Climb the Wind: A Journey Into Another Past

by Pamela Sargent

  Lieutenant McIntosh stared intently at Lemuel. “You say that you served with Ely Parker,” the lieutenant said.

  “And with General Custer,” Lemuel said.

  “And which of the Six Nations are you from?”

  Lemuel felt surprise at the question. “I am a Seneca, as Parker is.”

  McIntosh nodded. “I am also a member of the Six Nations, a Mohawk. The Seneca who fought with General Grant was a man I could admire.”

  Lemuel might have been in the other man’s place if he had remained with the army. Get away from here, he wanted to say to this officer, desert and join the Lakota. If Custer’s men don’t leave the Black Hills, too many will die.

  “Ely Parker traveled the white man’s road,” McIntosh continued, “as I have also. I know that he hoped for peace in the West, but there will be no peace in the end until the Sioux move to the lands allocated to them. Ely Parker knew that, too.”

  “Lakota will never live that way,” White Eagle muttered.

  “You cannot survive in the white man’s world unless you live as he does,” McIntosh said. “I am a red man, like you, and I learned that long ago. You must already be coming to understand it, or you would not speak English as well as you do, or troubled to learn it. You already see that you may have to follow the white man’s trail.”

  White Eagle grunted. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, Rowland,” McIntosh said. “Maybe you’re living out here spying for Jeremiah Clarke, or maybe your loyalties have changed. You wouldn’t be the first who deserted and went over to the Sioux.”

  Lemuel could not help this man. Custer would be expecting the Lakota to attack as they had in the past. He did not know himself what Touch-the-Clouds was planning, but had the feeling that it would come as a surprise to these soldiers.

  “They can’t win, you know,” McIntosh went on. “You must know that.”

  “I came here with a warning,” Lemuel said, knowing that trying to sway this man was a hopeless effort. “You’d be wise to convince your commander that he should take heed of it.”

  “I wouldn’t try to convince Custer to cut and run even if I could,” McIntosh replied. “He won’t do it, and he won’t listen to anyone who tells him that’s what he should do. He despises cowardice.” He paused. “It isn’t that I don’t have some sympathy for the Indians here.” He glanced at White Eagle. “I tell myself sometimes that maybe it would have been better to leave these lands to the red man. But there’s nothing I can do if settlers start coming here except to protect them. I chose my path a while ago. The men of the Seventh are my comrades.”

  The man was loyal; Lemuel could respect him for that. “The Sioux shouldn’t have warned us,” McIntosh went on. “If they were going to attack, they would have done better to surprise us. Now we’ll be ready for them—not that we can’t defeat them anyway.”

  “Touch-the-Clouds was warning you,” Lemuel said, “so that you’d have a chance. He has a sense of honor. He wanted to give you a chance to abide by the treaty and leave.”

  McIntosh shook his head. “Let me give you some advice. Do your best to talk the Sioux out of fighting. Even if they succeed in making us retreat, which I doubt they can, we’ll just come back with an even stronger force.”

  There was nothing more to say. Lemuel wondered if Touch-the-Clouds had meant to fight all along, if he in fact welcomed the chance for this attack. Maybe the Lakota chief had only been waiting for an excuse to fight.

  “Farewell, brother,’’ McIntosh said before he rode back down the hill.

  By late afternoon, Jane and Isaiah were following the tracks of many Indian ponies. They were on the trail of at least one hundred braves, possibly more. She did not want to ask the black man exactly how many he thought there might be.

  Isaiah led them away from the pony tracks and toward a piney slope. The Indians might be getting ready to halt and rest for the night. Keeping near the trees was one way for her and her companion to conceal themselves.

  Their horses slowed to a walk as they made their way up the hill. An evening breeze made the pines around them give off a sound like a sigh.

  “Isaiah,” Jane said softly, “we got to rest these horses.”

  “I know.”

