Frontier

by Salzer, S. K.

  “No, sir. Lieutenant Bisbee sent me back with a body we found on the road. It’s the Frank Leslie’s man. Indians got him.”

  Carrington walked to the rear of the vehicle and opened the door. From where she stood Rose could see Glover’s body lying faceup on the bench. He had been disemboweled, his midsection stuffed with dry grass and set aflame, his face mutilated. The photographer was almost unrecognizable.

  A woman traveling with the mail train saw the body also. She stood in the wagon and screamed so shrilly the horses were frightened. When an officer tried to calm her she pushed him away. “Let me in!” she cried. “Get me in the gate at once!”

  Rose did not know it then, but Frances Grummond and her swaggering husband would change their lives forever.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Margaret and Rose helped the distraught woman to Carrington’s quarters. Harry followed with her bags. She walked with a strange hobbling gait and leaned heavily on his mother’s arm. Once inside the house she sank into a chair and heaved a sigh. “Oh, that dreadful thing in the wagon! I wish to God I hadn’t seen it! What a land of horrors this is!”

  She took off her hat and fanned her plump, perspiring face. “Dear Lord in heaven, what have I gotten myself into? As you can see I’m in a delicate condition. This trip has worn me to the bone.”

  Harry understood “delicate condition” meant a woman was in the family way.

  “Did you have an accident?” Margaret said.

  Frances snorted. “Accident! That stupid Mexican driver went off and left me while I was attending to a call of nature. I had to run nearly a mile—in cloth slippers—to catch up. Can you imagine it? I was yelling to him the whole time and he never even turned his filthy Mexican head. Why, I ran through a bed of cactus, I’ve been pulling spines from my feet for two days. Just look at them.” She kicked off her slippers to reveal swollen feet that looked like little red pillows. Harry had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. When he looked up Rose gave him a wink.

  “Those so-called surgeons did nothing for me,” Frances said. “I told George—my husband, Lieutenant George Grummond—I told him it would serve them right if I developed a raging infection. Can I lie down somewhere please? I am spent.”

  Margaret helped her to stand. “Of course. Come upstairs and stretch out on my bed. Harry, bring Mrs. Grummond’s things to my room. Rose, will you make tea?”

  As Harry bent for her bags Frances put a hand on his arm. “Young man, run fetch the post surgeon first. Someone competent—if there is such a thing in this wilderness. And do hurry, I am in great need of medical attention.”

  Harry found Dixon with Ten Eyck’s crew building a permanent hospital. “Cactus spines?” Dixon said, throwing a shovelful of dirt. “I can’t do anything she couldn’t do herself with a pair of tweezers.”

  “Well, she wants a surgeon,” Harry said. “And she’s expecting a child.”

  Dixon stopped shoveling and wiped his forehead. “All right then. I’ll get my bags and wash up. What did you say her name was?”

  “Frances Grummond.”

  Ten Eyck froze. “Did you catch her husband’s name?”

  “I think she called him George.”

  Ten Eyck turned to the sutler’s store, where the officers were welcoming the new arrivals. He focused his one working eye on a short, strong-looking man with a mustache and well-trimmed beard. His hair was carefully parted.

  “You know him?” Dixon said.

  “I know him,” Ten Eyck said. “And I can’t say I’m happy to see him.”

  At sundown on this busy day a southbound party of miners stopped to ask Carrington’s permission to camp on the Big Piney. “The Indians have deviled us all the way from Virginia City,” said their leader, a man named Bailey. “They killed two of my boys when we was crossing Tongue River.”

  A courier from Fort C. F. Smith traveling with the miners brought a letter from Captain Burrowes describing the fate of an emigrant party. After reading it Carrington searched for Rose, finding her in Curry’s quarters where she was helping the widow pack. The cabin smelled of the rosemary leaves women packed in their trunks to keep clothing fresh.

  “I thought you should see this,” Carrington said. “I believe you knew them.”

  Rose took the letter, knowing what it would say.

  Their bodies were found on the Yellowstone River. The father and boy were beside the wagon, scalped and shot full of arrows. Schultz, the driver, was found in the river where he was fishing. His body not mutilated. Jim Bridger advises me it is likely they were killed by Blackfeet since those Indians will not molest a body in the water. The three were buried beside the river in a single grave.

