Frontier

by Salzer, S. K.

  “I told him it wouldn’t work,” Carrington said with a small smile. “He should have listened to me.” The Colonel and Ten Eyck climbed down the stairs, leaving Harry alone on the platform. Suddenly he felt an anticipatory tingle, as if he were standing in the wind that runs before a storm. Harry was first to spot the Sioux horsemen, led by two warriors—a slight, fair-haired warrior and a giant—as they swooped down from the Sullivant Hills to stampede the cattle herd of civilian James Wheatley. They made off with all his animals as the hobbled mules grazed peacefully beside the Big Piney.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Jim Bridger returned from Fort Smith with Yellow Face, an English-speaking Crow warrior, and sobering news about the growing number of hostiles in the Tongue River Valley.

  “The village is so big it takes half the day to ride through it,” Yellow Face told Carrington and his officers. “Red Cloud has called in all his Sioux brothers—the Sissetons, Oglalas, Hunkpapas—and also his friends the Arapaho and Cheyenne. He even asked my people to put aside our bad feelings for the Sioux and join him, but we would not. ‘No matter,’ Red Cloud said. ‘I have enough fighting men to shut down the white man’s road and starve the fort soldiers. Then when the bluecoats are weak with hunger my warriors will descend on them like locusts and wipe them all out.’ That’s what he told to my relatives.”

  “Which post is he talking about?” Carrington said. “This or Fort Smith?”

  “Both.”

  Brown laughed. “I just hope he tries it soon. I leave for Laramie next month and I don’t want to go without a scalp—Red Cloud’s, I hope.”

  Carrington, seated at his desk, tented his fingers before his mouth.

  “I doubt the Indians could close the Bozeman Road,” he said, “but even if they did, we’ve got supplies enough to last us through the winter.”

  Fetterman jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair. “For God’s sake, Colonel, why are we here?” He looked around at his fellow officers, as if seeking their support. “Did we come all this way to build a fort and hide in it? We must go after them. We must act!”

  The room went quiet but for the tick of the grandfather clock and the clang of an orderly’s shovel as he emptied stove cinders in a bucket. Carrington and Fetterman looked at each other, Fetterman beside his fallen chair and Carrington still seated at his desk. Bridger watched with a glint of amusement while Yellow Face kept his eyes on the floor.

  Mark Reynolds broke the silence. “I agree with Captain Fetterman, Colonel. We must strike a blow but not immediately. First, we need to start drilling the men regularly and practicing battalion formations. Simple target practice—they’ve had none. Ammunition was too short at one time but now we have plenty. We must begin.”

  Carrington got up and walked around to the front of his desk until he and Fetterman were only inches apart. Fetterman was the taller man and Carrington had to look up at him. “Of course I will engage the Indians,” he said, “but on my terms and only when the time is right. As commanding officer, I alone will determine that. And I tell every man in this room that my first priority is to ensure that this post is secure and that every man, woman, and child is provided with comfortable winter quarters. I am fully aware of the need for drill and target practice, Mr. Reynolds, and I will order it when appropriate. This meeting is over. You are excused. All of you, return to your duty. Bridger, you and Yellow Face stay with me. I want to hear more about this village.”

  Fetterman left without righting his chair, Grummond at his heels.

  The next morning Sioux attacked the wood train on its way to Piney Island. Escorting officers Fetterman, Bisbee, and Ten Eyck were surprised as they watered their horses. They ordered their frightened men to take shelter in the brush and return fire. An eighteen-year-old bugler at the rear of the column heard the shooting and turned his horse back to the fort. He galloped through the gates shouting that every man in the wood train had been killed.

  Mrs. Bisbee, hearing this news, collapsed on the parade lawn. She was a heavy woman and her companions, Rose and Margaret Carrington, struggled to lift and carry her to her cabin. Margaret sent Jimmy for a surgeon. He returned with Sam Horton, who took the distraught woman’s pulse, prescribed tea and comfort, then hurried back to the hospital tent for the wounded he expected to begin arriving any minute.

