by Judith Pella
On that very day, in freezing wind and knee-deep snow, all eleven companies of the Seventh Cavalry, with a complement of white and Indian scouts, set out from the newly constructed Camp Supply to make war upon the Cheyenne. Custer pushed his troops relentlessly, especially after the third day out when one of his Osage scouts reported signs of a village nearby. First came the smell of fire, then the bark of a dog, and finally, the definite confirmation of the cry of a baby.
Thus, in the late hours of the night, still undetected by the unsuspecting Cheyenne village, Custer deployed his troops, effectively surrounding Black Kettle’s village. More than seven hundred well-armed and mounted soldiers stood against fifty-one lodges, some three hundred Cheyenne men, women, and children.
Under a strict order of silence, not even permitted to light fires to stave off the frigid winter night, the troops waited for the first light of morning to signal the commencement of battle.
****
Dawn had only begun to lighten the sky when Stone Teeth Woman, carrying two empty water skins, plodded through the snow to the river. The morning was quiet, but not unusually so, for snow always seemed to have that effect on the landscape. The sound of a whinnying horse did not at first disturb the Indian squaw and she continued unconcerned through the wood. But when the sound came again she stopped. Something was wrong. What was it … ?
Then it came to her. The horses were grazing at the opposite end of the camp. Even the sound of Black Kettle’s horse, which was tethered next to his lodge, could not have come from the direction where she had heard the horse. She peered toward the hills where the noise had originated. The light was still dim and could have deceived her, but she thought she saw movement—
There it was! It flickered above the ridge of the hill for only an instant, but it was unmistakable in its contrast to the surrounding snow and shrubbery.
A blue soldier hat!
Stone Teeth Woman dropped the water skins, spun around, and raced back toward camp.
“Soldiers!” she cried. “Soldiers in the hills!”
The sleeping camp, nestled so peacefully in the pleasant, white-blanketed valley, seemed slow to respond. It was inconceivable that soldiers would have fought the snowstorm and still been able to track the Indian trail, obliterated by the snow.
Only when she roused Black Kettle and he grabbed his rifle, firing warning shots into the air, did it truly seem possible.
But the shots that warned the camp also, unwittingly, were a signal for Custer to commence his attack if he wanted to retain the element of surprise. He ordered the bugler to sound the charge, and Custer himself, grandly mounted on his black stallion, led the attack down the bluff banking the Washita River.
Within moments the quiet morning was shattered by a barrage of rifle fire mingled with the war cries of the bluecoated Seventh Cavalry.
46
Deborah awoke with a jarring start at the sound of Black Kettle’s first warning shot. In another instant, the entire lodge was astir.
Crooked Eye grabbed two rifles and a belt of ammunition while Deborah and Gray Antelope grabbed the children. There was no time to think of food or protection from the cold, for already the sound of heavy gunfire was penetrating the lodge. Deborah did pause to take her own weapon, a bow and quiver of arrows made for her by Broken Wing and spared by Gray Antelope when Broken Wing’s belongings had been distributed after his death. It was not sentimentality, however, that prompted Deborah to take the bow. She knew how to use it, for Broken Wing had taught her well; and she had no qualms about doing just that.
As she exited the tepee with Blue Sky in her arms, she was only a few paces behind Gray Antelope, who was holding Carolyn, and Crooked Eye who led the way. She saw many others racing through the village seeking the protective covering of the riverbank. She was reminded of the Pawnee attack two years ago; only now the enemy had white skin and wore the dark blue of the United States Army. They swept through the village like a blue avalanche, shooting and hacking at anything even remotely resembling an Indian, shooting first, and asking no questions at all.
The warriors tried to mount a defense with their bows and rifles, but they were far outnumbered; their only chance was to run into the woods and surrounding hills and take up sniping positions. The responsibility of herding their families to safety fell largely to the older men. But men like Crooked Eye, who had weapons, paused as often as possible to get in a shot or two as they fled to the cover of the river grasses. Women and children plunged into the icy water to hide from the barrage of bullets; as many succumbed from the cold as from the battle itself.