  So he could still talk. Jane had been worrying that the sight of White Man Runs Him’s mutilated body might have robbed Isaiah of the power of speech. She reined in her horse and dismounted. Isaiah’s horse halted near hers; he slipped from his horse’s back.

  Jane took some oats from her saddlebag and fed them to her horse. “The Lakota’ll wait,” Isaiah said, his voice close to a whisper. “They won’t attack at night. Can’t fight in the dark—the Great Spirit might not be able to pick up the souls of the dead if it ain’t light enough to see who they are.”

  “Then maybe we’ll have a chance to reach the Seventh before they do.” Jane handed the small bag of oats to Isaiah. “We’ll rest up a while, and then move on.” They would have more cover in the dark.

  They tied their horses to the lower branches of one tree, then sat down. Isaiah passed her a bit of dried meat; she ate it and sipped from her canteen. The water they had should hold them, she thought, until they reached the Seventh.

  Isaiah had lapsed into silence again. That was just as well; smaller groups of Indians might pass near them on their way to join the other braves. The Sioux couldn’t beat the Seventh, no matter how many of them there were. She had to believe that.

  “Strange,” Isaiah’s voice said softly from the darkness, startling Jane, and she realized that she had been dozing.

  “What’s strange?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

  “The Lakota picking a fight now. It ain’t their usual way of fighting. That’s what’s worrying me, Calamity. They could have let this go. It might be breaking a treaty, coming in here, but they ain’t been attacked. That’s when they fight, when they’re attacked. Maybe sometimes for glory, or stealing horses, things like that, but not this.”

  Now that he had broken his long silence, he seemed anxious to talk. “There’d be glory aplenty in taking on Custer and the Seventh,” Jane said.

  “Ain’t no glory in a fight that can’t be won.” He sighed; she could not see his face in the darkness. “I don’t know. The Lakota ain’t like they were back before more and more of them started believing that Touch-the-Clouds was the chief they had to follow.”

  They were silent for a while longer, and then she heard Isaiah get to his feet. “Better ride on,” he said.

  She stood up. If they kept to a canter, the horses wouldn’t tire for a while, and they still had a chance of reaching the Seventh in time to warn Custer.

  The two miners who had come along with the Seventh, William McKay and Horatio Nelson Ross, wanted to talk to General Custer. Caleb Tornor happened to be the sentinel outside Custer’s tent when the two rode up and asked for permission to speak to the general.

  “Can’t it wait till later?” Caleb said to them, wary of disturbing Custer now. Custer and Benteen had been arguing again about whether or not to divide their forces and then trap the Indians between them, and Benteen had come storming out of the tent not more than a few minutes ago. Did he think Custer was just going to wait here until the Sioux showed up? The general had already sent out Luther North and a couple of the half-breed scouts to find out where the nearest Indian camp was. Attack there, and the braves getting ready to make war on the Seventh would rush to the aid of their women and children. That seemed to be what Custer was thinking, anyway.

  The Seventh had moved up the side of a nearby mountain to higher ground, not wanting to be caught by the Sioux in the valley by the stream where they had been camped. The Sioux, according to one of the scouts, called this peak Mountain Goat, or Hean-ya-haga—at least that was how the outlandish Indian name sounded to Caleb. Charley Reynolds, one of the white scouts, was already riding to Fort Laramie to report on the expedition’s progress and also that the Sioux had threatened to attack. The miners had stayed b
ehind, moving upstream in their search for gold; McKay had seen signs of yellow color in the creek’s bed, and had wanted to look around.

  “Son,” McKay said to Caleb, “this news can’t wait,” and Caleb was suddenly sure that the man had found gold, that the old stories about the Black Hills were true.

  He called out to the general and heard Custer order that the two men be admitted. Caleb followed the two men inside. If Custer ordered him to leave, he would. Otherwise, he might as well linger here and find out what McKay and Ross thought was so important.

