Frontier

by Salzer, S. K.

  “I’ll do that,” Rose said. She went about it, looking at the Cheyennes’ fires on the hills across Antelope Creek. Cloudsplitter’s camp was unusually quiet. Maybe the heat got to them too.

  Soon they were ready to leave. Each man carried four canteens around his neck and a two-gallon kettle in either hand. Rose’s heart thumped like a bat in a barrel as they walked to the gate. Dixon caught her eye and smiled, his teeth white against his soot-blackened face, and she remembered the day he’d saved her in the sandstorm. Had she thanked him properly? If not she might never have the chance, for in an instant he and the others were gone, crawling away through the same tunnel Gregory and Ignacio had used days before.

  Almost sick with fear, Rose went to the cabin to wait. Jerusha, knitting by candlelight, did not look up. The soldier Mike stood at the open window, the barrel of his carbine resting on the frame. “Well, at least it’s plenty dark,” he said. “You can’t see nothin’ out there.”

  Skinny murmured from the bed.

  “I wish he’d shut up,” Mike said. “He’s giving me the willies.”

  Rose sat on the floor. The revolver in her waist pocket pressed uncomfortably against her hip. As she reached in to move it she felt Gregory’s letter. She had forgotten about it. The envelope was unsealed. Did Gregory mention his plans to steal the payroll, perhaps try to justify the crime to his mother? Why did he do it? After a short debate with her conscience she opened it.

  Dear Neglected Mother,

  I found the Yankee officer who brought those murdering Redlegs to the house that day, the ones who killed Pa. I know where he is and I will put him through if it takes all the devil that’s in me I will do it and let you know when the job is done.

  I have money left with Lieutenant Ewell Bell, quartermaster at Fort Sedgwick. He is a good man and if you write him and tell him who you are he will see you get it. I do not need the money. I want you and the girls to have it.

  You may hear some hard things about me and you can be sure not all of them are true. I did shoot that wood contractor at Fort Fletcher but you can be sure Saint Peter will not turn me away on his account.

  Give my love to Sarah and America Alice. I do not know if I will return to Cass County or if I will see you again but if not on this earth we will meet again in Glory.

  I am sorry I did not write to you more often. I should have.

  Your loving son, Jack Gregory

  Cass County. Rose knew it—one of those in the Burnt District, a once-rich farmland reduced to a ruin of scorched earth and crumbling chimneys. She could guess what must have happened on the Gregory farm that day. Western Missouri was a rough place, hostage to pro-Confederate guerillas like William Quantrill, George Todd, and Bloody Bill Anderson who roamed the countryside with scalps swinging from their bridles. These bushwhackers were opposed by irregular forces, Jayhawkers and Redlegs, who had the support of the Federal government but who were cut from the same murderous cloth.

  What was Mark’s role in all this? Often she wondered. As adjutant to General Thomas Ewing, commander of the border district, he must have been deeply involved. But he never spoke of those days, and, because he wouldn’t like it, Rose never asked. When Ewing and his staff were transferred to St. Louis, just before Christmas of ’63, she’d heard rumors of misconduct on Ewing’s part, allegations that Sherman arranged the move for his brother-in-law’s career and personal safety. To be sure, Ewing was hated in western Missouri. The people blamed him for turning their homeland into a haunted desert, forsaken by God and government.

  “I see them!” Mike’s cry shook her from her remembering. “They’re coming back!”

  Rose jumped up and immediately fell to her knees. When the blackness retreated and her head stopped spinning she joined Mike at the window. At first she saw nothing. Then, gradually, she could make out the shadow of a crouching man, scuttling across the sage-studded ground. Canteens hanging from his neck bumped together with a dull clunking sound.

  The Indians heard this too. The quiet was split by a shrill whistle followed by shouts and the crack of a rifle, first one then many. The soldiers returned fire.

  “Careful!” Trover shouted. “Don’t hit our boys!”