  Rose closed her eyes, remembering William’s face as he spoke of geese flying over his grave. She saw Charley, waving from the rear of the wagon. “Why did he leave the train?” she said. “Why would he do that?”

  “They were in Crow country,” Carrington said. “I suppose he thought it was safe.”

  “He had a brother in the Gallatin Valley. He should be notified.”

  “Yes,” the colonel said, “it’s being seen to. William’s diary was found on his body. That will be sent to the brother as well. My son Jimmy will be upset by this. He and the Thomas boy were friends.”

  “Then don’t tell him,” Rose said. “At least not now. He doesn’t have to know.”

  Carrington smiled as he reached for the letter. “One mustn’t shield a child from the pain of life, Mrs. Reynolds, especially a boy. It makes him soft. You’ll want to remember that when you and Lieutenant Reynolds have children of your own.”

  For the first time, Rose thought maybe Mark was right. Carrington was an ass. “Surely Jimmy could be spared just a bit of life’s pain, Colonel,” she said. “He’s only six.”

  Carrington patted her shoulder. “You’re upset,” he said. “I’ll leave you now, let you ladies get back to your work.” Rose and Beth Curry watched him cross the twilit parade yard.

  “Could he possibly be more patronizing?” Rose said with a frown.

  “The colonel means well,” Beth said, “but he doesn’t understand people, he doesn’t know what to say. Sam said it was like a kind of tone-deafness.”

  The night was very cold and the wind had teeth. Rose piled on every blanket they owned but still she could not get warm. How nice it would be, she thought, to have a man beside her, and she wished not for Mark, who had guard duty, but for Daniel Dixon. What was he doing now? Was he at the hospital or was he alone too, thinking of her?

  The temperature dropped and the wind intensified. At midnight she heard the snap and boom of a tent collapsing, followed by loud curses. She pulled her blankets tighter, pitying those poor souls and praying her own tent would hold. Gradually she felt herself growing warmer and at last she slept. When she woke after daylight, there were four inches of fluffy snow on the ground. It was the snow, she realized, banking up around the base of her tent and blocking the wind, which finally made sleep possible.

  It was gone by noon, melted by the hot September sun, but the snow inspired the men to work harder. Of the officers, only Carrington’s and the bandmaster’s quarters were finished. The enlisted men were in barracks, but these were crude shelters with dirt floors. One company, tired of living in mud, pooled their wages to buy lumber and nails from the quartermaster and laid a plank floor in one day.

  The morning after the snow, Indians rode down on the miners who were still camped by the Big Piney. The soldiers, watching from the banquette, cheered as the miners fought them off, killing six. The attack occurred during guard mount and the band continued playing throughout, lending the bloody scene an air of unreality. It was like a dream, Rose thought, or a theater play.

  George Grummond offered to lead a detachment in the miners’ defense, but Carrington refused. “You’ll have plenty of opportunities to fight Indians, Grummond,” he said. “Best to learn the ropes first.” Grummond was clearly disappointed but did not argue.

>   “He could be trouble, Colonel,” Ten Eyck said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He has a reputation. He drinks.”

  Carrington looked at Ten Eyck with raised eyebrows and a slight smile. “And you, Tenodor? Isn’t this a case of the pot accusing the kettle?”

  Ten Eyck did not return the colonel’s smile. “He borrows money from enlisted men.”

  “Does he? I’ll look into that. If true, I’ll put a stop to it.”

  After a pause, Ten Eyck said, “Colonel, did you know of Grummond’s court-martial during the war—that he was found guilty of drunkenness while on duty and in the presence of the enemy?”

  Carrington stroked his beard. This news reinforced his growing suspicions that Omaha had no real interest in his campaign. Was Cooke getting rid of troublemakers by sending them to him? Grummond came with a strong letter of recommendation but an officer often sang the praises of a subordinate he wanted shed of. “How do you know all this, Tenodor?” he said.

