“She’s a fine-lookin’ woman,” Bridger said. “That’s a fact.”
“Who?” Dixon said.
Bridger laughed. “You know who. Me, I prefer a female with more flesh on her bones, but Rose Reynolds is easy on the eyes, no question. A good woman too, far as I can tell—too good for that horse’s ass she’s married to. Question is, what do you aim to do about it?”
Dixon kept his eyes on the road and said nothing.
“Yessir, I been in your shoes one or twice,” Bridger said. “Course, in my case the ladies concerned was squaws. They got a simple way of dealin’ with such things, the Injuns. They let the lady choose which buck she wants and that’s an end to it, usually. Now, your situation is more prickly. Me, I’d like to see you win out—like I said, that Reynolds is a real turd in the kettle, you might say.”
“I didn’t know you were such a talker,” Dixon said. “Are you planning to keep this up all the way to Fort Smith?”
Bridger shrugged. “He’s smart, though, Reynolds, I’ll give him that. Determined, got that bent-on-one-thing look about him. I’d watch my back if I was you, and that’s all I’ve got to say on the matter.”
A pack of gray wolves joined them at Goose Creek and followed at a distance until they made camp. Bridger figured they had come forty miles, almost half the distance to Fort Smith. Other than the wolves, they saw not another living creature.
Bingham and the troops pitched tents while Dixon and Bridger, wrapped in heavy robes, slept in the bed of the wagon under a canvas tarpaulin tied down at the rails. Despite an angry wind, the howling of the wolves, and Bridger’s open-mouthed snoring, Dixon slept like a dead man. At dawn they breakfasted on hard bread, jerked venison, and water. Dixon would have given fifty dollars for a cup of hot coffee but they could not risk a fire. By half past five they were again under way. An icy snow started mid-morning, tiny, wind-driven pellets that stung the flesh like heated shot. Dixon’s back ached and his face burned from the cold and wind. He hunched his shoulders deeper into his buffalo coat and pitied the poor mules leaning into their collars, pulling against the storm.
The snow stopped but the wind did not. The cold grew worse by the hour. The sun was no match for it, giving no warmth and only a feeble light. Ice crystals formed on the men’s whiskers and the mules’ furry rumps. When Dixon opened his mouth, the cold hit his teeth like the flat of a knife. Neither he nor Bridger did much talking.
Bingham wanted to make camp at sundown but Bridger insisted Fort Smith was close so they pressed on. Dark fell quickly. Stars twinkled in the black sky, as if the heavens were mocking them. Fool! Dixon cursed himself. He should have stayed at Phil Kearny, scurvy or no scurvy, Rose or no Rose. Anything would be better than slowly freezing to death. He looked at Bridger beside him on the bench, eyes closed and whiskers ice-covered, and prayed the old man knew what he was talking about when he said they were close.
At last the yellow lights of Fort Smith came into view. The suffering animals smelled the barn and quickened their pace. Dixon’s hands felt like wood inside his wolf-hide mittens and he struggled to control the team. When finally they rolled through the gates he was so relieved he could have jumped down and kissed Lieutenant Templeton.
“Bit chilly tonight, eh, Doc?” Templeton said with a grin.
Fort C. F. Smith was smaller than Fort Phil Kearny but neat and well maintained. The enlisted men’s barracks were clean and warm and the stables sturdy. Templeton managed to come up with a bit of grain for their animals. After seeing to them, he took Dixon, Bingham, and Bridger to a squat, two-room cabin of logs and adobe with an earth floor and pole-and-dirt roof. “Guest officers’ quarters,” he said as he opened the door.
The front room was clean and warm, with a fire burning in the heating stove. Flames dancing behind the isinglass window threw an orange light on the whitewashed plaster walls. The only furniture was a shaving stand, a small table, and two cane-bottom chairs. A coal-oil lamp hung from a wall peg.
“You’ll find your bedding back there.” Templeton pointed to a windowless back room where straw-tick mattresses, wolf and buffalo robes, and woolen blankets were heaped in a pile. “Should be plenty for the three of you.”
