Frontier

by Salzer, S. K.

  Captain Ten Eyck knocked, then entered the office. “Pardon the interruption, sir, but Private Smith just died. I thought you should know. The men are—”

  “Goddamn savages!” Grummond jumped to his feet. “Do you still want to give them bacon and coffee, Colonel? Maybe our wives could bake them a cake?”

  Carrington paled though he spoke with a tone of finality. “I’m sorry about Smith, of course I am, but his death doesn’t change anything. I say again, Two Moons and his people had nothing to do with it.”

  Ten Eyck cleared his throat. “I’m afraid our boys think differently, sir. I saw some of them going over the wall as I was walking over here.”

  “What?” Carrington shouted. “Ten Eyck, get fifty men and meet me at the water gate. Brown, go with him. I’ll get my sidearm and join you.”

  “I’ll go with Brown,” Grummond said.

  “No, you will not,” Carrington said. “You keep order here.”

  Grummond shrugged and took his coat from the wall. “Colonel,” he said, “what makes you so sure those Indians weren’t in on that raid this morning? They all look alike. Those papers could have been stolen.”

  “They are who they claim to be.” Carrington’s voice was becoming shrill. “And even if they weren’t, what do you suggest? That I stand by and allow those Indians—the women and children—to be massacred? That I let my men dishonor themselves and the regiment? I am not John Chivington, Mr. Grummond, and this is not Sand Creek.” Grummond gave him an exaggerated salute and went out the door, slamming it behind him.

  Carrington ran to his house for his gun and joined Brown and Ten Eyck in the quartermaster’s yard. Soon the officers and fifty armed men were marching down the grassy slope toward Little Piney Creek. A single fire burned on the small island where the Indians made their camp. The cold night air smelled of wood and tobacco smoke. As they neared the water a voice from the cottonwood scrub called out a warning.

  “It’s the colonel. Run for it!” Dozens of shadowy figures sprang from the brush and ran for the fort, some stumbling and falling in the darkness.

  “Stop!” Ten Eyck shouted, without effect. Carrington repeated the command but still, no one stopped. Finally he raised his revolver and fired twice into the air. Only then did the runners halt. Ten Eyck, holding a torch, ordered them to attention and gradually ninety men stood in a ragged line. Carrington walked slowly before them, looking each in the eye. The orange torchlight lit the faces of some of his best men, including several band members. Carrington stopped at the center, with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “I’m shocked and disappointed by what almost happened here,” he said. “Were you prepared to murder innocent women and children? Is this the kind of men you are? Do you realize the disgrace such an action would have brought to this post and the Eighteenth Infantry?”

  A silence followed broken only by the crackling of the Indians’ campfire. They watched silently, wrapped in their blankets.

  “It was because of Smith, sir,” one of the men said. “Because of what they did to Pat. We can’t let them get away with that!”

  Carrington shook his head. “Ten Eyck, take these men to their barracks and see to it they remain there until morning.” As they trudged up the hill Carrington returned to his quarters. Margaret met him at the door.

  “Were any officers among the mob?” she said.

  “No.”

  “Thank God.” Her shoulders sank with relief. She was afraid the mutiny had come. “Come to bed, Henry,” she said in a gentle voice. “You look exhausted.”

  In the morning Two Moon’s Indians were gone, leaving only a cold fire. Cazeau’s widow and her children, including the beautiful Jane, left with them. Rose found a small deerskin pouch outside their tent. Inside was one of Jane’s delicate shell earrings.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The October mornings were so cold Rose had to break a film of ice on the water bucket before washing. There was no traffic on the Bozeman Road, no birds in the air, no fish flashing in the streams. Other than the busy soldiers, all life seemed to have come to a standstill, as if saving strength for the ordeal to come.

  Tension mounted along with the cold. Although the men were in barracks, most of the officers still were living in tents. Some essential structures, including the hospital, were barely started. To make things worse, lurid accounts of Indian depredations regularly appeared in the eastern press, delivered in the mails weeks after publication. Newspapers printed false reports of women snatched from the arms of their men and tortured. Cooke complained of these stories in a letter to Carrington.