  Custer sat at a candlelit table, a pen in his hand and with a notebook and writing paper in front of him. Two of his dogs were asleep under the table, while the third sprawled by his chair. He had been preparing dispatches and articles for newspapers and magazines about the expedition, and making notes in his journal, as well as writing long letters to his wife, but did not look as though he had done much writing this evening.

  Without preliminaries, Ross said, “General, white people are going to be rushing to the Black Hills now,” and then held out his hand, opening his fingers. A small glass bottle lay in Ross’s palm. Even in the candle’s dim light, Caleb could see the yellow color of gold dust.

  Caleb let out a whistle.

  “Well, now,” Custer said.

  “Isn’t much there,” McKay said, “maybe ten or fifteen cents’ worth, but there’s got to be more where that came from.”

  “Charley Reynolds is riding to Fort Laramie,” Caleb said. “It’ll take him at least four days to get there. Too bad you didn’t get here sooner—he could have told the commandant there about this gold.” Folks would have been rushing here after that. Maybe it was just as well to have the news to themselves a bit longer. The men of the Seventh might have a chance to stake out some claims and pocket a few nuggets.

  “Time enough to spread the word,” Custer said, “when this approaching battle is past.” He knew that they would win out over the Sioux; Caleb could hear the assurance in his voice.

  “That isn’t all we found,” Ross said, stepping closer to the general. “There’s gravel washed down from upstream that looks like it’s been sluiced, like somebody was panning for gold.”

  “Maybe even doing some mining,” McKay added. “That water wasn’t running as clear as it should have been.”

  “Do you think some prospectors are out here already?” Custer asked.

  “If there was a lone prospector here or there, maybe a couple of men or some fellow who isn’t too afraid of Indians—that I could believe.” Ross shook his head. “But that creek looked like there was more than just a few men digging around farther upstream.”

  “So maybe they’re keeping it a secret,” Caleb said, “until their claim’s tapped out.”

  Ross looked amused. “The more men you’ve got, the less chance of any of them keeping it a secret. Anyway, if you had fellows going into any of the nearby towns with gold nuggets or dust, going in there regular, don’t you think somebody would have followed them back here before now?”

  Caleb thought of how little they knew about this territory, and about the deserters and others who had vanished into Indian country. Could some of them already be prospecting for gold? Maybe they could keep any finds a secret from folks in the towns and cities, but they couldn’t hide what they were doing from the Indians for long, not here on land the Sioux called sacred. The Indian scouts serving with the U.S. Cavalry would have found out long ago if anything like that was going on.

  “If those redskins weren’t getting ready for a fight,” McKay said, “I’d almost think it might be a good idea to skedaddle back to Fort Lincoln about now.”

  “We can carry word about the gold back to civilization,” Custer said, “after thwarting the Sioux attack.” He rubbed his chin. “We can strike at one of their camps, draw the braves to it, and make quick work of them, and then we’ll send another scout after Reynolds to Fort Laramie with news of our victory.”

  Confident as the general sounded, Caleb found himself agreeing with McKay. If they left now, they could outflank the Indians and make it safely back to Fort Lincoln. If the Indians saw them leaving, they might assume that Custer was retreating, and leave them alone. After that, they could return with a larger force and catch the redskins off guard.

  But Iron Pants Custer would not retreat, would not even pretend to retreat. He would want to attack, inflict punishment upon the Sioux, and return with a victory and news of a gold strike as well. That would bring him even more of the glory he craved.

  Charley Reynolds had left the Seventh in late afternoon. He rode just far enough to see that no Indians were yet in the region below the slopes of the Mountain Goat, and then he holed up in a rocky hollow with his horse to rest for a while. Traveling at night would keep him and his horse from overheating in the hot summer sunlight and also from being spotted by hostiles.

  After sunset, Charley ate a little of his bacon and hardtack, drank some water, and then mounted his horse. The sponge and leather coverings he had put on his feet would keep him from leaving any footprints, but he would have to ride fast tonight. Any Indians who saw him were likely to guess that he was riding south to warn of their attack. He wanted to be away from the Black Hills before any of the Sioux spotted his horse’s trail.

