Dixon hesitated, wanting to be sure he remembered correctly. If they lived through this, such observations would be important. He described what he and Gregory saw as they crested the ridge, the locations of the Indians and Ten Eyck’s troops, the mound of broken rock beside the road where most of the bodies were found.
“There were only a few cavalrymen—Brown and one or two others—with Fetterman’s infantry. The horses were lying with their heads toward the post, as if the cavalry was retreating when they fell.”
Carrington looked into Dixon’s eyes. “What do you think happened?” he said. “I’d like your sense of it.”
The room went quiet. “I’d say the cavalry got too far ahead of Fetterman. The Indians decoyed Grummond over the ridge and into a trap. Fetterman saw—or heard—what was happening and went in to save them.”
Carrington’s large eyes glittered in the lamplight. “Fetterman was in command,” he said. “I ordered him not to cross the ridge but—for whatever reason—he chose to disobey. I also blame Ten Eyck. He might’ve arrived in time to save the whole outfit if he’d taken the road as I directed.”
Dixon felt a red anger surge inside him. He understood how Carrington’s brain was working, that he was forming a self-serving report to Omaha even as the bodies of his men stiffened around him. Until this point, Dixon had felt mostly sympathy for Carrington, but now he felt something very different.
“What should Fetterman have done, Colonel?” he said. “How could he hang back and let the Indians wipe out all those men? Once Grummond went over the ridge, Fetterman had no choice. As for Ten Eyck, he did what any competent, experienced officer would do. He was right to leave the road, to avoid the defile. He feared ambush, and rightly so. He was thinking of his men.”
Carrington’s eyes narrowed but before he could respond Sample appeared at the door to announce the return of the wood train.
“Thank God,” Carrington said. “I was beginning to fear they’d gone up too.” He raised his voice, addressing the room. “When you men are finished here report to your barracks and await further orders. Horton, you and your stewards remain with our valiant dead. Dixon, come with me.”
He saw a light burning in the window of Rose’s cabin as he and the colonel crossed the parade toward headquarters. He ached to see her, but it would have to wait. Signal fires burned on the hills surrounding the post and shadows moved before the flames. Dixon prayed the Indians had not taken captives, and had the unwelcome image of a bound man turning and roasting on a spit like a side of venison.
They entered the office to find Powell, Ten Eyck, Wands, and Hines waiting. Without a word, Carrington sat at his desk and swept his arm across its surface, clearing it of everything but a smoking lamp in a glass chimney. Dixon and the officers stood in a semicircle before him.
“Wands, how many men are available to defend the post?” Carrington said.
“One hundred nineteen, sir, including the civilians.”
“Ten Eyck, station three men at each sentry stand and one at each loophole along the banquette and in the quartermaster’s yard. Board all the cabin doors and windows, with loopholes for shooting. I want at least one armed man in each cabin. Dixon and Hines, see to the hospital—I want it boarded too. Then we must barricade the magazine. Take the wagon beds off the gears and position them on their sides, so.” He placed his hand perpendicular to his desk and moved it in a clockwise, circular fashion along the surface. “Encircle the magazine at least three times.”
He raised his head and looked each man in the eye. “When—that is, if—the Indians attack, all women and children will take shelter in the magazine. In advance, I will position the ammunition and cut and adjust the fuses in such a way that the whole can be ignited with a single match. If it appears the day is lost, I will send up the magazine and everyone in it. Our women and children will not be taken alive.”
A blast of wind shook the door and rattled the windows. Fine hail pelted the glass.
“Of course, they must not be told,” Carrington continued. “A mother may be unwilling to . . .” He bowed his head, unable to finish.
The men left headquarters without speaking. The cold had deepened, hard and dry, making each breath painful. “Go on to the hospital, Hines,” Dixon said. “I’ll be along soon. There’s someone I need to see.”
Chapter Forty-four
Harry carried bedding from the cabins to Lieutenant Wands’s quarters where the women and children would wait out the night. Rose was there, helping the frightened families settle in. She saw him and waved him over.