  “It is time—indeed, well past time!—to strike a blow against the red man!” Cooke wrote. “Are you capable of this, Carrington, or should I find another commanding officer?”

  In his response, Carrington said he was willing and eager to punish the Indians but lacked the tools to do so. “I must have more men. Where are the two companies of cavalry promised me? I will not endanger the lives of my troops.”

  Shortly after this angry exchange of letters, a cloud of gray dust appeared in the southern sky. Carrington and Ten Eyck rode out to explore. Instead of reinforcements, they found an immense cattle herd driven by a sunburned, trail-hardened man who introduced himself as Nelson Story. A successful gold miner, Story was returning to his Virginia City home with one thousand Texas longhorns he bought in Fort Worth to sell to the beef-hungry miners of the Gallatin Valley.

  “We’d like to camp by your fort tonight, Colonel,” he said. “We had Sioux trouble just south of Reno on the Dry Fork of the Powder. They shot two of my boys—wounded, not killed—and made off with twenty head. We went after ’em and got the steers back, all but the one they were eatin’.”

  “How many Indians were there?” Carrington said.

  “Six, and we killed them all. It was them or us. You know, I been up here three years and I never killed an Indian before. Never even shot at one, before this trip.”

  Carrington shifted his eyes from Story to his beef herd. “I’m sorry to hear it. Things are bad enough already. That won’t help.”

  Story shrugged. “I did what I had to.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll find the trip from here to Virginia City even more difficult,” Carrington said. “You’d be wise to sell your beeves to our quartermaster, Captain Brown.”

  The last mail brought news of Brown’s promotion and reassignment to Fort Laramie. Despite his shortage of officers, Carrington would not be sorry to see him go.

  “Thanks, Colonel,” Story said, “but I know what the army will pay and I also know I can get four or five times that in Bozeman City. Anyhow, we’ll make it. My men have new rifles, Remington breech-loaders. Just let us stay the night by your fort and we’ll move on in the morning.”

  Carrington stroked his beard. “How many men do you have?”

  “Twenty-five. I left my two wounded back at Reno.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Story, but I can’t let you pass without at least forty armed men.” He raised his hand when Story started to protest. “Army regulations. You’ll have to wait for another train before moving on.”

  Story studied Carrington with cool blue eyes. “October’s half gone, Colonel Carrington. You and I both know there probably won’t be another train this season. We’ll be snowed in.”

  Carrington raised his hands, palms up. “As I said, there’s nothing I can do. Of course, you could lessen your risk by selling to my quartermaster today. As to your other request, bad news there too, I’m afraid. I can’t let you camp by the fort. Forage is thin enough, our animals need what little remains. You’ll have to move off a few miles. Captain Ten Eyck will direct you to a place where you’ll find water and grazing.”

  Story gave a short laugh. “And plenty of Sioux too.”

  Carrington smiled. “Your men have their Remingtons, don’t they?”

  Story slapped his hat against his leg producing a cloud of dust. “Colonel, I believe you are trying to strong-
arm me into selling my beeves.”

  “Think what you like.”

  “I’m not liking it.”

  Carrington said nothing.

  “I’m a fair man, Colonel,” Story said, putting his hat on, “and generally a law-abiding one. I’ll wait a day or two, but I’ve got ten thousand dollars invested in those longhorns, I drove them all the way from Texas, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the Sioux or the U.S. Army stop me from getting them to Bozeman City.”

  Carrington kept close tabs on the cow camp, sending Ten Eyck to check on them twice a day. During one of these visits Story requested a surgeon for his men. Dixon accompanied Ten Eyck on his next trip and lanced a boil, cleaned several lacerations, and pulled a rotten tooth. After the men were seen to, Dixon and Story spent more than an hour drinking coffee sweetened with a bit of whiskey and talking. When it came time to leave, Dixon would not accept any pay.

  “You’re a good man,” Story said, as they shook hands. “I hope you’ll think about my offer, Dixon. I believe you’ll find a golden chance up in Bozeman. Reflect on it.”

  The next morning Ten Eyck found Story and his outfit vanished, leaving only a note on a wooden stake:

  October 22, 1866. Carrington, I waited long

  enough. No hard feelings on my part. Nelson Story.

