by Tim Champlin
I felt as awkward as a boy on his first date.
Her regular features were not quite beautiful, but they seemed somehow to go together, and her face had an animated quality about it that kept my eyes riveted on her. "Nice to know you, Mr. Tierney. If Wiley recommends you as a friend, that's good enough for me—unlike some of his girlfriends I've met." And she shot a mischievous glance at her brother.
As she talked, she tossed her head unconsciously every few minutes, a habit I guessed she had acquired from wearing longer hair recently. "Let's take a walk so we can talk," she suggested after the introduction.
"Don't go outside the miners' camp," her father ordered her, as the three of us ducked out through the canvas.
"Okay, Daddy."
"Is he afraid some of the soldiers are going to rape you if you set foot in our bivouac area?" Wiley asked.
"I guess so," she sighed resignedly. "I've been around men all my life, in all kinds of boom towns and rough mining camps. I don't know why he's suddenly getting so protective. The soldiers are under a lot more discipline than most of these miners."
"Maybe he thinks that by keeping you over here, no one will know there's a woman in camp."
"Not much chance of keeping a secret like that," I observed.
"Well, there's safety in numbers, anyway," she laughed, tossing her head in that very fetching way. Even with her short hair under a hat I knew there was no mistaking her figure or walk for that of a man—even at a distance.
"Who is this bunch you and Dad are traveling with? I thought somebody said they came from Montana."
"They did. But, because of the Indian scare, they came down to Cheyenne to wait and see if things settled down before trying to get into the Black Hills. Daddy and I were also in Cheyenne waiting for the same chance. The New Hope Company wanted him to get in on the ground floor of any good prospects. Custer's report of gold at the grass roots was a little hard to believe, but the company directors decided they couldn't overlook the possibility of some good, mineral-bearing ore there."
"Greed has invaded more land than anything else in history," Wiley mused aloud.
"Well, anyway," she continued, "we joined up with them for protection. But they were so anxious to get started they couldn't wait for the army to clear the way.
Afraid someone would beat them to the best claims, I guess, so they voted to start ahead of this expedition. But we've seen so much fresh Indian sign in the past few days, we finally started walking between columns of our horses for fear of an ambush." Her eyes sparkled as she spoke. "But they finally got so nervous they decided to slow down and wait for the soldiers. And, here we are."
"You'd have been a lot safer staying home in Kentucky, or even in Cheyenne,” her brother grumbled.
“Huh! And a lot more bored,” she shot back.
We walked among the tents in silence for a few moments.
"Anyway, you never did tell me why you, of all people, joined an expedition like this," she said to Wiley.
"Well . . ." He seemed uncomfortable, searching for some way to answer. "I don't really know. Maybe I was bored, too. Just because I'm here doesn't mean I approve of everything that goes on around me," he replied rather lamely.
"Are you and Dad any closer to a reconciliation?" she asked, changing the subject.
"Well, I haven't talked to him too much since he got here. But I'm afraid the best we can hope for is a compromise—a truce, if you will. We just don't have the same values or the same goals."
"You always did take after mother's side of the family—in looks as well as temperament."
I drifted slightly off to one side and pretended to be interested in the details of the camp. Although they took no notice of me, I felt a little embarrassed to be overhearing their family conversation. Out of the corner of my eye, I noted that the two of them, except for similar hair and coloring, looked no more like brother and sister than two unrelated strangers.
Chapter Eight
"Well, I had about given up ever seeing our scouts again, but, by God, here they are."
I stuck my head out of the tent at Wilder's exclamation and saw Frank Grouard, Louie Richaud, Big Bat Pourier and a gigantic Crow riding into camp. It was about noon of the fourteenth, and we had finally gotten into our base campsite at the correct location at the junction of Big and Little Goose creeks. It was a beautiful, green area with plenty of trees and grass and clear water. In fact, our men had dubbed the place "Camp Cloud Peak" after the snowcapped peak of that name that dominated the Big Horns to the west of us. From looking at this peaceful, pastoral setting, I wouldn't have guessed there was an Indian within a thousand miles. The scouts rode straight toward General Buck's tent, and we followed. As they dismounted, several officers and men crowded around them, everyone talking at once.
