Sioux Dawn, The Fetterman Massacre, 1866

by Terry C. Johnston

  Ultimately the Crow, who had captured Beckwourth in a horse raid many years back, believed the man with the remarkable mole on one eyelid a long-lost son returned home to his people at last. The tribe had treated him so regally that Jim couldn’t bring himself to leave. Instead, he had chosen to stay, marrying and helping the Crow in their wars on Blackfeet and Sioux, earning himself a place of respect among the elder counselors of the river Crow.

  “You’re telling me there’s bound to be more than just Red Cloud’s boys hankering to kill soldiers, eh?” Bridger whispered, feeling Seamus Donegan’s cold, gray eyes on him across the fire.

  “From what Rotten Tail says here,” Beckwourth gestured toward the old Crow chief seated across the lodge-fire, “those soldiers got something to worry about.”

  To Bridger those words had the flat sound of a beaver tail smacking water to warn its neighbors of trouble. Yet, he had to admit, it was just as he had feared, and figured.

  “Others joining up with Red Cloud?”

  “Yep. Rotten Tail says I should tell you that he rode through the camps as the Sioux was gathering on the Tongue himself. A half-day’s ride, he says it took him. Near as I can figure what he claims, says there’s fifteen hundred lodges coming together.”

  “Must means the Miniconjou have joined the Oglalla, eh? Hunkpapa, too?”

  “From the sounds of it.” Beckwourth nodded. “I hear Sitting Bull’s the nigger to watch in that band. He’s a seer—has his powerful dreams and visions.”

  “Big medicine to them Sioux,” Bridger admitted. “Where the rest of them Lakota stand for war?”

  Beckwourth waited politely as Rotten Tail smoked his pipe and passed it on to the other old ones, respected counselors of this band of Plains Crow who followed the buffalo across the seasons, up and down the valley of the Yellowstone. Bridger knew as well as any man that it would not do for him to have Beckwourth rush the old chiefs. Injun etiquette dictated he politely, and silently, wait while the formal smoke went its four rounds of The Tail’s lodge. Jim winked at the young Irishman seated on the far side of Beckwourth. As if to say Seamus was to settle back and relax.

  Looks as if we’re going to make a night of it here, Bridger mused to himself in the smoky lodge. No sense in hurrying things now.

  The better part of a week ago, Jim had invited the Irishman to ride along on this errand for Colonel Carrington. The army commander had dispatched his chief-of-scouts to visit the Crow, see if he could glean anything on the mood and disposition of Red Cloud’s Sioux.

  Seamus Donegan had jumped at the chance to ride along with this new friend, Jim Bridger. Anything to escape sawing trees or building Carrington’s new fort. Besides, the Irishman told Bridger, he could learn a damned sight more from the old trapper than he could any number of lug-headed soldiers who always figured they knew everything already.

  Despite the fact they were totally ignorant of this new country. Every bit as ignorant about fighting Sioux and Cheyenne.

  Across five days Bridger and Donegan had followed a pair of Crow guides, nosing their ponies north by northwest. Up to the country of the Tongue, down to the Big Horn itself. Then straight across country to the wide Yellowstone that would take them west into the heart of Absaroka—land of the Sparrowhawk people.

  For those hours spent in the saddle or during cool nights beneath the biggest, starriest sky the Irishman had ever seen, Bridger talked and talked. Normally a quiet and reticent man, more prone to keeping his mouth shut than running off at the tongue, Jim thought it strange a time or two that he palavered with this Irishman so damned much as they traveled along or sat around the evening fires. Yet long ago Jim Bridger, known as Gabe to his friends, had learned to accept things as they are. As well, he accepted the bond growing between them. This old trapper in the seventh decade of his life. And the young, scarred ex-soldier who hungered for knowledge and information, drinking in everything Ol’ Gabe had to say like parched desert soil sucks down a spring rain.

  The young fella was smart, about as smart as they came, to Bridger’s way of thinking. Jim had met the best across forty-four years in the West. Of a recent time the old trapper had thought there was none who could shine with the likes of Jack Stead and Mitch Bouyer for plain gut-savvy. But there was now a third. This Irishman had him the makings of plainsman. Pure and simple, Jim Bridger figured, this boy Seamus Donegan would do to ride the river with.