  Carrington crumpled the paper and threw it in the fire. Within the hour he drafted new orders requiring all civilian travelers be quartered inside the stockade while waiting to move on. All gates and wickets will be locked at retreat, he wrote, except that at the quartermaster’s gate which will be closed at tattoo and then only will be opened by the officer of the day or sergeant of the guard in their line of duty or for good cause. Any soldier absent from his quarters after tattoo would be arrested, confined, and possibly court-martialed.

  The new regulations were not well received by the men or the officers. “I’m beginning to feel more like a prisoner than a cavalryman,” Grummond said to Brown in front of the men.

  By the end of October most living quarters were complete. With its wooden floors and plastered log walls, Rose’s three-room cabin felt like a palace after six months of living under canvas. Mark bought her a bolt of turkey-red fabric from which she made curtains and coverings for their trunks and folding table. For the bed and chairs she used a pale yellow cretonne patterned with tiny white flowers. The effect was cheerful and bright and pleased her very much. Although Mark complained about the “womanish” look of the place, Rose sensed that he too was happy with it.

  She waited a few days for the green pine floorboards to dry before unpacking her prized possession, a thick woolen Brussels rug left her by Grandmother Alice. Since childhood, she had loved its intricately woven floral patterns in deep jewel tones of ruby, lapis, and jade. She spread it on the floor of the front room, stood back and considered, then rolled it up and returned it to its former place under her bed. Its elegant beauty was out of place in a home where corn and grain sacks made more practical and effective carpeting. Muddy boots would ruin it anyhow. No, Rose felt it luxury enough to have a full-size bed to sleep in, glass in the windows, and the carpenter’s promise of window boxes in the spring. She looked forward to buying geraniums from Judge Fitch and coaxing them along till the boxes were brimming with fat, gaudy blossoms of pink and red. Her eye ached for color. What she wouldn’t give for a vase of fresh flowers on her kitchen table.

  At the end of the month Lieutenant James Bradley returned from escorting Colonel Hazen to Fort Smith and points north. Bradley looked years older than when he left two months before. Four of the twenty-six men who went with him did not come back. Three deserted just days after they left Phil Kearny and Jim Brannan had been killed by Indians, probably Blackfoot.

  Bradley also brought bad news about Jim Beckwourth. The Mulatto of the Plains left Fort Smith in September and struck out for the Crow villages where he hoped to learn about Red Cloud’s activities. But just days after his arrival, Beckwourth died in the lodge of Iron Bull, a trusted Crow chieftain who carried messages between forts Smith and Phil Kearny.

  “Some say he was poisoned by a jealous husband,” Bradley said, “but Iron Bull denies it and I don’t believe it either. Beckwourth was a horn, true enough, but he was already sick when he left Fort Smith, bleeding every day from the nose. My guess is years of hard living finally caught up with him.”

  Carrington had expected Bridger to return with Bradley but the old mountain man’s rheumatism was bad and he was unable to make the trip. Despite this, and the deaths of Brannan and Beckwourth, Carrington’s spirits were buoyed by Bradley’s return and the twenty-two men he brought with him. Each one of them would be needed for what was coming.

  The Indians were a constant presence on the hilltops, flashing mirrors by day and burning signal fires at night. To relieve the tension, Carrington declared a two-day holiday at the end of October to celebrate the raising of the post’s giant flag. With a thirty-six-foot fly and twenty-foot hoist, it would be the first full-size flag to fly in the Dakota Territory. Two carpenters, both former seamen, built a flagpole that stood 124 feet when the two pieces, top mast and main, were joined together. They painted the pole black, planted it in the middle of the parade, then built a bandstand around it. To make sure things would come off without a hitch, the two spent most of the day before the ceremony reeving and testing the halyards.