  “My nephew served under Grummond in the Fourteenth Michigan for one year,” Ten Eyck said. “At first, Rob admired him. George Grummond is no coward, no question of that, but he’s also a hothead and a drunk. He once—while drunk—shot at a fellow officer.”

  “Your nephew witnessed this?”

  “He did. He also saw Grummond pistol-whip a noncommissioned officer and shoot an unarmed civilian, an old man. When one of our surgeons tried to help the old fellow Grummond had the surgeon arrested.”

  “Is there more?” Carrington asked.

  “At Kennesaw Mountain Grummond, drunk again, ordered his men to storm an entrenched enemy position. Our boys would’ve been massacred but Rob convinced him to withdraw his order. Grummond was court-martialed and found unfit to command. Rob had to testify.”

  “I wonder his career wasn’t ended,” Carrington said.

  “Well, as I said, no one ever accused him of cowardice. And he performed well against Joe Johnston in North Carolina. That must be said.”

  “Have you mentioned these things to anyone?”

  “No, sir, though he was publicly reprimanded. His history must be known.”

  “Maybe not. I didn’t know of it. Keep all this to yourself for now, Tenodor. I need every officer I’ve got. Let’s give him a chance to prove himself anew.”

  “Oh, he’ll prove himself,” Ten Eyck said. “Of that I have no doubt.”

  Chapter Thirty

  The Indians accelerated their campaign of terror attacking wood trains and logging camps almost daily. One morning four Sioux warriors surprised a six-man crew felling trees on Piney Island. The loggers raced for the safety of the blockhouse as the Indians flew out of the forest on their painted ponies but three men, working farther out, were caught in the open.

  Two ran for the trees but Private Pat Smith tried for the blockhouse. Halfway there he was shot down by arrows, falling in the tall grass. A warrior ran to him, unsheathing his scalping knife. The men in the blockhouse fired at the Indian but did not hit him. They were forced to listen in horror to Smith’s hoarse screams. At last they stopped and his comrades gave him up for dead.

  The loggers were well armed and the Indians quit the attack. The two men who hid in the forest came out cautiously and ran to the blockhouse. They waited, quiet and afraid, expecting the Indians to return. After about twenty minutes they saw movement in the waist-high grass. One of the men raised his carbine.

  “Wait,” the corporal said, lowering his arm. “Don’t shoot. I think it’s Smith.” Even as he spoke, the wounded soldier pulled himself into the clearing, inching forward on his side with arrows protruding from his chest and thigh. His head and face were black with blood.

  “My God,” the corporal said. He ran to Smith and dragged him back to the blockhouse, laying him on the dirt floor. His scalp was gone, leaving the top of his head raw and meaty, showing white patches of exposed skull. A flap of skin hung forward over one eye. “We’ve got to get him to the post.”

  “Hell, I don’t want to try it, corporal, not with them Injuns around,” a soldier said. “I say we wait for our relief. Smith’s gonna die anyway. Just look at him.”

  Smith moaned, turning his bloody head from side to side.

  “I said we’re taking him back,” the corporal said. “Ty, put him in the little wagon.”

  The corporal and two others drove the six miles to Fort Phil Kearny with Smith grinding his teeth and shaking under a woolen blanket. Dixon and assistant surgeon Edwin Reid met them at the gate.

  As Dixon lifted Smith’s head to give him water, he thought how young he was. Probably didn’t shave but twice a week. How many boys and men had left this world with their eyes on his face, he wondered. Would this boy be next?

  The surgeons carried Smith to the operating table. Oil lamps burned on either side and the window flaps were open to admit as much natural light as possible. Dixon examined the chest wound, tapping his fingers on Smith’s bony chest. A frothy mixture of blood and air oozed from the hole. He unlocked the medicine cabinet and reached for a full bottle of whiskey. That was all he had to dull the boy’s pain, no opium or laudanum. Someone had pilfered the supply.

  “Drink all you can keep down,” he said, “but take it slow.” Smith nodded and, in a few deep gulps, downed about one-fourth of the bottle. The liquor worked quickly. Within minutes, Smith’s trembling stopped and his body seemed to relax.

  “I’m going to clean and dress your wounds now,” Dixon said. “Try to keep still. It won’t be easy, but it’s important you try.” Smith nodded, eyes closed.