  Now all three men were visible, running as fast as their liquid cargo would allow, making no attempt at concealment. Cy was in the lead, identifiable because he was the smallest, followed by the Mexican with Dixon bringing up the rear. Though each man could have saved himself by dumping his liquid load, no one did. For the first time that night, the moon broke through the clouds and Rose saw three warriors urging their horses through the creek. One, ahead of the others, closed in on Dixon, raising an arm that was unnaturally long and skeletal. It was a war club he was preparing to bring down on Dixon’s skull.

  “Run!” she screamed. “Run, Dan! Drop the water and run!”

  A thunderous boom shook the walls. The Indian’s pony tumbled to the ground on top of his rider, who lay motionless. Above, on the sentry walk, Rose saw Lieutenant Anderson lower his rifle as the men beside him cheered and clapped him on the back. At the same time Trover exploded a shell of spherical case over the heads of the other two warriors, turning them back. The water carriers ran through the open gate and were surrounded by a jubilant throng. Rose threw her arms around Dixon.

  “Rose.” He spoke her name softly, his mouth next to her ear, sending a chill down her spine.

  The men insisted she get the first drink. Rose’s hand shook as she raised the cup to her lips and filled her mouth with warm water that bathed her swollen tongue, her parched palate, the aching places at the back of her throat. The water was gritty with sand but to her it was sweeter than the finest French champagne. She forced herself to take it in measured amounts, as Dixon advised, instead of gulping it down as her body demanded. The water’s healing effect was not immediate—it took a while for the fluid to saturate her depleted tissues—but gradually, blissfully, her thirst was satisfied and the sharp pain between her shoulder blades melted away.

  She took a cup to the cabin for Skinny. His head was fallen to one side and his open eye shone like a wet grape. She bent to touch his face and found it cold. Would anyone, if they knew, mourn his passing?

  “Life is cheap out here, isn’t it?” Dixon stood beside her, wiping soot from his face with a handkerchief. “This country makes you see what’s important in life,” he said. “Water is important, loyalty and trust. Doing the right thing for people you care about, that’s important. Rose, this may not be the best time to say this but—”

  “Don’t say anything,” she said. “Whatever our feelings are, we haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t want to do anything wrong.”

  He shook his head. “Wrong? That word has a new meaning out here. All those rules and notions you learned back in Missouri don’t hold in this country. Things are different. Don’t you feel that?”

  She turned to him. “One thing is the same no matter where I am. I’m a married woman. I love my husband.”

  He smiled, lifting his eyebrows. “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rose, you can’t will your feelings to be one thing or another. You can try, but it won’t work. I know something about this.” His hazel eyes held hers and she felt herself growing warm. She felt as if she had no clothes on.

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” she said. She ran from the cabin to her ambulance, where she closed the door and lay down on the hard bed. At once she was seized by an uncontrollable fit of shaking that lasted until exhaustion overcame her and at last she slept.

  She woke to the sound of gunfire. It was fully daylight. The Cheyenne were attacking again. She opened the door, sick at heart. When would this nightmare end? But instead of Indians she saw a long line of mounted soldiers riding down the ridge on the far side of the creek. The Indians were gone. The men in the redoubt were shooting in the air in celebration and running through the gate to meet their rescuers. Rose followed, first stopping at the creek to bathe her face in it
s cold, clean waters.

  The reflection of a horseman appeared beside her on the water’s surface. Something about the width of his shoulders and angle of his hat sent her heart to her throat.

  “Rose?” he said. “Rose, is that you?”

  Still on her knees, she looked up to see Mark’s face framed by the morning sky.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jim Bridger did not like the site Carrington had chosen for the new post, a grassy plateau at the fork of Piney Creek in the center of a lush green valley. “It’s a fine spot, Colonel, if your aim is to show us like fish in a barrel,” he said, waving his pipe at the bluffs, black in the night sky, bordering them on three sides. “The Injuns will set up there and watch our every move.”

  Sparks from a collapsing log landed on Harry’s trousers, eating brown holes in the denim. He and Jimmy sat by the fire with Carrington and his officers.

  “I know this country, Colonel,” Bridger said. “There’s better places up north, along Goose Creek and Tongue River. Why not take a look, see for yourself if I ain’t right?”