  From first-light to moonrise Jim found a pair of eager ears to listen raptly to all his stories and frontier lore. An apt pupil who asked questions that many a time made Bridger smile and puff out his chest like a prairie cock. The sort of questions few men would think to ask. Questions that showed young Donegan truly realized he was in the company of the finest of mentors.

  Jim liked that feeling Seamus gave him. The sense that he believed there was none better for teaching him what he needed to know about this high country, its animal and plant life and all a man could learn about the Indians who lived the seasons upon the face of this tumbling, kneading, rugged land.

  So by the coming of that fifth morning, Jim had quietly hobbled over to the young Irishman, his rheumatism giving fit to an old hip injury. Bridger had grasped Donegan’s arm and gazed up that tall frame of his, into those gray eyes, and told the lad something meant for their ears alone.

  “I crossed these’r mountings more’n most men I know, Irishman.” He stopped there, not sure where this was going, then plunged ahead. “Seen my share of niggers come and go. Some I’d lay store in. Most I’d as soon spit at.”

  Jim ground to a halt once more, digging a toe into the pine needles beneath his moccasins.

  “I figure what you’re telling me is … is you like me. Right, Gabe?”

  Bridger nodded. “Only knowed a handful of fellas in my years out here who I’d figure I could go into a fight with. Be it Blackfoot or a watering-hole brawl. But … I sense you’re the kind to trust at my back, Irishman.”

  Jim turned away with it said. Dragging that bum hip over to the old mule, where he fussed with the cinch and smoothed the blanket. Never aware of the mist that he had brought to the young Irishman’s eyes. So intent was he in fighting the salty sting of moisture in his own.

  Late that fifth day out, the Crow guides had led them to Rotten Tail’s village. Down from the umber and pine-green rocky ridges they rode, accompanied by camp-guards and a crier who announced their coming. Dogs barked, nipping at the ponies’ hoofs. Children darted among the horsemen, laughing and holding hands up to the whitemen. Shy young women and haughty old squaws peered at them all from both sides of a long gauntlet that gathered to escort them to the council lodge.

  The smells of that sundown entrance to camp seemed like old friends welcoming Jim Bridger back among them. Frying antelope tenderloin and boiling puppy. Sizzling boudins and broiling humprib. The fragrant perfume of strong coffee a’steam, mingling with the savory fire-snap of greasewood and quaky. Warm, beckoning flames were lit before each lodge as twilight sank upon the Yellowstone but a rock’s throw beyond. The familiar smells of bear grease and smoked hides rose from the gathering squaws.

  Smells that reminded the old trapper of a younger Jim Bridger, and what Crow squaws could arouse in a man. Seductive fragrances that made him think on what these dusky-skinned ones could do to make a man’s juices boil within him. Old Gabe had glanced over at the young Irishman. Donegan’s eyes filled with the new sights and excitement of it all, as Jim remembered his first visit to an Indian camp forty-four winters gone now.

  And something turned warm inside the old trapper as he gazed on Seamus Donegan. Realizing that things were as they were meant to be. That squawing was for the young ones. Truly a time, as he remembered the Bible-spouting Jedediah Smith oft repeating, a time for all seasons to a man’s life.

  Old Gabe figured that this twilight was perhaps his cue. Mayhaps this coming winter should be his last robe season in the mountains. Mayhaps come the time for him to retire to a warm lodge somewhere and quit p
ushing back against fate and gambling with chance. Time to let the younger ones seize their moment on this fading frontier.

  Mayhaps it weren’t so bad after all—what with youngsters like this Seamus Donegan to carry on.

  Beckwourth watched Rotten Tail set his pipe down before he resumed his questioning. He quickly glanced at his friend Bridger before he spoke. “Uncle, Big Throat asks who joins Red Cloud on the Tongue.”

  The old chief fished in the warm kettle for a soft morsel of puppy he could chew using the brown stubs of his old teeth without too much pain. Bridger waited patiently as the Crow chief ate, understanding exactly how another old man with teeth problems felt.