Deborah, holding a screaming Blue Sky, kept her eyes fastened on Crooked Eye—and especially on Gray Antelope and Carolyn. She wanted desperately to turn and assess what was happening behind her, but she still recalled what had happened during the Pawnee raid when she had looked back. It was awful to hear the shots and the cries both of the soldiers and the wounded Indians, and not know how close they were to her.
Then she lost sight of Gray Antelope. The woman seemed to have dropped suddenly out of view, almost as if she had been … cut down by a bullet.
Before Deborah could fully incorporate her panic over this, she saw Crooked Eye stumble and fall. She raced to the old shaman’s side and touched his arm, but he did not respond.
“Oh, Crooked Eye!” she murmured, but there was no time to weep over his death or to think how he had once saved her life and had cared for her like a dear father.
From her kneeling position she was now able to gain a view of the battle, if such could be called this dreadful slaughter. She was immediately surprised at the number of soldiers and horrified at the growing number of bodies, Cheyenne bodies, littering the muddy ground. Only the cries of her son prevented her from stopping right then and doing battle against the bluecoats. Feeling cheated again by the terrible obstacle of being a woman, Deborah lurched to her feet and began her flight once more.
Several yards from the river, her eyes frantically swept the tall grass, but still there was no sign of Gray Antelope or Carolyn. But in the midst of the fleeing Indians, a mounted warrior with a woman seated behind him galloped toward the river. Deborah thought of the Cheyenne fables of their ancient hero, Sweet Medicine, and could easily have believed that he had come to life to rescue his people. However, this was a flesh-and-blood hero and she recognized him too well to mistake him for a phantasm, even if he looked like one.
It was Black Kettle.
Never before had she seen him look so regal, although he wore none of the finery of his station as chief. His proud visage, even in the surrounding chaos of battle, still maintained that wise benevolence that had so marked his tenure as peace-chief. Deborah thought that even then, with soldiers murdering his people, he would hold out his hand to the white man, if only they might take it.
All at once, a volley of bullets exploded in the air around him. The force of the shots knocked his wife, who was seated behind him, off the horse into the river. Black Kettle had only a moment to absorb this loss, perhaps thinking of how they had been miraculously spared at Sand Creek. He turned in his saddle, then suddenly slumped over, taking at least one shot in his stomach and two more in his arm and chest before he, too, slipped from his horse into the water next to his wife. Thus died the greatest peace-chief of the Cheyenne, the friend of the white man.
Deborah watched, transfixed, momentarily forgetting her own pressing danger, until a mounted soldier galloped past, nearly knocking her to the ground. She caught herself in time and, forcing her concentration back to her present peril, started running once more for cover. Reaching the tall grass at last, she paused for breath.
“Wind Rider!”
Deborah had to look in several directions before she saw her friend hidden in the grass.
“Gray Antelope—I was afraid—” Then the emotion of the last few terrifying minutes all at once assailed Deborah and her voice caught on a sudden sob.
“Nahkoa!”
De
borah threw an arm around her daughter, covering both her children with tears of relief and fear. Singing Wolf and Blue Sky clung, sobbing and weeping, to their mother.
“I have not seen Crooked Eye,” said Gray Antelope, peering over the top of the grass, hoping he might soon come to her.
Deborah closed her eyes and shook her head. She could not speak.
Gray Antelope was silent for several long moments, but Deborah saw the pain of grief and loss distort and twist her gentle features. Deborah widened her embrace to include her Cheyenne friend and mother.
“It is good he died in battle,” said Gray Antelope at last, “as a great Cheyenne warrior should.”
