Climb the Wind: A Journey Into Another Past

by Pamela Sargent

  The wagonmaster back at Fort Lincoln had hired her as a driver. She was used to passing as a man, and he had not been looking at her any too closely anyway. The Seventh had been on the move for five days before she gave herself away. It was the whiskey, always her weakness. She had been drinking with a couple of the mule packers and had left the campfire to take a piss. One of them, growing suspicious, had followed her. If she had been sober, she would have taken more trouble to keep her voice low, conceal herself from view.

  The driver in charge of the wagons might have sent her back to the fort, but they were five days out by then and, as she had pointed out, she had been a rider for the Pony Express, and would also be useful as a scout. Calamity Jane, they called her, and the other driver had heard the name before. He had kept her on, but grudgingly. She expected that he would send her back to Fort Lincoln with the next scout carrying dispatches and letters from the men to their wives.

  They had come to a Sioux camp a couple of days ago. Custer had ridden ahead with a few of the men of E Company to assure the Indians that they were not there to attack them. That was true enough. Custer had smoked a pipe with the Sioux in that camp, and they had said nothing about the treaty of 1868 that Custer and the Seventh were violating simply by coming into this territory. Any fighting would come later, after the soldiers had returned to Fort Lincoln with their reports and people started moving into the territory around the Black Hills, as they inevitably would. The railroad engineers were itching to survey the land for tracks, and lately there were more rumors of gold. That past winter, a badly injured scout had shown up at Fort Laramie with a few gold nuggets he had found on the body of a Sioux he had killed. The man had died before he could say anything more.

  By itself, Jane thought, that story might not have meant much. But there were other stories, tales that had been going around for a while, of Indians who used gold-tipped arrows and of mysterious men who traded the gold for weapons.

  Lately, there were also a lot more stories of the Sioux chief who called himself Touch-the-Clouds. It was said that he was the one who had brought about peace between his people and the Crows. Even the Crows who still hated the Sioux had come to hate their white enemies even more. Now it was rumored that the other Sioux chiefs had given Touch-the-Clouds the power of a general over them all, even though Jane found that hard to believe. The Sioux did not fight the way white men did, by following the orders of officers and planning for the battle. It was hit and run with them, and each man fighting the enemy in his own way.

  That was one reason Custer could beat the Indians, if it came to that. To hear him tell it, he could whip the entire Sioux nation, and the Cheyennes and their other allies to boot, with just the Seventh Cavalry.

  Up ahead, in the foothills, was yet another valley alive with flowers. The men leading the way had stopped to rest and to pick more blossoms. A few had decorated their hats with flowers. One of the drivers up ahead waved his bouquet in her direction.

  The procession came to a halt. Men began to set up mess tables for the midday meal. Tom Custer, the general’s brother, had caught yet another snake with a forked stick; he lifted the snake and then threw it from his stick into the high grass.

  Jane felt uneasy. She had been feeling uneasy ever since they had left the Sioux camp where Custer had smoked the peace pipe with a couple of chiefs and a few braves. She did not like the way the general was so readily assuming that they could now move through this land safely, that the Indians would not attack. They had broken the treaty by riding here, and at last she felt the weight of that fact.

  She reminded herself that the Sioux probably lacked the men to attack them. That thought did not console her.

  The game was plentiful here. The members of the expedition had been adding venison and duck to their repasts of beans, hardtack, dried meat, and coffee. Jane, climbing down from her seat, noticed a few men creeping around the wagons, out of sight of Custer and his officers, to drink whiskey. Custer, although he didn’t partake of liquor himself, had to know how much liquor the expedition was carrying, but the men still preferred to drink it where Iron Butt could not see them.

  John Burkman, Custer’s orderly, handed Jane a filthy shirt and pair of breeches, then let her have a few sips from his flask. In return for the whiskey, she would wash the clothes; it was a trade she had going with a few of the men. She swallowed slowly, knowing that the whiskey would have to last her at least until nightfall.