“James Wheatley told me what you did today,” she said, “how you saved Jimmy. He said you were very brave.”
Harry blushed and looked down at his muddy shoes. “I didn’t have a choice,” he said. “I couldn’t leave him.”
“You had a choice. We always have a choice.”
Outside a sentry called out the hour: “Station six! Seven o’clock and all’s well!” The cry was picked up by the guard at station seven, starting the round robin that moved through the post on the quarter-hour. As he listened to the familiar sound, Harry wondered if this would be the last night he heard them, his last night on Earth. His thoughts were interrupted by the crack of a gun, a single shot.
“Indians!” A woman screamed. “They’ve come!”
But no, Harry thought, the shot was close. It came from inside the post, from officers’ row. From Rose’s cabin. She thought the same. Her face went pale as her eyes met Harry’s.
“Mark!” she said. She picked up her skirts and ran, with Harry close behind. Timson, Mark’s striker, and a few others were already at her cabin. A pierced tin lantern in Timson’s hand swung back and forth, throwing crazy patterns on the walls and frightened faces.
“Wait, Mrs. Reynolds!” Timson said, unholstering his sidearm. “Let me go in first!” But Rose pushed by him and ran through the door. Harry followed. Despite the fire in the heating stove, the cabin’s interior was frigid. Harry saw that the window in the back room was open wide, its turkey-red curtains flapping in the wind.
They entered the room to find Reynolds lying motionless on the bed. Timson raised his lantern to reveal Mark’s lifeless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. A thin black line of blood ran from a bullet hole in the center of his forehead.
Rose dropped to her knees beside the bed and covered her face with her hands. She did not react when Dixon and Wands entered the room.
“What happened?” Wands said as Harry closed the window. “Did anyone see anything?”
“No,” Timson said. “We heard the shot and found him like this. The window was open.”
Dixon walked to the bed, lightly touching Rose’s hair. She did not respond, keeping her face hidden.
“I was just here,” Dixon said, “not five minutes ago. I came to see . . . I knocked, but there was no answer.” He leaned in to examine the wound, then Reynolds’s hands. One lay across his chest, the other hung over the side of the bed just above a .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver with mother-of-pearl grips and filigree etching on the breech and barrel. Harry recognized the gun—it was the one Reynolds showed him that day in the canyon. It seemed a lifetime ago. Dixon picked it up and opened the cylinder.
Colonel Carrington pushed through the crowded room. “Great God in heaven,” he said, “what now?” He looked at Reynolds. “Did he do this to himself?”
“No,” Dixon said.
“And how do you know that?”
Dixon showed him the cylinder. “This gun is fully loaded. My guess is Reynolds went for it, tried to defend himself, but ran out of time. This was an execution.”
Chapter Forty-five
Rose refused to join the women and children in Wands’s quarters.
“I should stay here,” she said to Carrington, avoiding Dixon’s eyes. “It doesn’t seem right to just leave him like this.”
But Carrington insisted. “The women and children must be together tonight, my dear. I order it.”
Rose nodded and the two women walked out into the bone-breaking cold. The sky was cloudless and disordered with stars. In her mind’s eye Rose saw Mark’s face, not gaunt and gray as it was at the end, but perfect, as when they met. Who had done this and why? She felt a crushing guilt, as if she had pulled the trigger.
Frances Grummond glared at Rose as they entered Wands’s stuffy cabin. Rose took a chair by the window, boarded from the outside, and turned her face to the glass. In it she saw Frances’s reflection.
“I hope you’re satisfied.” Frances fairly spat out the words. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you? Mark Reynolds is dead—a fine man is dead—and you don’t care. You may have even had something to do with it. It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Frances,” Margaret said, “please stop.”
Frances’s words had no impact on Rose. Already she blamed herself and she didn’t care what Frances Grummond thought anyhow. She kept her eyes on the window where, in the gaps between boards, she saw men feverishly dismantling the quartermaster’s wagons. It occurred to Rose that Frances cared for Mark more than she, Rose, realized. Her lack of reaction fueled the flames of Frances’s rage.
