by Tim Champlin
I stood silently for a moment, not knowing if Guy Wellsey was even conscious. "Colonel Wellsey?"
"Yes?" He raised his head slightly.
"Sir, it's Matt Tierney and Robert McPherson. It's good to have you still with us."
"Ah, yes. It's good to be here." He seemed coherent.
"I saw you fall. I'm sorry. Do you have much pain?"
"Some. But it's nothing, really. Anyone can be a soldier in peacetime. You really ought to enlist, Matt. You'd make a good fighting man from what I've heard about your action today."
"Thank you, sir." In spite of myself, I grinned at the irony of this gritty battalion commander trying to recruit me while he lay severely shot up. I was glad he couldn't see my face. I had the feeling he was not joking.
"I hear there was one helluva fight over my body between the Sioux and the Crows. Wish I’d been conscious enough to see it." He paused and took a deep breath of the lung-withering air, and then continued in a low, weary voice. "I think the doctor must have given me a shot of morphine or something. I'm starting to feel relaxed." His face, or what I could see of it below the bandage, was very pale and clammy. He had apparently lost a lot of blood. The flared mustacle was the only part of his face that had not changed. His head lolled back on the padded saddle that served as a pillow.
I motioned for Mac to move away. "Looks bad, but I can't tell with that bandage on his head."
"I know. Sure hope he makes it," Mac replied in a husky voice.
"Oh, I feel sure he'll make it, but his soldiering days may be over."
We turned to see Dr. Kenneth Donnelly, one of the surgeons, plunging his hands and forearms into a bucket of river water and wiping them on a towel an orderly held for him. Donnelly was a short, stocky Irishman of about fifty, with a broad, ruddy face that was just now streaming with perspiration. His sleeves were rolled up above the elbows, revealing hairy, muscular arms. The front of his white shirt, between the galluses, was soaked with water and blood.
"How bad is he hit?"
"Took a slug through his left cheek. Came out just below the right eye. Shattered his cheek bone, and apparently severed the optic nerve. Won't know if he'll be blind in both eyes until the swelling goes down." He splashed some alcohol on his hands and arms quickly and turned to set the broken wrist of one of our buglers.
We moved off, my thigh still painful. A detail of soldiers was down at the water's edge, cutting and trimming big willows, while another group stood by to receive them and were fashioning travois to transport the casualties. In the slowly milling horses and mules of the corral, I spotted my still-saddled bay.
I pointed him out and a soldier caught his reins and brought him to me. I rubbed his head between the ears and spoke gently to him, trying to reestablish familiarity. Then I ran my hands down over his chest and legs, checking for any injuries. Luckily, he seemed unhurt. He had apparently only stumbled. I had not even named this horse, but after several weeks together, he seemed like an old friend as well as my means of transportation. And it was as a vital friend that I welcomed him back. Satisfied that he was all right, I slid my rifle into its scabbard and led the bay away for a drink in the river.
Wilder had come back along the riverbank and was talking to McPherson when I came up. ". . . transporting the dead and wounded. The general wants to bivouac here for the night so the surgeons can have a chance to treat the worst cases. And the men will be able to get some rest and build a few travois."
“What’s up?” I inquired, dropping the reins and letting my bay thrust his muzzle greedily into the water.
"General Buck just had a staff officers' call and announced he was going to fall back on the supply train at Goose Creek."
"Some of these men look too bad to be dragged that far on travois."
"Can't be helped. The worst cases will be put on mule litters. And a detail of men has been assigned the job of lifting or carrying the ends of the travois poles of the others over the rough spots."
"Why aren't we following up and chasing those hostiles?" McPherson asked.
"The general says the command's pretty well exhausted, we're low on ammunition and food, and the wounded need care."
"He's not really a little afraid of Crazy Horse, is he?" Mac chided.
"In the mood he's in right now, I wouldn't ask that question to his face if I were you."
"Well, is he?"
