Savage Cry

by Charles G. West

  Although there were other lodges around Gray Bird’s, no one seemed to pay any attention to the embarrassed white man standing close behind the tipi, pleading with his sluggish organ to hurry. Just managing to finish as Gray Bird worked her way to the rear of the tipi, Clay strode quickly back to the fire where Badger was still holding the cup of coffee for him.

  “I reckon I’ve got room to hold it now,” Clay said, making an effort to seem unperturbed. One look at Badger’s beaming face told him that it was not convincing. By God, he told himself, I’m damn sure not going to be the last one up anymore.

  By the time the sun had gained a reasonable foothold in the morning sky, the Lakota camp was loaded on packhorses and travois and ready to depart the banks of the North Platte. Clay could not help but be amazed by the efficiency of it. The women did all the work, while the men saw to their horses. Clay concerned himself with saddling Red and repacking his own meager supplies while Badger conferred with Little Hawk and other men of the village over the trail to be taken.

  Clay no longer harbored cautious feelings as he moved about the camp, for there had been no signs of hostility from anyone. Besides, he figured, if they planned to scalp me, they’d have most likely done it last night while I was sleeping like a baby. Still, he remembered what Badger had said the night before—there would be war between the Sioux and the soldiers. Clay told himself that he would not be concerned with any such war, other than to steer clear of it. His main concern was to find Martha. That accomplished, he wouldn’t mind catching up with Robert and Charley Vinings. He figured he had a score to settle with those two. As he looked around him in this seemingly peaceful camp, he could not imagine that he had any cause to fight these people. And he was still too fresh from Appomattox to feel any loyalty to Yankee soldiers. If the Sioux and the Union army want to fight, let ’em. It ain’t none of my affair.

  For the next few days, Clay rode beside Badger in the advanced scouting party, as Little Hawk’s village traveled toward the Powder River valley. Behind them, the rest of the village stretched out for over a mile with the horse herd in the middle of the procession. They were followed by women, some riding, their lodges and possessions on travois, leaving deep scars on the prairie floor. Flanking scouts rode far out from the moving village, vigilant for signs of game or any enemy that might threaten the safety of the people. Children were all about the wide column, some riding ponies, some on foot, running in and out among the leisurely moving horses. Clay looked back on the procession behind him. For all the appearance of bustle and confusion, it was surprisingly efficient, and it certainly was a spectacle for a greenhorn’s eye.

  According to Badger, the trail they traveled was generally in the same direction as the disputed Bozeman Trail, which more and more white wagon trains were using. “This is what the Sioux is all het up about,” he said. “This feller Bozeman cut a shortcut to the goldfields right smack through Sioux territory, and Red Cloud and the other chiefs aim to put a stop to it. And they didn’t get it done peaceful back yonder at Fort Laramie, so they figure on gettin’ it done another way.”

  “If it comes to war, as you say, whose side are you gonna take?”

  Clay had asked the one question that had troubled Badger for more than a few days now. Unlike Clay, Badger felt a strong loyalty to the blue-coated troopers at Fort Laramie. They were just one army to him, he had never had to concern himself with north and south. He had served as scout on more patrols than he could remember, and many of the officers and enlisted men were his friends. Added to this was the fact that he was a white man—even though he had an Indian wife, a man couldn’t go against his own kind. On the other hand, he couldn’t see himself leading a cavalry patrol against Little Hawk. This was one of the reasons he was now going back to the Powder River country with his wife—he preferred to be away from the fort when Red Cloud announced an end to the peace talks by walking out. “I don’t rightly know,” he finally answered Clay. “I reckon I’m on both sides, so I guess I’ll try to stay clear of it.” He didn’t say anything more on the subject, but he was giving a great deal of consideration to the notion of going back up in the mountains, trapping, until the fighting was over.