General Buck stepped outside and waved his hand for silence. "Where have you been, Frank? And why are you just bringing in one old Crow?"
"I tell ya, General, a war party of Sioux almost got us. Chased us into the mountains. Took us four days to shake them. We finally found a big village of Crows on the Big Horn River, but they saw the smoke from our camp. They came across the river and attacked and almost killed us before they discovered we were friendly. Big Bat finally yelled to them in the Crow tongue and they recognized him."
"Well, where are they?" General Buck demanded, impatiently.
"We had a tough time trying to talk them into coming with us. They wanted to go after the Sioux, all right, but they were afraid you might stay out all summer, and they didn't want to miss the good buffalo hunting. We did some powerful palavering, but we finally talked about a hundred and seventy-five of their warriors into joining us."
"Great. Where are they?" General Buck urged, even more impatiently.
"They were afraid of a plot, or a trap," the big head scout continued, unhurriedly. "When we came into this camp about a week ago with about a dozen warriors and no one was here, they really began to suspect a trap. You know how suspicious they are. Some of them told Big Bat they thought you had given up the campaign. They're back a few miles waiting for some assurance that they're not riding into an ambush."
"Major Zimmer, take Louie Richaud and this chief and ride back to those Indians and see if you can convince them that everything is okay," General Buck ordered.
I had not noticed Major Zimmer in the group, but I saw his eyes glint with pride at being selected for this delicate diplomatic chore. "Yessir." He saluted and the three of them moved out immediately.
"I don't see how even Zimmer could make a mess of it this time," Wilder remarked to me as we walked away. "Looks like we're finally going to get our Crow allies."
And we did. About six o'clock that evening. General Buck had the troops drawn up on a flat just north of camp to receive our allies. The regiment, mounted at close order, company by company, stirrups just touching, took up about four-thousand feet; the infantry, in double line, another three-hundred or so. The soldiers formed an impressive array, nearly a mile long. Most of the civilians walked down to the creek to see them.
The Indians broke into a fierce yelling as they rode in, each man leading an extra pony, and rode past our troops in a column of twos—as orderly as any cavalry company. The Indians continued howling an unintelligible savage greeting and waving their lances and bows as they circled past our regimental formation. The cavalry horses and the Indian ponies were snorting and plunging at the sight and smell of each other. All the reporters, packers, and teamsters stood back and watched the spectacle. I think General Buck's idea was to impress the Crows with the strength of the command, to make sure they didn't decide to leave us after all.
After they had dismounted and set their horses to grazing alongside ours, they began building their lodges of saplings covered with blankets and strips of canvas. The officers and men mingled with them and attempted to make conversation. Some of the men knew a few words of Crow, and some of the Crows knew a few words of English. This, along with a lot of sign
language allowed some communication, along with a lot of laughter.
"Not a bad-looking bunch," McPherson said as we watched them make short work of erecting their shelters.
"As fighters or physical specimens?"
"Physical specimens. Don't know about the fighting part yet."
"They are a handsome race. I'd say at least a third of them are over six feet tall. Lighter skin than most Indians I've seen, and regular features."
"Be interesting if a man had some means of tracing their ancestry to see what kind of stock they came from hundreds of years ago."
1 1aughed. "I’d like to be able to do that with my own ancestors.”
Most of them wore flannel, cotton, or buckskin shirts; breechclouts; leggings of blanket; moccasins of deer, elk, or buffalo hide; coats of brightly colored blanket. Many of their headdresses were made of old black army hats with the top cut out and the bands decorated with eagle feathers, fur, or red cloth strips. I noticed that their arms were all breech loaders with metallic cartridges, most of them .50 caliber. "God, Mac, how'd you like to get hit with one o' those tomahawks?"