  For as old a man as he was, Rotten Tail’s skin hadn’t yet sagged. Instead, it was hung on his dark face as if it could have better been the bark of a black walnut tree, heavily seamed with the lines of many winters. And like Bridger’s hair, the Crow chief’s was flecked with the iron of many seasons hunting the nomadic, shaggy beasts of the plains.

  Beneath his huge nose, Rotten Tail’s fleshy lips rolled, and finally spoke. “Tell Big Throat the Miniconjou warriors of Black Shield wish to rub the soldiers out.”

  “Yes, we understand, Uncle. Are there more?”

  “I have seen many Hunkpapa warriors under Sitting Bull.”

  Beckwourth nodded and winked at Bridger, though this was not a happy revelation.

  “The Northern Cheyenne are split,” Rotten Tail said as his hands flew apart. “Black Horse goes one way, to the south away from trouble. The warriors under Two Moons join Red Cloud as we speak.”

  He chewed thoughtfully while Beckwourth and Bridger fidgeted across the smoky fire. Old Gabe prayed for a draft to drive away the oppressive, late-summer air of early evening stagnating along Clark’s Fork of the Yellowstone.

  “Tell Big Throat we hear of more joining all the time. Not only Arapaho, but the Gros Ventres are said to journey from the north, come to fight the soldiers.”

  “Big Bellies, Gabe,” Beckwourth moaned.

  “Not only Gros Ventres,” Rotten Tail continued, “but the rest of the Blackfoot confederation: Piegan and Blood are ready to fight.”

  “Every Injun in the entire territory ready to ride down the warpath,” Bridger growled. “Can’t say I didn’t figure on it. This is something the tribes been waiting for—a chance to drive the white man from their hunting lands.”

  “Red Cloud’s showed ’em a way to do it,” Beckwourth moaned. “When will they attack, Rotten Tail?”

  The old chief paused a moment, whispering with chief White Mouth to his right. “They gather close to the fort now. Will go closer still when the leaves change. Word is told, the attack will come before the snow flies.”

  “Gotta hump it on back soon, Jim,” the old scout said to Beckwourth as he shook his head sadly. “Get word to Carrington. If trouble ain’t started there a’ready.”

  “Damned good chance of that, Gabe. What with Sioux coming off the Powder, the Rosebud and Big Horn for the big fight Red Cloud promises to make of it.”

  “Jim, best ask Rotten Tail where his stick floats on this,” Bridger remarked. “See what the Crow will do, push come to shove and the whole country’s afire with war.”

  At first the old chief shook his head, studying the faces of his chiefs while he considered how he would answer Beckwourth’s question. When he had taken the council pipe into his hands once more, Rotten Tail spoke, sadly.

  “Our villages are small against the great Sioux gatherings,” he began. “The Crow have always fought hard to hold onto what we call our home, Absaroka. Not many winters ago the Cheyenne and Sioux joined to drive us from our old hunting grounds along the Rosebud and Big Horn. Now, with this talk of war and sweeping the white man from those ancient hunting lands for good, our young men grow hot to join the fight. They want their hunting grounds back.”

  The mulatto shook his head emphatically. “If our young men hunger for a fight, they must join the soldiers against Sioux and Cheyenne,” Beckwourth urged, “to drive them away so we may regain Absaroka land—for the Crow.”

  Rotten Tail wagged his head. “I wish they heard my words as well as you hear. The young men talk loud about joining the Sioux to get our lands back.”

  “Why would they join with their enemies to win back the land?”

  The old chief gazed into the fire. When his tired, rheumy eyes finally raised to stare at Beckwourth, “The young men wish to join those who will win the war that is coming as sure as winter snows will soon cover the land. When the Sioux have killed many soldiers and driven all the rest from Indian hunting grounds, our young Crow warriors want to be on the side of the victors. No Absaroka wishes to be shamed siding with the soldiers who have lost the fight and run away.”

  Rotten Tail stared at the fire. “You must understand—our warriors do not want to see Crow scalps hanging bloody from Sioux lodge-poles when Red Cloud’s warriors dance in victory over the soldiers.”