  It didn’t take long for Clay to become comfortable in his new living arrangements with Badger and Gray Bird. He even became accustomed to Gray Bird’s unblinking gaze, which seemed always upon him—and which immediately transformed into a broad smile that made her eyes crinkle whenever he caught her staring. The woman certainly knows how to take care of her husband, he thought, watching her scurry around to anticipate Badger’s every need. There was little wonder why the old scout chose this way of life.

  On the second day out from Laramie, one of the outriders spotted a herd of antelope grazing near a small stream. A hunting party was organized to obtain some fresh meat for the camp, and Clay was invited to join them. Realizing that it was an opportunity to learn something from the skilled Sioux hunters, he stayed back, watching closely as they stalked the nervous beasts. When they had worked their way into range, however, Clay was then confident that he could hold his own from that point on. Unlimbering the Winchester, he brought two of the antelope down with two shots placed neatly behind the front legs. No one else got more than one animal. His marksmanship drew nods of approval from the other hunters, and he turned to see an admiring smile on Badger’s face.

  “That’s some right fancy shootin’,” Badger allowed. He had been more than a little curious to see if Clay was a real rifleman, or just a greenhorn with a shiny new toy. “Yessir, that shore is a mighty slick-lookin’ rifle. I was wonderin’ if you could hit anything with it.”

  “I generally hit what I’m aiming at,” was Clay’s simple response. It was not a boast, merely an honest answer. He tossed the rifle to Badger since the old scout looked as if he wanted to examine it again.

  After checking it over thoroughly, Badger admitted, “It’s a sight fancier than my old Henry. That’s a fact. But I reckon me and my rifle has got to know each other pretty well. We sorta take care of each other.”

  “I reckon any rifle’s only as good as the man pulling the trigger,” Clay replied when Badger returned the Winchester to his hand.

  “I reckon,” Badger agreed. The old scout was beginning to realize there was a good bit of steel under the calm exterior of his new young friend.

  There was a big feast in the camp that night. Clay ate his fill of the fresh meat. It was a new experience for him; he had never eaten antelope before. Gray Bird scraped and cleaned the hides, rolling them up to be worked on later when they reached the Powder.

  Lying beneath the open sky of the prairie, Clay felt a sense of peace and belonging that he had not experienced elsewhere. Looking around him at the people who had already befriended him, he wondered at the tales of the “savage redman” he had heard before. Far from the savage image they had been given by the white man in the East, these Lakota were a happy, fun-loving people, who enjoyed their families and were as one with the wild land they roamed. He decided then that he had much to learn about the nomadic natives of the Great Plains.

  On the morning of the fourth day they entered the foothills, and Clay saw the first dark silhouettes of the tall mountains called the Black Hills. As he reined Red to a stop and sat gazing at the silent range to the northeast, Badger pulled up beside him.

  “Paha Sapa—the Black Hills—if your brother-in-law knew for sure he was in the Black Hills, then somewhere in them mountains is where his cabin was.”

  “I expect that’s where I’ll start looking, then,” Clay replied.

  “It’ll be a day or so before we git directly west of them mountains. Wait till we strike the Belle Fourche—that’ll be time enough for you to head out. And don’t go talkin’ about going into the Black Hills. Some of these folks know a little white-man talk, and them mountains is sacred territory to the Lakota—big medicine. They don’t look too kindly on any white man ridin’ through there.” He let it go at that, but he was thinkin
g, if Clay went riding off into the hills by himself, not knowing anything about the country, it would likely be the last anybody would see of him. Damn greenhorns, can’t wait to git theirselves kilt, he thought, but that wasn’t what really bothered him. He had taken a liking to this determined young man, and that was what bothered his mind. He didn’t enjoy the thought of Clay’s scalp on some warrior’s lance. And even though he was convinced that Clay would give a good account of himself in a fight, he knew his young friend didn’t understand the way of survival in Indian territory. Ain’t no skin off my back, he tried to tell himself.

