “it’s like a tortoise and a hare for your foot soldiers to stay up with red h’athens on horseback.”
“Just give me Mackenzie’s Fourth, and I’ll show you better than he accomplished with the Cheyenne!”
“Mackenzie did all that Crook expected of him—and more,” Donegan protested, suddenly sensing the immense, unflappable ego of the soldier before him.
Those words were just sharp enough that it appeared they brought Miles up short, stung by the civilian’s observation. Chewing a lip for a moment, Miles finally looked north, finding his scouts returning.
When he finally turned back to Donegan, Miles said, “Then the Fighting Fifth will just have to do on foot what Crook failed to do with Mackenzie’s cavalry.”
“Find and catch Crazy Horse?” Seamus asked as more of the headquarters group brought their horses to a halt around them.
“You forgot one very important part of the equation,” Miles corrected. “Find and catch—and defeat—Crazy Horse.”
Wolf Mountain Moon Page 23