“Jezebel! You never fooled me, not for one minute. Oh, yes, I’ve seen—”
Margaret stepped in front of her.
“Stop it.” She spoke with authority. “You are not yourself, Frances. You are distraught and worried for your husband—we are all distraught—but this is no time for foul accusations. Our men need us to be strong, as they are. We face a desperate trial tonight, and in the days to come. Now, I ask everyone in the room to join me in prayer. We will bow our heads and petition the Lord for protection and guidance.” Before she could begin, the sergeant stationed outside knocked and opened the door.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Carrington. Someone is asking for Mrs. Grummond. Shall I let him in?”
“Asking for me?” Frances said. “Who is it?”
“Phillips, ma’am. The civilian.”
Frances frowned. “Phillips? I don’t know anyone by that name.”
Margaret said, “Show him in.”
The visitor was small, with dark curling hair, a well-trimmed beard, and bright black eyes. He carried his hat in one hand and a robe in the other.
“Oh, Portugee,” Frances said, coloring. “It’s you.”
Rose recognized him, a miner who arrived at the fort late in the season and took winter work for the quartermaster. He often delivered water and firewood to the Grummonds’ cabin.
He walked to Frances’s chair. “Tonight I ride for help,” he said, in heavily accented English. “I go with dispatches, as special messenger from Colonel Carrington, if it costs me my life. I go for your sake!” He extended the robe. “I brought my wolf robe to keep you warm and to remember me by, if you never see me again.”
Frances’s color deepened. “Thank you, Portugee,” she said, taking the robe. “It’s very kind of you. I’m sure George will thank you too, when he returns.”
Phillips’s eyes glistened with tears. “Yes, sure, when he returns.” He bowed from the waist, like a knight genuflecting before his queen. Rose idly wondered what Frances had done to inspire such devotion. She was a casual flirt. Maybe she said something in passing that struck a chord of longing in the lonely foreigner. Poor Phillips, she thought. A journey of unimaginable misery lay ahead of him. She wondered if he would survive it.
Chapter Forty-six
Harry ran across the parade ground. It was the coldest night he had ever known. Each breath was torture, an icy assault on the throat and lungs, despite the woolen scarf he wore over his mouth and nose. He pitied the poor sentries huddled on platforms or pacing the banquette. Because of the cold, their shifts had been shortened to fifteen minutes.
At last he reached his father’s office. Sample was stoking the fire in the heating stove while Carrington wrote furiously at his desk. The warmth was blissful.
“What are you doing here?” Carrington said, not looking up. “You should be with your mother.”
“She doesn’t need me right now,” Harry said. “Besides, I’d rather be with you and the men. I want to help.”
Carrington continued writing, his nib scratching across the paper. Finally he put down his pen and looked up at his son. “You can be a help to me at that.” He stood and put on his coat. “Copy this letter. It is vital that I have a record of all my correspondence to Omaha from this moment forward. When you’re done, bring the original to me at the stables. Write legibly.”
He left, taking Sample with him. Alone in the office, disappointed with his seemingly unimportant assignment, Harry took up his father’s pen, still warm from his hand, and started to write. The letter was addressed to General Cooke.
Fort Philip Kearny, D.T.
December 21, 1866
. . . Do send me reinforcements forthwith. Expedition now with my force is impossible. I risk everything but the post and its stores. I venture as much as anyone can, I have had but today a fight unexampled in Indian warfare; my loss is ninety-four killed.
I have received forty-nine bodies and thirty-five more are to be brought in in the morning. Among the killed are Brevet Lieutenant Colonel Fetterman, Captain F. H. Brown, and Lieutenant Grummond.
Harry copied word for word, even though the letter seemed at places incoherent. Why did his father say all were dead when Grummond’s men were still out?