  Chapter 18

  The Sioux hit Aubrey Pitman’s wood train on its first run of the day as the wagons lumbered up the wood-road from Pine Island some four miles south and west of the fort. While the Indians’ signal mirrors flashed across the timbered hillsides, the warriors down in the valley managed to kill a single civilian driver who threw his fate to the winds in trying to outrun them.

  Even before the stockade sentries along the banquette heard the first shots, a picket stationed on Pilot Hill began wagging his semaphore flag. Most of the compound was out in force following the bugle call sounding the alarm, every man, woman and child watching the approach of the wood train and its escort when the wagons nosed free of the Sullivant Hills.

  Henry Carrington glanced over at Ten Eyck. “Appears the men beat off the attack, Captain.”

  “Wait, Colonel—I’ll be damned, there’s a body in the back of one of those wagons,” Capt. Tenedor Ten Eyck announced, taking the field glass from his good eye.

  “Let me have a look.”

  Carrington peered into the valley, blinking, wishing his eye could pierce the morning haze. He stood on the banquette, a catwalk constructed atop his new headquarters building for just this purpose. It was here he had run with Ten Eyck and adjutant Wands when the first alarm rang out.

  “Perhaps you see things more clearly than I, Tenedor,” he said, handing the glass to Wands. “I can’t tell much of anything so far away.”

  “The captain’s right,” Wands announced as he peered into the valley. “I see a body … yes, it’s been stripped.”

  Without warning, Carrington slammed a fist down into his open palm. “Damn them! I’ve resisted all efforts of those who want to attack the Sioux. I’ve restrained my officers and men from striking back—not only to finish our construction, but to show Red Cloud that we can garrison our post in peace with them. I vowed not to practice any offense against them! Yet they play me the fool!”

  “Second thoughts, sir?” Wands inquired, interested.

  “Anger at this point, Lieutenant,” Carrington answered guardedly. A week ago Ten Eyck had informed the colonel that Carrington’s young adjutant was often seen in the company of Fred Brown. And Brown clearly stood as the center of all opposition to Carrington’s policies, if not Carrington himself.

  “May I suggest, Colonel…” Wands began.

  “Suggest what, Lieutenant?” Carrington snapped. “A change in policy? Vacillate? Attack the Sioux and stir up trouble for us from here clear down to Laramie?”

  “Perhaps, the time’s come——”

  “Colonel!” Ten Eyck shouted, silencing the others. “Pilot Hill!” He pointed. “Look!”

  Atop the flat ridge to the southwest christened Pilot Hill, a solitary trooper waved his semaphore again. Three times the man raised his flag high then lowered it to his right.

  Ten Eyck checked his codes and announced, “That’s the signal for ‘small party on the Reno Road.’”

  “Thank God. Not another attack.” Carrington sighed, glancing down alon
g the wood road to check the progress of his timber train returning with its lone victim.

  By now the first riders in that small party pressing toward the fort could be seen along the Montana Road. Three wagons, escorted by mounted troopers who dogged both flanks.

  “Tenedor, see that the gates are opened. It appears we have some supplies arriving from Laramie.”

  “Colonel, Pilot Hill’s signaling again. Another small party coming up from the south on the Reno Road.”

  “Surely there can’t be another group.”

  “There is, Colonel,” Wands said, handing the glass back to his commander.

  Carrington peered into the valley. Several thousand yards behind the first three wagons, a second group rounded the base of Pilot Hill and began their descent to the crossing of the Little Piney.

  “The mail escort, gentlemen. And it appears they’ve brought us a guest. See that wagon loaded with personal baggage and furnishings. I’d bet the ambulance in the rear holds a new replacement.”

  “Officer, sir?” Wands asked.

  “Yes. My command’s been whittled away by Omaha. Too many of my officers siphoned off. So I requested replacements.”

  “Fetterman?” Wands’s voice rose in anticipation.

  “You’ve heard of Fetterman?”

  “Oh yes, sir. Much. Fred … excuse me, Captain Brown’s told me much of Fetterman.”

  Carrington’s eyes left the lieutenant’s crimson face as he peered into the valley. He was watching the three groups approach when a mounted detail of soldiers clattered off the Sullivant Hills, ambling leisurely toward the fort.

  Must be Bisbee’s scout, Ten Eyck mulled. He loves playing the soldier, Bisbee does.