  Fred Brown sat at Carrington’s right. “There’s no time for that, Colonel,” he said, casually crossing his legs. “Anyhow, why look further when we’ve got everything we need right here? Water, pine for building, cottonwood for fuel, everything.” He gestured toward the Bighorn Mountains, six miles to the west. Their snowy crests gleamed like silver in the moonlight and their slopes were black with pine. “Not only that, but the tall grass back by that lake will make fine hay when it ripens. So what if the Indians watch us? They couldn’t fire on us from those hills. And we can watch them too, by posting sentries there and there.” He pointed to a conical summit some two hundred yards to the east that commanded a wide view of the valley, then to a long narrow ridge to the northwest.

  “I agree,” said Bisbee. “We need to start building. It’s mid-July. Winter comes early up here.”

  Bridger laughed. “Like you know anything about how things happen up here. I was trappin’ in these mountains when you was still suckin’ on your momma’s tit and I tell you there’s better places up north.”

  Bisbee started to respond but Carrington raised his hand. “Major Bridger is right. We’ll reconnoiter the upper country tomorrow. We can spare a day.”

  That night Harry lay awake in the tent, listening to the creek rushing over the Big Piney cascades. He thought of Rose Reynolds, her blue eyes, freckled nose, and sweet smile. Was she all right? When would she join them?

  The next morning his father took twenty-five men to explore the Tongue River valley to the north. Carrington’s party consisted of his inner circle of officers—Captain Ten Eyck and lieutenants Brown and Frederick Phisterer—with Brannan and Jack Stead as scouts. Reynolds would have been included but he had been sent back to Fort Reno for additional supplies. Bridger, Harry noticed, was not invited.

  After they left, it was discovered that nine men had deserted during the night. Lieutenant John Adair, officer of the day, sent Bisbee out after the “snowbirds” but the detail returned in an hour without the deserters. There was someone new with them however—a small man with a badly pockmarked face.

  “A group of Sioux and Cheyenne stopped us a few miles up the road,” Bisbee said. “They’d been trading with French Pete and Arrison. Donaldson, here, was with them. You remember Donaldson—one of the teamsters Brown released back at Reno. Anyhow, the Indians gave him a message for Colonel Carrington. Tell him, Donaldson.”

  “The message is from Black Horse, a Cheyenne chief,” Donaldson said, puffed up with importance. “He asks the Little White Chief, ‘Do you want peace or war?’ He says to send his answer with the black white man.”

  The black white man meant interpreter Jack Stead, whose skin was brown as a nut and who had been married, at one time, to a Cheyenne woman.

  “Stead’s not here,” Adair said. “He went with Colonel Carrington. They won’t be back till sundown.” As he spoke, a lone Indian on horseback appeared on the road. “He waiting for you, Donaldson?”

  “I reckon,” Donaldson said. “I know him, he’s one of Black Horse’s warriors.”

  Beads of sweat appeared on Adair’s upper lip. He called to Bisbee and they stepped aside, out of Donaldson’s hearing. “The Indians might take it wrong if I send Donaldson back without an answer but Carrington doesn’t want anyone but him talking to the Indians. Also, I’m shorthanded here. In addition to the men with Carrington, another twenty went with Reynolds. I don’t want that lazy troublemaker, Donaldson, telling the Indians this.”

  The two officers turned to Donaldson. “Go tell your Cheyenne friend he’ll have to wait till tonight when Carrington gets back for his answer,” Adair said.

  “Oh, no, I ain’t hanging around here all day.” Donaldson started for his horse. “I’m going back to French Pete’s. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  Adair waved at a sergeant. “Finley, hold Mr. Donaldson under guard until the colonel returns.”

  Donaldson struggled, and the sergeant had to wrestle him to the ground. The Indian wheeled his pony and vanished into the hills. His departure left everyone nervous. What would he tell Black Horse? How many warriors were out there? Margaret tried to work with Harry and Jimmy on their lessons, but no one could concentrate on mathematics or ancient Greek. The weather matched their mood. Dark clouds, like crouching bears, crept toward them from behind the mountains. Occasionally they heard a rumble of thunder.