The pressures of imminent danger allowed time for no more mourning than that. No sooner had Gray Antelope spoken but they looked up to see another friend running for her life. Stone Teeth Woman, who had been the first to detect the soldiers, had been among the last to vacate the village. She had three children to tend and her husband had gone to join the warriors in the hills. The younger children had responded quickly to her urgent commands, but the eldest child, an eleven-year-old son, was determined to join his father. This was the first time he had ever flatly disobeyed her, and she watched him run away only to be cut down by a soldier’s saber. She had barely escaped with her two younger children.
But as she neared the river, a soldier rode hard toward her—as if he did not know she was a woman, or did not care. He fired his rifle once and Deborah saw Stone Teeth jerk violently with the impact of the shot. Stone Teeth fell to her knees, losing her balance because of the baby she held in her arms. Deborah watched, horrified, as the soldier took aim again. Before she knew what she was doing, Deborah shook her own children from her arms, snatched up her bow, and set an arrow to the string. The soldier fired but the shot went wide. While he reloaded, Deborah fired her arrow.
It hit its mark and the soldier fell back into the snow-covered grass. Deborah did not have time to think, to debate the consequences of her actions, to even feel any elation or revulsion over counting her first coup upon an enemy. All that mattered was saving her friend who was, especially now that she was wounded, still easy prey for the on-coming soldiers. Slinging her bow over her shoulder, Deborah sprang from the cover of the grass and sprinted to Stone Teeth Woman. Placing an arm around her, she helped her to her feet, laid the baby securely back in her arms and was about to scoop up the six-year-old when a familiar voice called out.
“Nahkoa!”
Carolyn, afraid to be separated from her mother again, had wiggled from Gray Antelope’s hold and run into the middle of the insane battle scene.
“Singing Wolf!” Deborah screamed.
“Go to her,” said Stone Teeth. “I will be well.”
Deborah did not hesitate. But barely had she gone two paces when the unthinkable happened. A soldier, whose horse had been shot out from under him and was thus afoot, saw Carolyn and grabbed her.
“Lookee here!” he shouted to one of his comrades. “I got me a white captive.”
Again, Deborah did not think before she swung her bow into position, firing an arrow. All she could see was that the terrible enemies who had killed her husband and her friends now were about to take her daughter.
The arrow struck the soldier and he fell, not fatally wounded, but hurt enough to lose his grip on Carolyn. The child stood screaming, still in the middle of the battlefield.
Another soldier, on horseback, saw who had fired the arrow and wasted no time in aiming his rifle at Deborah’s head. But as he pulled back the trigger, the mechanism jammed. In that fortunate instant, Deborah sprang toward her child.
Lowering his useless rifle, the soldier dug his heels into his mount’s flanks, galloping forward, and reaching Carolyn just as Deborah was about to take her into her arms.
“Why, you dirty Injun tramp!” he bellowed, raising his bayonet to finish off this kidnapping Indian who had also shot his friend.
Another shout pierced the air.
“Hey stop! That’s a white woman!” This newcomer was a lieutenant and, fortunately for Deborah, the other man was only a private who knew the lieutenant’s voice well, and knew he had better obey.
Deborah did not pause to thank her rescuer. She enveloped Carolyn into her arms and dashed away.
“Lady, we’re here to help you,” the officer called after her.
“She killed Rogers,” said the private.
“She’s probably gone insane living with these savages.”
Deborah heard the exchange. Perhaps one day she would think about it, grimace at its irony, weep at its truth; but at the moment she could only think of survival. Besides, she was more than convinced she and her children had as good a chance with the Indians as with the soldiers.