  When Little Hawk’s band of Lakotas reached the Belle Fourche, there was a Sioux hunting party already camped there from a village near the Tongue River. They were led by a cousin of Little Hawk’s wife named Black Crow. The camp was busy preparing for a hunt the following morning on a herd of buffalo they had been following since early that afternoon. Little Hawk decided to take advantage of the opportunity to add to the village’s food supply. Since the neighboring Sioux hunting party was small, Black Crow welcomed Little Hawk’s hunters.

  According to Black Crow, the buffalo were grazing in a shallow valley a short distance to the east of the river, working their way slowly toward the north. His scouts had found a deep gulch ahead of the herd, a bit to the east, that would serve as a perfect trap. The problem had been that his hunters were few, and there were not enough of them to stampede the herd and turn them toward the gulch. For that reason, they had planned to simply ride into the herd on their ponies, killing as many as they could before the massive herd of buffalo moved through the valley. So it was that Black Crow looked upon Little Hawk’s arrival as a definite sign of good fortune. Now there would be a sufficent number of hunters to drive the buffalo toward the gulch, where a great many of the mob would be forced over the edge of the open ravine by those in the rear.

  This was a time of excitement for Clay, causing him to forget for a moment the single-minded purpose of his journey. He had never seen a buffalo, even at a distance, and he was anxious to join the hunt. Badger advised him that this was not going to be like any hunting he had done in the past. This was simply an exercise to store up their food cache with a great quantity of meat and hides.

  “We’re just gonna run ’em over the edge of a gulch so they’ll break their necks.” Seeing a look of slight disappointment in Clay’s face, he added, “That rifle of your’n wouldn’t hardly knock a bull down, anyway, without you place your shots right.” He nodded toward a group of warriors readying their weapons. “Now those boys can take one down with nothin’ but them bows, but they have to ride in close and place their arrows right behind the last rib for a lung shot.”

  Clay nodded soberly. He carefully considered every bit of information Badger offered, but he was confident that his Winchester could bring one of the great beasts down if a Sioux hunter could do it with an arrow.

  “It wouldn’t hurt to lay over here a couple of days, anyway,” Badger continued. “We’re gonna need a good supply of dried meat if we’re goin’ lookin’ for your sister.” He shot an appraising look in Clay’s direction. “You might find a buffalo robe to be right handy, too, since you ain’t got nothin’ but that one blanket. You’re gonna need a packhorse, too. Have you got anything to trade?”

  “I’ve got that fifty dollars,” Clay replied. He had not missed the fact that Badger had casually said “we” when he spoke of searching for Martha.

  “Fifty dollars don’t mean much to a Lakota warrior. I don’t know if you noticed, but we ain’t passed many stores out here on the prairie. Ain’t you got nothin’ else?”

  Clay thought for a moment. “I’ve got an old army revolver in my saddlebag. It’s not very accurate over twenty yards.”

  “Got any bullets for it?”

  “A box.”

  “That’ll do. Gitcha a horse good enough to carry a pack, anyway.”

  They started out for the buffalo before sunup the next morning, following Black Crow’s hunters as they rode silently through the foothills. Even the ponies seemed to be aware of the nearness of the great herd, and they moved on muffled hooves through the gently waving prairie grass. Stopping at a point a quarter of a mile downwind, Black Crow divided the hunting party into three groups. Clay and Badger went with the riders who were to cross over the valley and drive the herd from the eastern side. Even at this distance, Clay could smell the great herd as they started milling around in the early morning light. Musky and strong, the scent carried on the morning breeze, filling his head with excitement for the hunt.

  Although the plan was for a wholesale slaughter by driving the animals over the steep edge of a gulch, some of the younger warriors were anxious to make individual kills to show off their skill as hunters. Clay watched with interest as the young men stripped down to nothing more than breechclouts and their weapons. He noticed that each hunter tied a rope around his horse’s neck and let it trail behind. When Clay asked the purpose of the trailing rope, Badger replied, “To grab a’holt of if he falls off’n his horse.”