  “Luther got back,” Burkman said at last, “just before we stopped.” Luther North was one of the Seventh’s scouts. “Said he saw signs of a small camp that’d been moved maybe two days ago. Found something odd there, too, a piece of painted wood.”

  “What’s so strange about a piece of painted wood?” Jane asked.

  “Didn’t look like something an Indian would make. It had these markings on it, sort of inky, almost like letters, but not like any letters I ever seen.”

  “Redskins can’t write,” Jane muttered.

  “Maybe they weren’t letters,” John Burkman said. “Maybe they were just some of their marks.”

  “Hey, Calamity,” another man called out. Jane looked up to see Isaiah Dorman, another of the scouts, walking toward her, his dark face split in a grin that showed his white teeth. That was what most of them called her, Calamity Jane, because it was said that she brought calamity to any two-timing man she ever caught fooling around behind his woman’s back. Her aim was so good, it was rumored, that she could hit her target from a long way off; it was said she had shot one man through a saloon window and creased his buttocks while he was two-timing his wife with a loose woman. She let people believe the story, even though the only part of it that contained any truth was that she was a damned good shot.

  “Isaiah,” Burkman said, “didn’t expect to see you before dark.”

  Isaiah Dorman sat down, then glanced at Jane. “You’re drinking again, Calamity,” the Negro scout said. “Ain’t good for you.”

  “Ain’t good for anybody,” Jane said, “but that never stopped no one from indulging.” She sat back as Burkman put away his flask.

  “Have to talk to the general,” Isaiah went on. “Saw something I don’t like.” He rested his hands on his knees. ‘‘Thought I saw someone following me, but every time I turned around, he wasn’t there. Finally doubled back and headed up the way we come.”

  Jane handed Isaiah a plate of beans. The black man forked them into his mouth. “See anything else?” Burkman asked.

  “Found another place where the Lakota broke camp. Some headed north with the tepees and their goods. That has to be most of the women and children. The others are following us.”

  “The braves, you mean,’’ Jane said.

  “Yeah.” Isaiah shoveled in more beans. “So I’m wondering if we might have a fight on our hands.”

  Jane thought about that. The Sioux, if they had the chance, would do their best to get their women and children safely away from any battle. But there were other reasons for the Indians to send the women in one direction and the men another. Still, she didn’t like it. Isaiah seemed to be having the same worries.

  “General Custer smoked the pipe with two chiefs,” Burkman said.

  “I know,” Isaiah said.

  “They wouldn’t have passed the pipe if they meant to fight,” Burkman said. “Couldn’t fight us anyway—they don’t have the men or the firepower. Anyway, they know we’re not here to attack them, just to look around.”

  Isaiah frowned and was silent. Jane kept her eyes on him. The black man had gone to the Sioux camp with Custer as an interpreter. Isaiah had been a courier after the war, riding between forts, and then had disappeared to go and live among the Sioux for a while. She did not know much about his life with the Indians, but it was rumored that he had become a squaw man and taken an Indian wife. He had worked for the Northern Pacific surveying team for a while, until plans for tracks west of the James River to Bismarck and beyond were abandoned in the wake of the rai
lroad’s bankruptcy and the collapses of the banks back East. Since then, Isaiah had been an interpreter and scout for the U.S. Cavalry.

  “Spotted Eagle and Fast Bear promised peace to the general,” Isaiah said at last, “as long as we leave these lands and abide by the treaty.” He would know exactly what was said, Jane thought, given that he had translated all of it. “That was after General Custer said we weren’t here to fight.”

  The two chiefs had surely known that if the Seventh was here to fight, they could have let the Indian scouts take a few scalps in that small encampment. Jane knew that Bloody Knife and some of the other Arikaras were disappointed at being held back, and some of the troops were impatient, too, men like Caleb Tornor who were always ready for killing, maybe even too ready. She was not so sure about White Man Runs Him and others of the Crow scouts, whose loyalty seemed to be to whiskey as much as to the Seventh.