"If you're planning to report this to your paper, make it your own opinion and not mine. But, off the record, I think he was just plain overconfident, and this battle was a real blow to his pride." He swept his arm in a half-circle. "Sure, we're in possession of the field, and I guess most military strategists might call that a victory, but what have we really accomplished?"
He removed his hat and wiped a soggy blue shirtsleeve across his brow. All of us had been up since three A.M., and the fatigue was showing in his reddened eyes and his sweat-streaked face. His dark blue cavalry trousers and black boots were gray with dust from the knees down. He put his hat back on and looked around. "No chance of surprising the village of Crazy Horse now, either, so General Buck is going to fall back and wait for reinforcements. I think he's realizing these Sioux and northern Cheyenne are a lot better fighters than he's been giving them credit for being—especially when they're cornered."
"What about the plan to close the pincers with General Terry near the Yellowstone?"
Wilder shrugged. "Don't know. No couriers have been able to get through. The general thinks we encountered only part of the total fighting force that's in the field between here and there. He wanted to make one fast thrust to capture that village. That's the reason we were detoured up that canyon. The scouts thought the village of Crazy Horse was about eight miles north of here. But we were called back because the rest of the command was so hard-pressed."
"So that's where we were going," Mac said.
"I believe this group of Sioux and Cheyenne were just fighting a holding action to prevent us getting to their village."
"If that's all they were up to, I guess they succeeded."
"Pretty enthusiastic holding action," I remarked.
"Big Bat and Grouard just rode in from a quick scout up that canyon. They reported that about a half-mile beyond where our column defiled out, they found evidence that a large party of Indians had been lying in ambush behind a jumble of boulders and wind-fallen timber."
Wilder paused and three of us looked at each other silently. Mac whistled softly. "God," he breathed, "the history of the world turns on such strokes of luck—or Providence."
"Got to go," Wilder said. "See you when we get camped."
"Right."
I started to mount until a sudden pain in my left thigh reminded me I couldn't lift my leg high enough to get my foot into the stirrup. So I went around to the right side and hauled myself up awkwardly. It was good to settle into the saddle and feel my horse under me again—and to get the weight off my injured leg. My clinging wet pants and shirt were beginning to dry in the heat.
We went into camp about four o'clock and formed a wide circle around our horses and pack train as we had done the night before. While the camp was being set up, the dead—twenty-six of them—were tied to the backs of horses and brought up to a level area near the camp. Most of the bodies were already turning black from the heat, so it was imperative that they be given a quick burial. A detail of exhausted, long-suffering privates had been set to work with short-handled shovels, digging the graves in the dry earth. The only thing that saved this chore from being even more onerous was the fact that the grayish soil was relatively loose and powdery, But they performed this service for their dead comrades without the usual soldier's grumbling. They were either too tired to talk or were simply grateful they weren't the ones going into the ground.
Each body was wrapped in an army blanket and lowered into a separate grave. While the burial detail and most of the men who were not occupied elsewhere-stood bareheaded in the late afternoon heat, General Buck pronounced
a brief eulogy. The general was tightlipped and grim. He was apparently taking the loss of these men very personally. As soon as he finished, he stalked off and disappeared without a word to anyone. No bugler sounded taps.
To prevent desecration of the bodies by the Sioux, traces of the graves were obliterated by several companies of cavalry riding their horses repeatedly back and forth across the site. Their hooves raised a thick cloud of dust that drifted slowly upward and northward on some imperceptible breeze. Then, as the long shadows of the setting sun slanted across the valley, campfires were built on top of the graves to further confuse any scavenging Indians later.
I turned my bay over to Corporal Schmidt to unsaddle and curry. Mac retired to his blanket to rest and begin writing up a report of the battle for his newspaper while the action was fresh in his mind. Captain Wilder and Lieutenant Shanahan were both still out on some duties, so I wandered back down to where the wounded lay, now in the shade of twilight.
It was Mr. Jenkins I was looking for. I found him lying unconscious on his back on a folded blanket, his feet slightly elevated and his bare torso now clothed in clean, white bandages. He was near several of the other seriously wounded, grouped so the surgeons could monitor all of them regularly. Wiley and Cathy were sitting at his side.