  He started with the chest wound. Blood had softened the sinew twine that bound the iron point so the shaft slid out easily but the barbed point held fast. The wound began to hemorrhage. Dixon probed with his finger to find the arrowhead’s location, then widened the track with a long thin knife. As Reid threaded a needle with catgut, Dixon inserted a wire snare, encircled the loop around the iron point at its base and, with one strong pull, yanked it free. He dropped it in a tin basin where it landed with a cheerful clink. The arrowhead was a short blade, sharpened on both edges with hooked rear shoulders. It was surprisingly heavy, as if it had been made from an emigrant’s fry pan. The small iron point in Smith’s thigh came out easily. Reid sutured this wound while Dixon turned his attention to the boy’s head, grimacing as he unwound the dirty, blood-soaked bandage. He cleaned and irrigated the wound with a solution of zinc chloride before tucking the raw strip of loose flesh into place.

  “I ain’t gonna die, Doc,” Smith said, startling Dixon, who had thought the boy asleep. “God spoke to me out there, after that Injun finished with me. He told me I was goin’ home.” Smith tried to open his eyes but they were buried in bruised and swollen flesh.

  “Good,” Dixon said. “Here, take more whiskey.” He gave the boy the bottle and, after it took effect, reattached the flap of skin quickly, using a clean, continuous stitch. At the same time, Reid used tweezers to remove bits of splintered bone from the oozing hole in Smith’s chest. When the suturing was done and the wounds were freshly bandaged, the surgeons moved the boy to the rear tent, a sort-of ward room, while an orderly spread piney sawdust under the operating table to absorb Smith’s blood.

  Dixon untied his bloody apron and stepped outside, where the young soldier’s friends waited. He was surprised to see Rose among them, then he remembered Smith was Carl’s groom and caretaker.

  “Will he live?” the corporal said.

  “Coin’s still in the air,” Dixon said. “We did all we could for him.”

  The men drifted away until only Rose remained. They faced each other in the fading light. “Rose,” he said, “have you thought about what I said? Doesn’t what happened to Smith today tell you anything? It’s not too late.”

  “It is too late,” she said. “Beth Curry and the boys left with the mail this morning. So even if I wanted to leave, I couldn’t. Colonel Carrington doesn’t have the men for another escort. But I don’t want to go, so it
doesn’t matter.”

  A gust of wind blew a lock of hair into his eyes and Rose fought the impulse to lift her hand and push it back in place. He needs a haircut, she thought. He has no one to do these things for him. They stood looking at each other, not speaking, when Reid called to him. Dixon shook his head and went back in the tent.

  Late that afternoon Brown returned from a patrol with nine Indians in tow. Among them was Two Moons, one of the Cheyenne chiefs who visited with Black Horse just after the regiment’s arrival. He was so changed, so dirty and bedraggled, no one recognized him until he showed the identity papers Carrington had given him. Two Moons said Black Horse was dying in their camp in the mountains, where many others also were sick. The young men had joined Red Cloud’s Sioux.

  “We’ve come to ask the Little White Chief’s permission to hunt in the valley of the Tongue River so we can bring food back to the sick and starving,” Two Moons said. “Then I will take our people south and you will never see us again.”

  Carrington gave his approval and, over the objections of his officers, let the Indians camp overnight on the Big Piney. After dinner, he walked to the quartermaster’s office where Brown and Grummond were playing cards. Brown had his boots up on his desk and did not lower them when his commanding officer entered.

  “I want you to take bacon and coffee to the Indian camp tonight,” Carrington said. “A bag of flour also.”

  Brown glanced at Grummond, who kept his eyes on his cards. “Are you sure, Colonel?” Brown said, finally lowering his feet. “Are you sure you want to be so hospitable after what happened to Smith this morning?”

  “Those people had nothing to do with that,” Carrington said irritably. “They are starving. It’s an opportunity to show the White Father’s generosity and compassion. Besides, it’s the Christian thing to do.”

  Grummond spoke for the first time. “Our boys are looking for an opportunity too, sir, an opportunity to nail some red scalps to their doors.”