Templeton removed his hat and for the first time Dixon got a good look at him. His face was swollen and he had lost a lot of weight since Dixon treated him for the injury he received when Lieutenant Daniels was killed. A long laceration on the left side of his face was puckered and angry-looking, still partially open.
“That should have healed by now,” Dixon said. “Let me take a look.”
The wound was infected. Templeton must have been in considerable pain, but there was no surgeon at Fort C. F. Smith. Dixon cleaned the wound with hot water and a solution of zinc chloride he carried in his saddlebags. After this, he covered the leaking flesh with lint and an adhesive plaster.
By the time Templeton left, Dixon’s two companions were already asleep on the floor. He collected his robes and blankets, pulled off his boots, and stretched out on the straw mattress, which smelled of woodsmoke and damp earth. Finally, Dixon let himself relax, feeling the warming muscles of his back, neck, and shoulders loosen and slowly unknot. He closed his eyes and pictured Rose’s face, the freckles on the bridge of her nose and cheekbones, her clear blue eyes, her habit of tucking her hair behind her ears. He liked the way her right ear stuck out a bit.
“Dr. Dixon? Are you awake?” The voice was Bingham’s. Dixon did not answer. He wanted to sleep.
“Doc?” Bingham pushed himself up on an elbow. His round, clean-shaven face was half lit by the fire’s glow.
“What is it, Bingham?” Dixon said. “Can’t it wait till morning?”
“Please, Doc, I need to talk to you. I’ve got this bad feeling, peculiar, like something’s wrong with me. I’m tired all the time but I can’t sleep. And when I do, I keep having this dream, the same terrible dream, over and over, every night. I really do think something’s wrong.”
“It’s nerves, Bingham. Everybody has them out here at first. This country takes some getting used to. You’ll be all right after awhile.”
“No, it’s more than that. It sounds crazy, I know, but it’s like I’m seeing my own future, like I’m watching myself from someplace else. Do you know what I’m talking about?” Bridger grumbled and turned over in his blankets but Bingham went on.
“In this dream I’m riding with Grummond and Gid Bowers. We’re out on the ridge, Lodge Trail Ridge, and it’s sunny and cold and we’re talking about Christmas. I’m telling Bowers about a plum pudding Mother makes, and we’re laughing and feeling good and then, all of a sudden, there’s Indians everywhere, all around us, hundreds of them, screaming and waving hatchets and axes, their faces painted red and black. God—it’s so real. I see it clear as day!” His voice cracked.
“Don’t get worked up,” Dixon said. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
Bingham was breathing hard, as if he’d been running. “Grummond’s up ahead, fighting on his own hook, slashing away with his saber. Bowers rides back for me, and his face is red, and he’s yelling, ‘Run, Bingham, run for your life!’ And I try to run—I’m on foot now because my horse is gone—but I can’t because I’m floating above the ground with my legs churning in the air. Then this big Sioux buck rides up behind Bowers and sinks a hatchet in his head. It goes in real easy, like a hot knife in cheese, and the whole time Bowers is looking at me and yelling ‘Run!’ Then the Indian turns to me, waving that hatchet with Bowers’s brains dripping off, and I try to run, but I can’t, so I yell for Grummond, but he’s too far away and I know he wouldn’t help me anyhow. Then that Indian starts coming at me and . . . I wake up.”
Now Dixon was listening. He had heard a similar story, remarkably similar, years before. “It’s just a dream, Bingham,” he said. “You can’t put stock in it. Everybody has strange dreams.” This was inadequate, he knew, but it was all he had.
“I have a sister, Stella, in St. Charles, Minnesota,
” Bingham said. “If anything happens to me, will you write to her? Would you—you know—tell her things a sister would like to hear?”
“I will,” Dixon said, knowing someday soon he would be writing that letter.
Chapter Thirty-six
Carrington was alone in his office, sitting at his desk. It was a warm evening, more like spring than early December, a welcome break from the bitter cold that for days had held the post in its grip. The oil lamp on his desk flickered in the breeze from the open window. With a sigh, Carrington dipped his pen and began to write:
December 6, 1866
Fort Philip Kearny, Dakota Territory
General Philip St. George Cooke
Commanding, Department of the Platte
Omaha
Sir,
With deep regret I report the death of Lieutenant Horatio Bingham, Second U.S. Cavalry, an officer endeared to us all by his manly qualities and professional spirit. He was killed when he became separated from his command. I cannot account for this, and his action defeated the success of the movement as planned. Still, Bingham paid the penalty of his life and, whatever the circumstances, he died a soldier.