The main thrust of the attack lasted ten minutes. It took only that long for the bluecoats to gain control of the village. But many of the warriors who had taken to the hills and woods continued to maintain a defense, sniping or ambushing troops who had taken to the field to capture escapees. By then, several of the other villages in the area had heard the sounds of battle and had sent warriors to the aid of the beleaguered Cheyenne village. One troop of about fifteen soldiers was surrounded and wiped out by an Arapahoe war party, but this was to be the greatest Indian victory that day. Including these fifteen, the Seventh Cavalry lost only twenty-two men. The final toll of Indian casualties was never ascertained with complete accuracy. Custer exaggerated the count at one hundred and three warriors, leaving unclear the number of women and children. More reliable estimates noted fifty warriors killed, along with seventy-five women and children. Almost as devastating as the loss of life was the loss of all the lodges in the village and the entire winter supply of food and hides. Custer kept one lodge as a souvenir; the rest he put to the torch.
Many of the warriors escaped, along with a number of women and children who had found refuge in the other Indian encampments. Deborah might also have been able to escape downriver had she not gone back after Stone Teeth Woman. As it was, both women, along with Gray Antelope and the children, were cut off from retreat by a troop of soldiers.
Thus, at gunpoint, they were herded with about fifty other women and children into a roped-off area, and Deborah once more found herself a prisoner of the white man.
Part 5
Squaw Lady
47
Custer learned an interesting lesson at the Washita River. And, if it was not one that would curb his lust for glory, at least it had the effect of benefiting Deborah.
After herding together more than eight hundred of the Indian horses, the famed commander discovered that Indian mounts appeared to have an instinctive hostility toward white men. When roped, the animals fought wildly to escape, and the soldiers who tried to mount them were thrown unglamorously to the hard, cold ground. The troopers had even been forced to press some of the Indian female prisoners into service to herd the horses.
Deborah joined these women at the makeshift corral into which the soldiers had herded the horses. Pausing by the gate, she observed a corporal trying to mount Broken Wing’s gray stallion. Had she any humor in her at that moment, she would have laughed at the spectacle. The gray shied away with every approaching step the corporal took, so that they were backing step-by-step around the corral, with the soldier looking most foolish. He threw a rope around the gray’s neck but the horse reared, whipping its neck so violently back and forth that the rope was finally wrenched from the soldier’s hand. Many of the troops, now idle with the main thrust of the battle over, stood by the corral both cheering their tenacious comrade on and hurling taunts at him.
“I seen prettier dancing partners, Collier!” shouted one.
“That Injun horse don’t like your smell.”
“I’ll bet a month’s pay he gets you afore you get him!”
Deborah loved the gray, as she did all horses, and at that moment she felt a particular thrill upon seeing Broken Wing’s favorite war pony take command of the situation. She
almost smiled when the hapless Corporal Collier, desperate to redeem himself, threw his arms around the gray’s neck and attempted to swing his leg over its bare back. The gray reared mightily and jerked its neck in one swift motion, throwing the man to the icy ground—all to the riotous guffaws of his comrades. When the animal’s front hooves came crashing to the ground, they missed the soldier by a fraction of an inch.
The corporal, furious now, jumped to his feet and drew his pistol.
“You worthless, no-good monster!” he shouted.
Deborah’s amusement abruptly turned to horror. She had seen too much death that day, and this final outrage against the only thing that still existed to remind her of her husband was more than she could take. Without thinking, she raced to the scene, thrusting her body between the drawn pistol and Broken Wing’s horse. She did not stop to think that the death of one more supposed Indian probably wouldn’t matter to this soldier, who had killed more than his share that day.
“Get outta my way!” he raged, cocking his gun.
Deborah did not budge. She was just as willing to take a bullet to save the horse as she would have to save one of her children.
“All right, Corporal Collier! Holster that weapon. Don’t you see this is a white woman?” The words were spoken as if it might not have mattered as much had she been an Indian.
Glancing around, Deborah saw that the new speaker was the same lieutenant who had interceded on her behalf once before. He was a young man, probably younger than she. He had blond hair and peach fuzz for a beard, but he spoke with a deep authoritative voice and wore a commanding visage. Deborah didn’t have to guess why his men obeyed him so quickly.
The corporal was not happy about it, but he jammed his gun into its holster and, with a surly smirk, saluted the lieutenant.