  Rose made tea. Mrs. Bisbee was not a tidy housekeeper. Breakfast dishes sat unwashed on the table and oatmeal had turned to glue in a pan on the stove. Rose tossed kindling onto the coals, put a kettle of water on to boil, and searched for a few clean mugs. She went about these tasks automatically, as if sleepwalking. Was this the day it all came to smash? Had the Indians finally decided to overrun the hated soldier fort? If so, then she’d made sorry use of her short time on Earth. She’d leave no children to mourn her, no lasting accomplishments, no record to show she had ever drawn breath. She was disappointed in herself, disgusted she had wasted so much time and energy on things that did not matter. If she lived, she would do things differently. And if it was indeed her time to die, she prayed it would not be painful.

  She heard the thunder of running horses and pushed aside the dingy muslin curtain. Rescue riders were racing through the quartermaster’s gates. Mark was on Carl, digging his spurs in the old gelding’s sides and vigorously applying the crop. Rose knew Carl would not be able to keep up with the other horses, though he could well die trying. How dare Mark use Carl in that way? He was her horse—the men had given Carl to her. She threw open the door and started running to the quartermaster’s yard, thinking she would call him back. But after a few steps she stopped. What was she thinking? Men’s lives were at stake and there were precious few horses left. Of course Carl must go. And what kind of woman worried more for her horse than her husband? She turned and went back into Mrs. Bisbee’s dingy kitchen.

  The kettle was boiling. Rose made the tea, then carried a tray to the back room, where Mrs. Bisbee lay sobbing on the bed. Her toddler son, Gene, played quietly in a corner, undisturbed by his mother’s condition. Margaret sat beside her, holding her hand. After pouring the tea, Rose took a chair by the window. She looked to the empty quartermaster’s yard where the corporal of the guard was closing the gate. What if Mark did not come back? she thought. Is that what she wanted?

  She looked toward the hospital tent where she saw Daniel Dixon tying on a surgeon’s apron. How sick he must be of blood, pain, and death, she thought. He’d seen little else the past five years. She wanted to run to him, kiss him full on the mouth, and say yes, she would go to Bozeman. Yes, she would be his lover and companion, maybe someday his wife. Yes, they would invent fresh lives for themselves and perhaps, God willing, create new lives as well. Yes to all of it. Was it too late?

  After more than an hour’s wait, the rescue riders appeared on the wood road followed by the logging party. Despite the bugler’s frenzied alarm, no one had been killed in the attack or even wounded. Fetterman grinned as he rode through the gate, pointing with a gloved hand to the garrison flag, which Carrington had lowered to half-mast.

  “Hello, Alex!” Fetterman called to Lieutenant Wands. “Sorry, there’s no captaincy open after all. I guess you’ll have to wait a while longer for your second bar!”

  Mark came in riding double behind Bisbee. His face was bloody and his clothes were muddy and torn. Rose, watching from the Bisbee’s cabin door, went to him.

  “Where’s Carl?” she said.

  Mark slid to the ground, brushing dried mud from his jacket. “Lying in the Big Piney with my bullet in his brain!” he said. “Dammit to hell! How are we supposed to fight Indians with horses like that!”

  “What happened?” Rose said. She felt sick.

  “That miserable bone rack broke a leg climbing out of the creek and fell on me. Nearly broke my leg too!” Mark touched his forehead, then examined his fingers, sticky with blood. “He must’ve kicked me, dammit. I put him out of his misery. Should have done it long ago.”

  Rose pictured Carl ly
ing by the water, alone, food for the wolves and carrion birds. He was a great old soul, loyal and capable of strong feeling. Her eyes filled when she remembered the way he would lift his head at the sound of her voice, then daintily pick his way across the muddy corral to nuzzle her and let her stroke his neck.

  Mark laughed. “Are you crying? Oh, that’s rich. Here we are, forgotten by the world, surrounded by savages, and you’re crying about a broken-down old horse. It could’ve been me lying out there—did you think of that?”

  “Yes,” she said, hating him. “I thought of that.”

  He looked at her, his face full of anger. She expected hard words, she braced herself for them, but abruptly, Mark’s expression changed.

  “Rose,” he said, “what’s happened to us? This isn’t how we’re meant to be. Remember how we were back in St. Louis, when we started? How did we let this happen?”

  Rose felt her heart twist, wrung like a towel.