Carrington listed the day’s casualties in order of rank: Lieutenant Mark Reynolds, Second U.S. Cavalry, wounded; Sergeant Gideon Bowers, Eighteenth U.S. Infantry, killed; Sergeant Aldridge, Second U.S. Cavalry, wounded; four privates, Eighteenth Infantry, wounded. Three horses killed, five wounded.
He dropped his pen and walked to the window. How to explain it? The command’s first, large-scale engagement with the Indians had been a disaster. There was no other word for it. With the exception of Fetterman and Reynolds, who was wounded early in the fight, Carrington’s officers performed badly, very badly indeed. And the enlisted men, well, what could one expect when their leaders behaved in such an undisciplined and, in the case of Bingham, cowardly fashion? Were it not for his, Carrington’s, own actions the casualty list would be longer. But Cooke would not see it that way, of this Carrington was certain. Cooke would look for a way to blame him, as always.
He returned to his desk and took up his pen.
The skirmish involved a body of Indians numbering, in the aggregate, not less than three hundred warriors. Our force was fewer than sixty men, all the mounted men I could move. The occasion was an attack on our wood train.
Carrington removed his reading glasses and rubbed ink-stained fingers across his eyes. In his mind he was back on the sere brown slope of Lodge Trail Ridge, in the cold hard sunlight. This was when things started to go bad. How, exactly? What went wrong?
He and his men were descending the ridge. They moved at a trot, fast as the jaded horses could manage. Their labored breathing produced white clouds of vapor in the cold, dry air. Carrington’s heart sped up as he anticipated his first taste of combat. At last, he thought, an opportunity to prove myself and put the lie to those whispers of cowardice. Oh, yes, he had heard them. He turned in the saddle to urge his men forward. They would have to be quick if they were to intercept the Indians fleeing before Fetterman and strike a blow. Again and again, Carrington told his men to stay together, but Grummond defiantly galloped ahead.
Upon descending the ridge, I found, to my surprise, fifteen cavalry dismounted and without an officer. I passed through them, ordering them to mount and follow upon the gallop.
Upon turning the point marked A upon the map (enclosed) I was confronted by a large force of Indians who, retiring before Captain Fetterman’s command, attempted to cut off my detachment or stop its advance.
Looking over his shoulder Carrington was shocked and dismayed to see only six of the cavalry troops, including bugler Adolph Metzger, were behind him. Ahead were the Indians, yelling and waving their weapons.
“Where is Bingham?” Carrington shouted. Metzger answered, saying he didn’t know, that he had been with Bingham earlier when they were cut off by Indians and Bingham ordered a retreat. They were withdrawing toward the post, Metzger said, when Bingham, well in advance of his outfit, disappeared around the shoulder of a hill. Metzger pointed out the place. A few men, the bugler did not know how many, followed Bingham and had not been seen since. He thought Grummond was one of them.
“Sound the recall,” Carrington said. “Call them back.” Metzger blew his horn but Bingham and the others did not appear. Carrington had no choice but to fall back to the main body of his disordered troops and form a skirmish line. He hoped they did not notice how his hand trembled as he directed them toward their positions.
The Indians charged. The soldiers’ terrified horses plunged and reared and Private James McGuire fell, his horse on top of him. A warrior raced his pony toward the downed cavalryman and raised his war club. Carrington went to McGuire’s aid. He would tell Cooke of his heroic action, for he doubted anyone else would.
I succeeded in saving the man and held the position until joined by Fetterman, twenty minutes after. The Indians, circling around and yelling, numbered nearly one hundred with one saddle emptied by a single shot fired by myself. The Indians did not venture to close in.
Upon the appearance of Fetterman’s force, the Indians broke in every direction. I moved to the right toward Lieutenant Bingham’s reported movement and soon met Lieutenant Grummond with three men, hotly pursued by Indians.