  By the time Clay’s party had made a wide circle to come up on the herd’s eastern flank, the sun was just beginning to probe the darkened ravines with lengthening fingers of light. They were close to the congregation of milling beasts, so close that Clay could feel the trembling of the earth. Still he had not yet seen them. As they waited for Black Crow’s signal, one of Little Hawk’s warriors appeared on foot. He wore a wolfskin on his back with the head attached, and he came directly to Badger. While the two talked, there was a great deal of hand gestures and nodding heads, as the man in the wolfskin gave Badger the lay of the land and the most likely avenue of the chase.

  When Badger translated the scout’s instructions, Clay was curious as to why the man wore a wolfskin when he moved in so close to the buffalo. “Wasn’t he afraid he might spook the buffalo with that getup on?”

  Badger shook his head. “Nah. Buffalo ain’t worried about a wolf or two sneakin’ around the herd. They’re used to seein’ ’em, following along, hopin’ to git a chance at a sick animal, or a calf away from the bunch.” He was about to expound on the damage a buffalo could do to a wolf when he was interrupted by a loud, high-pitched war whoop from the far side of the valley. The drive was on!

  An immediate explosion of noise erupted from the group of riders waiting in the narrow confines of the grassy draw as war whoops and gunfire launched the chase. Clay was caught up in the mob of galloping horses that drove hell-bent for leather out of the mouth of the draw and onto the valley floor. From behind the herd, and from the far side of the valley, the rest of the large hunting party galloped, filling the tiny valley with enough noise and pandemonium to cause confusion in the massive herd of buffalo. The leading bull, and those around him, broke into a run. But due to the size of the herd, the dark mass of shaggy beasts started slowly, with those animals in the rear barely trotting at first—some doing no more than shifting about nervously from side to side—until those just ahead of them began to run. Then like a bobbing sea of massive bodies, the entire herd moved toward the upper end of the valley, slowly gaining momentum until the rearmost were running as fast as the leaders.

  Caught up in the excitement, Clay found himself yelling a loud Rebel yell at the top of his lungs, as he let Red have his head. The big sorrel needed no encouragement to race with the Indian ponies, and soon horse and rider were flying down into the valley at don’t-give-a-damn speed with no thought toward caution. All around him, the Lakota hunters charged down upon the frantic sea of buffalo. Already, some of the young men were cutting individual buffalo out, as their swift, nimble-footed Indian ponies darted in and out of the moving mass of hair and muscle. One slip would mean sudden death, yet the young braves seemed bent on outdoing each other in their daring.

  Clay continued to gallop alongside the herd, following Badger, whose feet were flailing the sides of his horse, beseeching the animal to run faster. By the time they had covered half of the valley, Clay could f
eel Red gradually losing ground to the smaller Indian ponies, but the big chestnut would not admit defeat, his hooves pounding on the valley floor as he strained with every muscle in his body. The big red horse had too much heart for his own good. For his horse’s sake, Clay was relieved when the lead bulls were finally turned at the head of the valley and driven blindly toward the edge of a deep gulch.

  The leading bulls, suddenly finding themselves at the edge of a sheer precipice, tried desperately to turn. But there was no way open to them, and like a colossal train wreck, the frantic bodies behind them piled up upon each other until the weight of the massive herd hurled those in front over the edge. The valley was filled with a crescendo of noise, a combination of gunfire, war whoops, and the bawling of the doomed buffalo. A great cloud of dust rolled up the length of the narrow valley, restricting Clay’s vision so that the panic-stricken beasts appeared ghostlike as they bumped and stumbled their way onward.

  It was not clear through the dusty chaos, but Clay guessed that as many as a hundred buffalo pitched over the steep edge of the gulch before the herd was able to turn itself, and charge toward the open end of the valley. He pulled Red up beside Badger’s horse, and the two of them watched the herd until it disappeared into the hills. Then they joined the other hunters who were making their way around the steep sides of the gulch in order to reach the carnage at the bottom. No sooner had the last stragglers of the mammoth herd disappeared when the women and children of Little Hawk’s village arrived, ready for the butchering.