  Adair paced before the headquarters tent, pausing often to raise his field glasses and scan the hills for Carrington’s party. Only Bridger was unconcerned. He spread his bedroll under a wagon and slept the afternoon away, waking when Carrington returned at sundown. After learning of the day’s events, Carrington composed a letter to the Cheyenne chief and ordered Donaldson released so he could deliver it immediately. Harry, outside the tent, listened as his father dictated to his adjutant.

  Headquarters Mountain District

  Piney Fork, July 14, 1866

  To the Great Chief of the Cheyennes:

  Friend,

  I have learned that you wish to come and have a talk with me. I shall be happy to have you come and tell me what you wish. The Great Father at Washington wishes to be your friend and so do I and all my soldiers.

  I tell all the white men who go on the road that if they hurt Indians or steal their ponies I will follow and catch them and punish them. I will not let white men do hurt to the Indians who wish peace.

  You may come and see me with two other chiefs and two of your big fighting men when the sun is over head after two sleeps.

  You may come and talk and no one shall hurt you and when you wish to go you may go in peace and no one shall hurt you.

  I will tell all my chiefs and soldiers that you are my friends and they will obey.

  Your white friend,

  Henry B. Carrington

  Col. 18th U.S. Infantry

  Comd’g Mount. Dist.

  Not for the first time, Harry wondered why his father and his officers talked to Indians as if they were children.

  Donaldson was in a black mood and ready to go when the letter was delivered to the guard tent. “I’ll make sure Black Horse gets it,” he said, “but I ain’t happy about the way I was treated. I ain’t a soldier no more. Adair had no call to hold me!” He jumped on his horse and galloped north on the Bozeman Road, disappearing in the red twilight.

  Once Donaldson was gone, Carrington called Bridger and his officers to the headquarters tent to announce his decision about the new fort’s location. “The Tongue River country is magnificent, just as Major Bridger said it was. We found plenty of game—buffalo, bear, elk, antelope—and the land is rich in fruits and natural grains. But it’s too far from the tall pine we’ll need for construction. Also, if we build in the north we’d be leaving the major Indian trails through the Powder River basin unguarded and, after all, isn’t that our very reason for being here in the first place? Therefore, I’ve decided the new fort will be here,
on the plateau, as originally planned. We’ll start building in the morning.”

  Bridger, who had listened quietly to this point, shook his head. “You’re makin’ a mistake, Colonel. A big mistake.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The surveyors set out in the first blue light of morning. The sun lit the Bighorns slowly, by degrees, touching first their white caps, then inching down the piney black slopes. Harry rode with them despite his mother’s objections. He shivered as a wind, cold as ice water, blew down his collar.

  Carrington carried a cardboard cylinder with plans he and Ten Eyck had drafted at Fort Stephen Kearney the previous spring. Once they reached the top of the plateau he dismounted and spread them on the ground, using stones to weight the rolled edges. “Here it is, gentleman,” he said, “the Eighteenth Infantry’s new home. Construction will be a challenge, but when we’re done we will have the finest post on the western frontier.”

  He used his saber to point out its features. A stout stockade would surround the fort proper, including a parade ground, barracks for the men, and cabins for the officers. The southeast quadrant would house a powder magazine, sutler’s store, bakery, and quarters for the band and regimental offices. An area west of the men’s barracks would go to warehouses, horse stables, and quarters for the noncommissioned officers and laundresses.

  A large trapezoidal quartermaster’s yard would attach to the stockade’s east wall. Extending all the way to the banks of the Little Piney, this would house stables for the mules, hay and wood yards, shops, and quarters for the teamsters and mechanics, blacksmiths, carpenters, saddlers, and armorers. The post’s main gate would be on the east side, facing the Bozeman Road.

  “The slope is too steep for the main gate, Colonel,” Bisbee said. “We’d have to do a lot of grading before wagons could use it. Why not put the main gate here, in the west wall?”