"Murderous-looking things. Makes my skin crawl just to think about it."
The weapons were made by inserting long knives in handles or shafts of wood or horn, and virtually every warrior carried one. The only ones who didn't were the four women, wives of chiefs Old Crow, Medicine Crow, Feather Head, and Good Heart. There were also about a dozen boys in their early teens, who were brought along as horse holders who were not armed, except with small bows and arrows. The Indians quickly got their tepees up, cook fires going, and were into their suppers of dried deer and bear meat, supplemented by sugar, hardtack and coffee—luxuries furnished from our commissary wagons.
Few of the troops seemed in a mood to disperse to their own tents. Everyone seemed to be milling around the center of the bivouac area. As darkness began to come on, a big bonfire was built and lighted. Wilder joined McPherson and me at the general soldiers' mess. I even noticed General Buck get in line for a cup of coffee like any private. He was in a shapeless felt hat, run-down boots, and out of uniform as usual. No stranger could have picked him out as the commander of this entire expedition. But his mind seemed to be constantly on things other than his personal appearance.
"Look at that, Curt," I said, nudging Wilder and indicating the general. "Quite a contrast to Brad Shanahan, isn't he?"
Wilder grinned. "Brad's probably had a bath, shave, had his boots shined, and waxed his mustache today. Wonder when General Buck last had all that done?"
I laughed. "Well, they're damn good soldiers in their own way."
As we carried our tin plates of food off to one side and sat down crosslegged to eat, I noticed several of the warriors raise their heads. "Ugh! Ugh! Shoshone." They pointed south and spoke rapidly among themselves. We looked up to see a column of Indians riding down the bluffs toward us.
General Buck immediately directed a scout to go out to meet them. But before Big Bat could even get mounted, the Shoshones splashed across the creek and rode into camp, the leading riders carrying two big American flags. Most of them wore large headdresses and red shirts and blankets. They were not as large or handsome as the Crows, but they looked tough and sinewy. As they galloped past us and the Crows, yelling and shouting a greeting, Wilder and I roughly estimated their number at about eighty-five.
Tom Cosgrove, chief of scouts in the Wind River Valley, was with them, along with a white assistant and a half-breed interpreter. While these last three, along with the two sons of Old Chief Washakie, were presented to General Buck, the rest of the Snakes were quickly bivouacking and getting to their supper.
"Now comes the 'big talk'," Wilder said to me and McPherson as we sat, smoking our pipes about an hour later. Some soldiers had piled more dry wood on the huge bonfire near General Buck's tent, and the flames roared and crackled, pouring an unseen column of smoke into the blackness above. We watched the Indians of the two tribes gather around the fire in a circle with General Buck and several of his senior staff, including Colonel Wellsey and Major Zimmer of the 3rd Cavalry, in the center with the chiefs. Louis Richaud acted as interpreter. Each tribe selected a spokesman, and about ten minutes elapsed between each sentence spoken, since Richaud had to interpret in three or four languages.
I had my pad and pencil out to record as much as I could of all this scene. In the picnic atmosphere of the campaign so far, I had almost forgotten I was here to report what I saw and heard to a reading public who were, for the most part, sitting in their homes and offices in the Midwest, safe and comfortable.
A slight breeze was blowing the flames and smoke around. The flickering flames were pushing back the intense blackness. At the wavering edge of this circle of light stood and squatted the stolid Indians, black eyes glittering in their bronzed faces. Some of those hunkering on their heels were passing around a long pipe. The red, white, yellow, and black-banded blankets of the Indians contrasted with the blue coats of the soldiers and the white tents and wagon tops. General Buck, his aides and interpreters, and the chiefs gathered in the center of this circle as near the fire as the intense heat would let them. General Buck stood with his hands in his pockets through most of the council, looking half-bored and half-happy with the whole thing. The gist of the speeches made by the chiefs of the Crows and the Shoshones, as relayed laboriously through the interpreters, was that they welcomed the chance to take part in this campaign. They were eager to break the spirit of their cruel, hereditary enemies, the Sioux. They asked, however, the privilege of scouting in their own way. General Buck readily granted this, apparently knowing their dislike for military discipline and procedures.