  Everyone welcomed the change in routine and the dancing and feasting that would follow the ceremony. Each officer’s wife polished her husband’s saber and epaulettes, adjusted the ostrich plumes on his dress hat, and smoothed the creases from his crimson sash before seeing to her own dress. Then there was food to prepare. The women of Fort Phil Kearny were proud and competitive cooks. Mrs. Bisbee made three “Phil Kearny mince pies,” a recipe of her own invention using beef hearts, dried apples, raisins, and sweetened vinegar. Sallie Horton baked puddings and sauces while Captain Ten Eyck’s serving woman, Susan, prepared her specialty, venison and buffalo sausage.

  Rose volunteered to make a three-layer stack cake, then immediately regretted it when Jerusha took sick and was unable to help. An inexperienced and uninterested cook, Rose was counting on Jerusha’s expertise with the wood-fired stove. Pine kindling burned hot and needed constant adjusting. More than once it had reduced Rose’s breads and cakes to bits of smoking charcoal. She was determined, however, to succeed this time.

  She was already at work when reveille sounded. After starting the fire she set about improving the salty butter Judge Fitch sold in his store, which had to be tempered with hot water before it would suit. The flour also was of very poor quality, cakey and old and peppered with mouse droppings. She had to sift it three times before it was usable, then carefully measured and added the remaining ingredients to make a batter; sugar, salt, two rare and precious eggs, a cup of equally rare and precious milk from the post’s only remaining milch cow, baking soda, and a splash of vanilla. After putting the three pans in the oven she made a paste of dried apples, molasses, brandy water, and raisins to spread on the top and between the layers.

  Her careful attention to the difficult oven paid off. The layers came out even and fully risen, baked to a fine golden brown. Gingerly, as if they were made of glass, she put them on iron trivets and stood back from the table to admire her work, wishing for a female relative—a mother, grandmother, or, best of all, daughter—to share her triumph.

  The autumn day was sunny and warm. At noon the men, in full dress uniforms, marched in companies to the parade ground and stood at attention before the platform where the officers, their families, and a select few civilian employees were seated. Colonel Carrington walked to the edge of the platform.

  “Order arms!” The men swung their muzzle-loading rifles onto their shoulders with a loud rattle. “Parade rest!” Quiet fell as Carrington took sheets of folded paper from the inner pocket of his jacket and adjusted his reading glasses. He cleared his throat:

  “Officers and men! Three and one-half mon
ths ago stakes were driven for the now-perfected outlines of Fort Philip Kearny. Aggressive Indians threatened to exterminate the command. Our advent cost us blood. Men have died to redeem our pledge to never yield one foot of advance, but to guarantee a safe passage for all who seek a home in the lands beyond.

  “Fifteen weeks have passed, varied by many skirmishes and by both day and night alarms, but that pledge holds good. In the pine tracts or in the hay fields, on picket or general guard duty, no one has failed to find a constant exposure to some hostile shaft and to feel that a cunning adversary was watching every chance to harass and kill. And yet, that pledge holds good . . .”

  Rose’s mind drifted. Where was he? She looked again and this time found Daniel smoking a cigarette by the hospital tent.

  By now several officers on the platform were dozing in the midday sun. Carrington droned on but Rose, sitting on the platform between Mark and Harry Carrington, found it impossible to listen. The Colonel was a good man, Yale-educated, with a broad knowledge of military history. Why was he so ineffective? Why was he so easy to ignore while another man took charge of a room the moment he walked in? Was Mark that kind of man? Once, she thought so, now she was unsure. And Dixon? Yes, in his own quiet way, he was.

  A mirror flashed on the ridge across the Big Piney and there was an answering flash from the Sullivant Hills. What did the Indians make of this strange bluecoat ceremony? Rose wondered.

  Carrington’s speech was already too long but he went on for another twenty minutes before asking Chaplain White to conclude with a prayer. Finally the drums rolled, the band broke into “The Star Spangled Banner,” and the garrison flag went up the flagpole. There was no wind and it hung limp on the pole’s black surface. Still, a lump formed in Rose’s throat as she thought of the men—Royal Spicer, William and Charley Thomas, Patrick Smith, Ridgway Glover, all the others—who died to bring it here. Did they give their lives for a just cause? What was a flag, after all, but a symbol of ownership, and what right had they to claim ownership of this land? She wished she shared Chaplain White’s confidence that the Lord preferred his white children to his red ones.