At the sight of Carrington’s force, the Indians chasing Grummond wheeled their ponies and veered away. Grummond spurred his lathered horse to Carrington’s side.
“What’s wrong with you, Carrington?” he said. “Are you a fool or a coward? Which is it?” In full view and hearing of the troops, Grummond accused his commanding officer of abandoning Bingham and the men with him.
“Mr. Grummond!” Carrington was shaking with rage. “How can I ride to the aid of men if I don’t know where they are? Officers who act on their own hook endanger all of us, the whole enterprise. You are at fault, Grummond, you and Bingham!”
Now, hours later, Carrington tried to be temperate in his report. He repeated what Grummond told him, that he and Bingham were chasing an Indian, slashing at him with their sabers, when they found themselves surrounded. Bingham was cut off.
After an hour’s search we found Lieutenant Bingham’s body and that of Sergeant Bowers. The latter was still living and not scalped. He died before an ambulance arrived from the fort, having been cleft to the brain.
Bingham had been scalped, stripped, and bent over a rotted tree stump. His buttocks had been used for target practice with more than fifty arrows piercing the white flesh. This, Carrington knew, was a sign of disrespect. Bowers had a head wound that exposed his brain above the eyes. He lived for almost an hour in agony, producing guttural, animal sounds that were terrible to hear.
Severe weather and coming night prevented further pursuit, the Indians breaking for the mountains and Tongue River valley.
The Indians’ loss was not less than ten killed, besides many wounded. Several of their ponies and Indians on foot were seen after dark, working down the valley or over the hills.
Reference is made to Captain Fetterman’s report also.
This concerned him. How would Fetterman describe the day’s events, particularly Carrington’s performance? Fetterman had handled himself well, particularly when he confronted Bingham’s panicked troops and checked their retreat by threatening to shoot any man who did not stop.
All clue is lost as to the reasons for Bingham’s actions. His sergeant says his horse ran away with him. This may be the case.
Much was done. The loss of Lieutenant Bingham makes all seem lost but the winter campaign is fairly open and will be met.
I do, however, most urgently ask for officers. As Lieutenant Bisbee leaves, Captain Brown also, I am to be left again with six officers for six companies including adjutant and commissary.
This is all wrong. There is much at stake. I will take my full share but this is small allowance with the mercury at zero and active operations on hand.
I am, very respectfully
Henry B. C
arrington
Colonel, Eighteenth U.S. Infantry
Commanding Post
He blotted the three pages, folded them, and put them in a sealed envelope. A special mail detail would leave in the morning for Fort Reno. “God help us,” he said as he put out the light.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Bingham and Bowers were buried in tin-lined wooden coffins in the growing post cemetery. Some of the men wept, mostly for Bowers, who had served with the Eighteenth Infantry through its bloodiest fighting. Tears ran down Fred Brown’s face as he placed his Army of the Cumberland badge on Bowers’s chest. Along with the sadness, an undercurrent of anger, directed at Carrington, ran like a static charge through the mourners. Harry saw it in Bisbee’s red face, in Grummond’s clenched jaw. His father appeared to be unaware of the resentment building against him.
After the funeral, Fetterman came to Carrington’s quarters to submit his official report. He was not his usual ebullient self, Harry noticed, but pale and subdued. At the door he paused and turned. “You were right about one thing, Colonel,” he said.
“And what would that one thing be?” Carrington said dryly.
“This has become a hand-to-hand fight,” Fetterman said, “a question of survival.”
Carrington nodded. “Maybe a tragedy like this was necessary to help us all understand that, Captain Fetterman.”
After he left, Carrington read Fetterman’s report. He was relieved to learn that Fetterman also blamed the disaster on Bingham’s actions and the cavalry’s lack of discipline. He put the two reports in the mailbag and walked it over to Bisbee’s cabin, where the officers and their families were gathered. Bisbee had been reassigned to department headquarters and Carrington, despite his shortage of officers, was glad to ship him off to Omaha. Though he was unable to prove it, he suspected Bisbee of writing critical letters to Cooke.
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