  “Let’s go home,” he said. “Let’s talk, let’s make things right.” He took her arm and she let him guide her to their cabin, though his touch no longer had the power to move her.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  A thick fog lay over the post and the Piney bottoms, hiding the mountains from view. Harry Carrington woke with a sore throat and throbbing head and would have given twenty dollars to stay in bed but his father insisted on church attendance for all officers not on duty and their families. Even enlisted men, Christian or not, were expected to observe the Sabbath. Because the chapel was still unfinished, Chaplain White exhorted for the Lord from behind the long counter of Judge Fitch’s store.

  Harry wore his Sunday clothes, a black serge coat with sleeves ending two inches above his wrists and black trousers that stopped above his ankles. He followed Jimmy and his parents across the parade, his wool overcoat buttoned to his chin, but even so his bones ached in the damp cold. What he wouldn’t give for one of the heavy buffalo coats the soldiers had made for themselves.

  Fetterman sat on his horse watching his company form for guard mount while the band played listlessly. Maybe it was his illness, but to Harry’s eyes everything seemed gray and drained of life. Even Sally Horton’s little fawn, lying on the cold ground in front of a barracks, was still. She did not stir, even when Private Thomas Burke, late for formation, almost stepped on her as he stumbled through the door and took his place in line. Because he was still buttoning his coat, Burke did not see Sergeant Garrett coming at him and was unprepared for the shove that sent him sprawling.

  “That’ll teach you to be late!” Garrett shouted. He then let fly with a string of profanity.

  Though shorter than Garrett and at least sixty pounds lighter, Burke jumped up and lunged at the sergeant, lowering his head to butt him in the stomach. But Garrett was too fast. He lashed out with the butt of his musket and hit Burke full in the face, knocking out a tooth. Burke fell again. Garrett drew back his boot and kicked him in the ribs.

  Margaret grabbed the colonel’s arm. “Henry, for God’s sake do something. Garrett will kill that boy!”

  Carrington looked at Fetterman. Garrett was his sergeant, it was Fetterman’s place to discipline him, but he watched the beating without expression and did not intervene. Carrington called to Bisbee, who was also en route to church with his wife and child. “Arrest that man!” he said, pointing at Garrett. “Put him in the guardhouse.”

  Bisbee obeyed, with obvious reluctance, while two of Burke’s bunkmates carried their unconscious friend to the hospital, blood dripping from his mouth.

  After the service Carrington drafted Order 38. Clearly a reprimand of Fetterman for not halting Garrett’s attack, it labeled swearing, verbal abuse, kicks, and blows a “perversion of authority” and instructed his officers to adopt a more humane and principled approach to discipline. Bully 38, as the officers called it, deepened the growing rift between them and Carrington and solidified the lines of battle. Fetterman became the leader of Carrington’s opponents, a group that included Powell, Brown, Bisbee, Grummond, sutler Fitch, and contract surgeon C. M. Hines. Ten Eyck, Wands, Horton, Bridger, Reid, and Dixon supported Carrington.

  Mark walked a tightrope, outwardly remaining loyal to Carrington but in private conversations with Fetterman’s group suggesting his true allegiance lay with them. Much as he despised Carrington, Rose knew Mark was too ambitious to throw in with the malcontents before knowing which way the wind would blow. Complicity in a failed mutiny would be fatal to a military career.

  Meanwhile, letters from an anonymous officer stationed at Fort Phil Kearny began appearing in the Army and Navy Journal. Although the journal was weeks old by the time it arrived in the mails, each letter, signed “Dacotah,” caused a stir. One complained about an officer’s meager pay, which was many times less than the wages earned by the government’s civilian employees.

  There is not an officer in the army but will testify that it is next to an impossibility to live like an officer and a gentleman on his pay. Pay of a second lieutenant amounts to $110.80 for a thirty-one-day month, tax off. On this one must live, clothe ourselves, and appear like a gentleman. What is left to pay board and bills and where and how are we to obtain a cigar if we desire to smoke after our scanty meals?

  The writer blamed Carrington for this imbalance, even though he must have known an officer’s pay was beyond the colonel’s control.

  The mysterious Dacotah became a celebrity. Captains Powell and Brown were considered the most likely candidates and neither denied it. Brown started talking about the book he would write when he got back to the States.