While the slow process of welcome and pledging of support went on, I glanced around and saw Wiley Jenkins and Cathy standing a few yards behind us in the crowded semidarkness. I motioned for them to come up and sit down.
"Quite a sight," Cathy whispered as the pair reclined, cross-legged, beside us. "With all that paint, they look as scary as any Indians the soldiers may be looking for."
I nodded my agreement. "Cathy, this is Captain Curtis Wilder. Cathy Jenkins, Wiley's sister. She came in with the Montana miners."
"Hello, Captain." She gave him a pleasant smile, showing her magnificent teeth, and offered her hand.
I could see the suppressed excitement in Wilder's face as he acknowledged the introduction. "Miss Jenkins."
"Miss Jenkins?" she repeated, making a face in mock irritation. "That makes me sound like an old maid. Call me Cathy."
"Okay, Cathy. And I'm Curt."
They struck up an animated conversation about the Indians, the campaign, the Black Hills, and left Wiley, McPherson, and me to ourselves. "Where's your Dad, Wiley?"
"Oh, he was standing back there awhile with us, but he lost interest in a hurry and went back to his tent. When he saw there was nothing in this for him, he got bored and left."
I looked sideways at Jenkins. "C'mon, now, that's not quite fair, is it? This is really none of my affair, but you seem to be judging his every action."
"Yeh, I suppose you're right. Well, anyway . . ." He shrugged.
Our low-toned conversation flagged, and I looked up to the central drama before us as Louis Richaud was delivering a few sentences in guttural Crow. Behind him, Major Zimmer was looking in our direction. It took me a few moments to realize that he was actually staring at Cathy Jenkins and Wilder, who were still deep in a whispered conversation beside me. Zimmer was bareheaded and the bushy sideburns framed his somewhat fleshy, but handsome, face, His ruddy complexion appeared even redder in the firelight, and the brass buttons on his blue uniform coat caught the light and shone like gold. Since the formal talk with the Indians didn't concern him directly, he continued to stare in our direction with only a glance now and then at the interpreter to make it appear he was following the "big talk".
The Snakes retired from the council first, having said very little. Then General Buck and the Crow chiefs shook hands amid m
any "Ughs" and shouts of fierce satisfaction, and the Indians headed for their tepees.
"There won't be any peace around here tonight," Wilder remarked to Cathy as we all got up and stretched our legs.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"They'll be putting on more paint and chanting and dancing most of the night."
"Really? They must have ridden fifty or sixty miles today. I would think they'd want to rest."
"Most Indians have tremendous endurance. They'll be getting themselves worked up for battle, as well as asking their gods for help and all that."
He had hardly finished talking when we heard the first of the rhythmic chants begin in the distance. First one and then another of the small groups of warriors started up their own individual war dances and chants, accompanying themselves on small buffalo-skin drums.
"What a god-awful racket!" Wiley grimaced. "Are we gonna have to listen to that very long?"
"Probably not more than six or seven hours," Wilder grinned.
We walked down among the tepees, mingling with many of the curious troops, and stooped down to look in the low doorways of some of the tepees. A fire hardly bigger than two candles cast a dim light on some scenes that could have come right out of Dante's Inferno. The painted, half-naked savages, their long, black hair hanging down or done up in braids or loops, gyrated wildly, the light casting weird shadows on the walls of the confined space. They chanted mostly in a monotone, broken by sudden screeches, grunts, whistles, howls, as if trying to imitate every bird, wolf, coyote, and animal in North America.
"Not much competition for the New York opera companies," Wiley observed. "But, I'll have to say, it's pretty original—or aboriginal," he laughed.
"Some of it's traditional, some impromptu," Wilder said.