The Indians engaged were nearly three thousand, being apparently the force reported as on Tongue River in my dispatches of 5 November and subsequent thereto. This line, so important, can and must be held. It will take four times the force in the spring to reopen it if it be broken up this winter. The additional cavalry ordered to join me has not reported; their arrival would have saved us much loss today.
The Indians lost beyond all precedent. I need prompt reinforcements and repeating arms. I am sure to have, as before reported, an active winter and must have men and arms. Every officer of the battalion should join it. Today I had every teamster on duty and but 119 men left at post. I hardly need urge this matter, it speaks for itself. Give me two companies of cavalry at least, forthwith, well armed, or four companies of infantry exclusive of what is needed at Reno and Fort Smith.
Promptness will save this line but our killed shows that any remissness will result in mutilation and butchery beyond precedent. No such mutilation as that today is on record. Depend upon it that the post will be held so long as a round or a man is left. Promptness is the vital thing. Give me officers and men. Only the new Spencer arms should be sent. The Indians are desperate. I spare none and they spare none.
Henry B. Carrington
Col. 18th U.S. Inf.
Comd’g Post
Harry blotted the pages, folded the original, and put it in an envelope. He knew this letter would do his father no good with Cooke, if they survived the night, or his legacy, if they did not.
The walk to the stables was especially punishing after the warmth of the office. Clouds rolling in from the west obscured the moon and stars. A storm was coming. Harry looked to the hills and saw the Indians’ fires still burning. Were there drums? He thought he heard them but he wasn’t sure. The throbbing could be his own blood, pounding in his head.
In the dimly lit stables he found his father, Sample, and a third man in a buffalo coat putting a bridle on Jack Gregory’s Appaloosa. Only when he got closer did he see the third man was Daniel Dixon.
“What’s going on?” Harry said. No one answered.
A guard called from the far end of the stable. “He’s asking for Beau, Colonel.”
Deep in the shadows Harry saw the guard and the foreigner, Portugee Phillips, standing by the stallion’s stall. Beau was Carrington’s special pride, a strong black Thoroughbred given to him during the war by an admiring horse breeder from the bluegrass regi
on of Kentucky. No one but the colonel was allowed to ride him.
“He must have him then,” Carrington said. “He’s the strongest animal left to us. Guard, saddle Beau and bring him round to the sally gate. Sample, pack two kits with crackers, jerky, and grain for the horses. Each man gets a Spencer rifle and one hundred rounds of ammunition. Double quick!”
“Bring blankets too, Sample,” Dixon said as he threw a saddle on the Appaloosa’s back. With a shock, Harry understood that Dixon meant to ride with Phillips tonight.
“I don’t understand why you insist on doing this, Dixon, when Gregory should be the one to go with Phillips,” Carrington said. “I need you here. Where is Gregory anyway?”
“Gone,” Dixon said.
“Gone?” Carrington said. “What do you mean?”
“Just that.”
“Did you see him leave?”
“No, but his gear is missing.”
“How can this be? You’ve got his horse.”
Dixon bent down to cinch the girth. “He left the Appaloosa for us,” Dixon said. “He knew we’d need him. My horse wouldn’t make it halfway to Horseshoe Station.”
Carrington made a sound of disgust. “The man is a common criminal. I should have thrown him in the guardhouse when you brought him back from Bozeman. Why would he disappear like this? I suppose he killed Reynolds.”
Dixon walked to the Appaloosa’s head and lifted his hairy lip to check the bit. “Whatever he did, Jack Gregory has risked his neck to help us—more than once—and now he’s left us his horse. Anyhow, we’ve got bigger problems.”
He stepped around Carrington, leading Gregory’s Appaloosa out of the stables. Carrington and Harry followed with Phillips and Beau. News of the rescue riders had spread. As they walked to the sally gate, men came forward to shake hands with Phillips and Dixon and wish them luck.
A nervous sentry on the banquette challenged them as they neared the gate. “Halt!” he cried, swinging his carbine in their direction. “Who goes there?”
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