  “I’ll tell the true and honest story of Fort Phil Kearny,” he said, “then we’ll see who holds the whip hand!”

  Only Rose knew Mark was Dacotah, having found a half-written letter in his jacket pocket. She was ashamed and did not speak of it to anyone, not even Mark. He was short-tempered and irritable. Sometimes she wondered if she was afraid of him.

  Carrington’s troubles only deepened as November wore on. General Cooke kept up a steady stream of letters and telegrams—carried by courier from Fort Laramie, a 236-mile trip over roads often blocked with snowdrifts—scolding Carrington for his failure to punish the Indians for the “large arrear of murderous and insulting attacks by the savages on emigrant trains and troops.”

  At the end of the month Captain N. C. Kinney and fifty men arrived from Fort C. F. Smith, ninety-one miles to the north on the banks of the Bighorn River. It would be their last trip until spring as snow soon would make travel between the two posts impossible.

  “Things are bad up there, Colonel Carrington,” Kinney said. “I’m not going to lie to you. Indians have killed five of my men in the last two weeks. Ammunition is low, I’ve got only ten rounds per man.”

  Only this last problem was Carrington able to solve. “As for the rest, I can’t help you,” he said. “I’m shorthanded myself. Cooke knows this. All we can do is wait.” He did not tell Kinney that Cooke was talking about closing Fort Smith altogether. In a rare act of defiance, Carrington refused to do so. In a letter to Cooke, he said closing the fort would leave emigrants bound for Virginia City at the mercy of the Indians. “And isn’t this why the regiment is here in the first place?”

  Kinney stayed at Fort Phil Kearny for a week, resupplying and clarifying with Carrington his winter objectives. The day they left, snow was falling and an iron wind blew down from the mountains. Harry, his father, and Jim Bridger watched from the observation deck as Kinney’s short column forded the Big Piney, slowly climbed the stony road, and disappeared over the crest of Lodge Trail Ridge.

  “What will happen to them when winter closes in?” Carrington said. “If the Indians attack, how will they survive?”

  Bridger rubbed his jaw with a gnarled, arthritic hand. “You could ask the same question about all of us, Colonel.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The cold deepened. Temperatures regularly reached ten below zero, sometimes twenty below. Supply trains were stopped by
the snow and forced to turn back to Fort Laramie. The men lived mostly on beans, lard, and hard bread. Occasionally scouts ventured out for game but they were rarely successful.

  One morning a soldier’s bunkmates carried him to the hospital with legs stiff as fence posts and gums so swollen he could not close his mouth. “He stinks so bad we thought he was already dead,” one said.

  After a short examination, Dixon diagnosed scurvy.

  “I’m surprised we haven’t seen it before now,” he said to Sam Horton. “We need antiscorbutics, things like potatoes and vinegar. Someone will have to go to Bozeman or we’ll have big trouble.”

  Horton pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s a dangerous trip. Who’ll go?”

  Dixon volunteered without hesitation. Traveling through two hundred miles of Indian country and sleeping rough in subzero weather was better than remaining at Fort Phil Kearny, knowing the woman he loved slept every night with another man. He did not know if she was thinking about leaving with him in January but he did know if he didn’t get away from the post, at least for a while, he would lose his mind.

  “Are you sure about this, Dixon?” Carrington said when the two surgeons announced their plan. “I don’t have enough men to give you a proper escort.”

  “Colonel, if I don’t go you won’t have a man standing. I’d like to leave tomorrow.”

  Carrington sighed. “I suppose I can free up Bridger and ten men to take you as far as Fort Smith, but from there to Bozeman City, you’ll be on your own unless Kinney can help you out, which I doubt. Bridger and the others will have to come back right away—I simply can’t spare them and the horses. I’ll ask Kinney to give you an escort for the return trip, but again, no guarantees.”

  “I don’t expect any.”

  Dixon left at four the next morning, with Lieutenant Bingham leading the escort. No one other than Horton and Carrington knew of their mission. Dixon and Bridger rode shoulder to shoulder in the supply wagon, with Dixon’s bay and Bridger’s mule tied to ringbolts in the rear. Dixon drove the team. As they crunched through the thin ice of the Big Piney, he looked over his shoulder toward her darkened cabin.