  Flatter land lay ahead. Every so often, he reined in his horse and looked around for signs of Indians. Luther North claimed that he could smell an Indian from far off, but that was just brag, and Charley was already higher-smelling than any Indian.

  The crescent of the moon was up when Charley looked back and saw a lone rider behind him. He guided his horse toward the shadow of the trees, took out his rifle, loaded it from his cartridge belt, got out his Colt and cocked the hammer, and waited.

  The rider was soon close enough for Charley to make out his long light-colored hair and buckskin jacket. If he was another member of one of the Seventh’s companies, sent after him for any reason, Charley did not recall ever seeing him. He held his breath and watched as the man reined in his horse and leaned from his saddle to peer at the ground.

  He was no redskin, not with that yellow hair, but he could be a renegade. It looked as if he was looking for signs of Charley’s trail. Charley was pretty sure that he had not left tracks, but maybe the stranger had caught a glimpse of him after he rode out from the rocks.

  He knew that he had not been spotted leaving Custer’s encampment, and he had not seen any signs of hostiles since then. But maybe he should have been a tad more cautious.

  The stranger was very still, and then Charley heard him say, “I must talk to you.”

  Charley kept very still.

  “I have something to say.” The words were accented in a way Charley did not recognize; he wondered what part of the country the light-haired man came from. “I must warn you.” Still mounted on his horse, he held out his hands, palms up.

  Warn him of what? The stranger might know something about the movements of the Indians preparing to attack the Seventh. Maybe he was a squaw man who, after learning what the Indians intended to do, had ridden out to warn Custer’s men.

  It would have been safer for the stranger to lie low, Charley thought, instead of risking his neck to warn them. Another thought came to him: the man could tell him what he knew and then be on his way while Charley rode back to alert the Seventh. A stranger might risk giving a warning without wanting to help in any fighting later on.

  The stranger said, “You have to know this. A party of Sioux warriors is riding out to attack the soldiers who have come to the Black Hills.’’

  Charley could see him pretty well, even in the dim light. The stranger could not see him. He aimed his Colt at the man’s chest and waited for him to say more.

  “They are moving southwest,’’ the man went on, “and they have forded the Belle Fourche.”

  How many Indians? Charley wanted to ask. What kinds of weapons have they got—Springfields, maybe Winchesters? Some of them would have Colts or other revolve
rs for sure. The stranger hadn’t told him very much.

  “More than a thousand of them are riding against the soldiers,” the man continued.

  That, Charley thought, was worth knowing, not that the Seventh couldn’t handle even a thousand. If they picked off even twenty or thirty redskins, the rest were likely to scatter. The Sioux could not afford to lose even that many men.

  “We must warn them,” the stranger said. “Where are they now camped?”

  Charley was silent.

  “I cannot wait here any longer.” The man slowly reached for the reins of his horse. “You will have to warn them. Now I must make my escape.” He rode off, heading in the same direction Charley had been riding.

  He would have to decide what to do, whether to ride back with this information or continue on his way. How could he even be certain that what the stranger told him was true? Even if the man had not been lying, he might still be mistaken.

  Again Charley wondered what the stranger was doing in this territory. He might have been prospecting for gold. The rumors had brought other lone prospectors into the Black Hills in the past. A few, from what he knew, had returned to civilization empty-handed. Others had never returned.

  He could wait here under these trees with his suspicions while the Sioux war party prepared to attack the Seventh, or he could ride on. Custer would have sent out scouts already to find out more about what the Indians might do. Calamity Jane Cannary and Isaiah Dorman might already be riding back with more reliable information than he possessed.

  He holstered his Colt, touched the neck of his horse lightly with the reins and left the trees. The stranger’s horse was moving at a canter, putting distance between them. Charley rode after the man and saw him look back. The stranger’s horse began to slow its pace. Charley was closing in on the other man when he saw the man’s arm move toward him.