  “What’s worrying me now,” Isaiah went on, “is the way Fast Bear and Spotted Eagle said what they said to General Custer—as long as we leave these lands, go away from Paha Sapa, we still be at peace. I think they was telling us—warning us—to leave right after smoking the pipe with them, and we ain’t done that.” He sighed, then finished his beans. “And now we goin’ to have trouble if there’s a heap of Indians following us.”

  “The general can lick the whole Sioux nation with just the Seventh,” Burkman said, “hell, with just these companies here.” He was only saying what Custer himself would have said.

  “I need to scout around some more,” Isaiah muttered,

  “Talk to Varnum, then, or Hare. They’ll send you out again.” Burkman stood up, stuffed the bouquet of flowers he had picked inside his hatband, and walked away.

  The sky was still blue at evening, but a few clouds had formed, hanging over the valley and the tree-covered slopes of the Black Hills. The air smelled of ozone, and occasionally there was the sound of distant thunder. Jane did not think there would be a storm, but it was hard to tell. The weather could change suddenly out here, and a storm could hit without much warning; hail, even snow, could fall in late spring or in the middle of summer.

  Jane sat by one of the campfires with three of the other wagon drivers and young Ned Banks. The men were being stingy with their whiskey; she had nagged at Ned and wheedled him and got only a small sip for her trouble. Now the others had put away their flasks. At last she got up and walked to her covered wagon.

  Isaiah Dorman was leaning against the back of the wagon. “I’m riding out tomorrow,” he said. “Lieutenant Varnum heard what I had to say and said I could go.”

  Jane wondered why he was telling this to her. “What exactly did you say to him?”

  “That maybe some of the Lakota is looking for a fight. The lieutenant shook his head at me, but told me to scout around, so I guess he ain’t so sure I’m wrong.”

  “Good luck.”

  “I asked him if you could come with me, Calamity. You’s a better shot than any of the other scouts, and I can trust you. He say if you’s crazy enough to go, I can bring you.”

  He was admitting that he could not trust the others. Maybe he couldn’t trust some of them, the Indian scouts in particular. Crows, Arikaras, half-breeds—a lot of times a black man wasn’t any better off with them than he was with whites.

  “I’ll ride out with you,” she said. “Ned can drive my wagon when the Seventh moves on.”

  “We won’t be gone long if I’m right. And if I am right, they’s already getting ready to attack us.”

  Jane said, “They can’t win, and they’ll lose too many braves if they try.”

  “We’ll lose men, too.”

  “Not as many as them,” she said.

  “That’s what I keep telling myself. I just hope it’s what the Indians think.” Isaiah turned up the collar of his blue coat and walked away.

  Before dawn, just as Jane was ready to ride out with Isaiah, it was discovered that White Man Runs Him had disappeared in the night with two of the other Crow scouts, Goes Ahead and Hairy Moccasin, and five horses. Lieutenant Luther Hare went to report that news to Custer, while Jane and Isaiah waited to find out if they would be given different orders. If White Man Runs Him had deserted, which was possible if not likely, they might be told to follow him and find out why.

  Hare was in the general’s tent for a while. The men had broken camp and loaded the mules and horses by the time the sun was up, and Hare was still talking to Custer and Benteen and the other officers inside the tent. Jane could hear their angry voices even from the hill overlooking the clearing, where she waited with Isaiah and their horses.

  At last the tent flap was lifted and Colonel Benteen stomped out, slapping his hat against his thigh before pressing it down on top of his thick gray hair. Benteen hated Custer and the feeling was mutual. They didn’t do a very good job, Jane thought, of hiding their disagreements and hatred of each other from the men.

  Hare left the tent and waved an arm in their direction. Jane trotted toward him, followed by Isaiah. “See what you can find out about where the Sioux are moving,” the lieutenant said. “Don’t bother about White Man Runs Him and the other God damn Crows—probably just got restless and decided to ride out and take a look-see. They’ll come back if they see anything we should know.”

  “What was all that hollering about in there?” Jane asked.

  The heavyset Hare gave her a look that told her that this was none of her business. Along with about half of the men, he was of the opinion that she did not belong here. Most of the others grudgingly tolerated her because she would wash their clothes in exchange for some of their whiskey. Only a few treated her as just another member of the company.

  “I’m just asking what they said,” Jane added, “in case there’s anything we should know afore we ride out.”

  “General Custer wanted to divide us up,” Hare replied, “send Troops D, C, and B to the east while the rest of us continued south. Colonel Benteen strongly advised against it.”

  “I heard how strongly,” Jane said. “Folks down along the North Platte must have heard Benteen advising the general. For once, I agree with Benteen. No point dividing our forces if there’s any chance of an attack.”

  Hare gazed at her even more contemptuously. “There’s no chance of that. We’re not here to fight and the Sioux know that. They won’t attack unless they feel threatened, and we haven’t given them any cause to worry about that. Varnum just thinks it won’t hurt to have you scout around.” He cleared his throat and spat. “Maybe you can find some of that gold that’s supposed to be in these parts.”

  Hare stomped away toward a string of horses. Isaiah flicked his reins lightly against the neck of his horse. Jane followed the black man up the rise. They had one horse each and some rations in their packs; they were traveling light. Lieutenant Varnum wanted them to rejoin the company in four or five days.

  Their horses continued to climb until they had a view of the clearing. The band, mounted on white horses near the head of the column, had finished “Boots and Saddles” and was playing “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” The Seventh was a long serpent of blue and butternut-colored buckskin with splashes of bright color; those were the flowers tucked in the men’s hats and tied to their saddlebags.

  Isaiah said, “I reckon White Man Runs Him and the other Crows deserted.”

  Jane turned in her saddle, surprised. “You think they did? Why would they? Hellfire, White Man Runs Him hates the Sioux more than any white man in the company.”

  “He hates them, all right. But he’s a-scared of them, too. Now he might be more scared than he is hateful—I think that’s why he might have run out. Goes Ahead and Hairy Moccasin must be even more scared if they went with him. That’s what’s worrying me, Calamity, why they’re that scared.”

  They rode in silence for a while. Soon they came upon fresh tracks leading away from the valley clearing where they had made camp the night before. They had to be the tracks of White Man Runs Him and the other Cro
ws. The Indian scouts had not tried very hard to hide them, and it looked like they had been moving fast. Jane wondered why they were heading northeast instead of west.

  Isaiah lifted his head. In a soft voice, he sang what sounded like a chant.

  Jane did not know the words. “What’s that, Isaiah?”

  “It’s a prayer to Wakan Tanka, the Great Spirit.” Isaiah sighed. “Thought we might have need of it right about now.”

  By noon, they had come to a creek. They watered the horses and Jane fed them some of the grain they had brought in their saddlebags. Indian ponies could live on just the grass; the Seventh’s horses could not.

  They were still on the trail of White Man Runs Him when they reached another spot where some Sioux had camped. This party had been larger, with about forty horses, and apparently all of them were braves, since she saw no signs of pitched tepees and lodges, or any droppings from the dogs that could always be found in Sioux camps. Jane wondered what would happen to the Crow scouts if they ran into any Sioux. That would most likely depend on the number of Sioux and on how much of a match they were for the three Crows. Most of the Crow, it was said, were now at peace with the Sioux, but there were still diehards like White Man Runs Him who would happily kill as many Sioux and Cheyenne as they could.

  She sat down by the creek and gnawed at a piece of hardtack. Isaiah sat near her, chewing on some dried meat. He swallowed his food, wiped his mouth, then said, “I think White Man Runs Him may be trying to join the Sioux.”

  She tensed. “Why would he do that? They’d as soon kill him as look at him.”

  “Maybe I’s wrong. I hope I is wrong. Maybe he’s just heading for one of the forts, or an agency, but I don’t think so. Think he’s riding to the Sioux to give himself up.”

  Jane thought about that for a moment. “Wouldn’t that be kind of like putting his head in their hands and telling them to help themselves to his scalp?” she asked.