I greeted them and sat down on the ground close by. "How is he?"
"Not too good, I’m afraid," Cathy replied, turning a tear-stained face to me. "The doctor says the bullet damaged a lot of muscles and may have clipped a rib or the edge of his lung. He's lost a lot of blood." She looked back at her father's pale face and I could see her biting her lip and blinking back the tears. She leaned over and smoothed his wavy gray hair with her fingers. Wiley, aside from acknowledging my greeting, had not spoken. He was still looking blanched and shaken. "I just hope we can camp here awhile so he can rest and start getting his strength back," Cathy continued.
I said nothing, not having the heart to tell her the command was moving out early in the morning. Yet, she must have seen the travois being built. Her words, if not her manner, indicated there was no doubt in her mind that he would recover. Maybe she had talked to the surgeon. But, from what my layman's eye could see, Mr. Jenkins might very well die from shock before he could reach a hospital.
I sat with them a few more minutes, making small talk, and discussing the Indians' retreat, but all the time observing their faces, especially Wiley's. I didn't know if he was grieving for his father, was feeling guilty about freezing up at a crucial moment, or was still befuddled from the trauma of first combat. "Well, I'll look in on you later. If there's anything you need, I'm not in the army, so . . ." My voice trailed off. I wasn't even sure what I meant, and the words sounded so damn trite, I could’ve kicked myself for even saying them. But Cathy Jenkins, gracious woman that she was, thanked me with her eyes. I got up, touched Wiley on the shoulder, and walked away toward my camp area.
I found Wilder, Mac, and Shanahan ready to eat when I arrived. Corporal Schmidt and one of the other orderlies had cooked up supper for our mess from the meager rations we carried. The four of us hardly spoke as we sat down on our blankets to eat. Apparently, no one had the energy or the inclination to discuss the battle. All Wilder said was, "I've seen considerable battle action but that was one of the hottest fights I've ever been in, including the war."
No one replied. Shanahan sat moodily throughout, his mind evidently occupied elsewhere.
Since we carried no tents, each mess and company was grouped around its own cook fire. As the deepening dusk obscured details, the camp became small circles of light from the fires. Even though the smell of bacon and fried corn tied my stomach into knots of sudden hunger, it was all I could do to fight off drowsiness as I ate. My heavy eyelids kept falling, even as I chewed my food. I jerked my head up for about the fourth time and opened my eyes. Mac was grinning at me across the fire.
"I know how you feel. Resting feels better and better as I get older. And I'm a darn sight older than you." He swallowed and continued. "I can remember the day when I could go all day and most of the night without even thinking about sleep. But that day's long gone. I guess that's why armies are made up of young men."
He began to cough—only a little at first. But this triggered a paroxysm of coughing that caused him to get up and walk away from the group, his handkerchief to his mouth. It seemed strange to me that I had not noticed him coughing at all today. I watched him carefully for a minute or two to be sure he was all right, before I resumed eating. I would have offered my assistance, but since there was nothing I could do, I didn't move. Mac wanted no well-intentioned sympathy from anyone.
Chapter Twelve
No sooner was supper over and all of us had rolled wearily into our blankets than a mournful wailing started up from the Crow and 'Shoshone camps. In addition to their own warriors killed—how many, we didn't know—a young Shoshone boy had been killed and scalped while holding horses in the rear area. Some of the Cheyenne had ridden completely around the command and caught him defenseless near the river.
"It's not so much that he was killed," Wilder remarked, raising his head at the sound. "There's some superstition about his being scalped. They believe he can't get into the happy hunting grounds without his scalp."
Some of the men nearby were grumbling about the noise, but I was awake just long enough to notice that it prevented none of them from falling into an exhausted sleep immediately. I could have slept on a bed of nails myself.
Reveille sounded at four A.M. on a frosty Sunday morning, and we were all up and under arms quickly. But, as General Buck had correctly predicted, there was no dawn attack by the Sioux. The Snake Indians waited until sunrise to bury the boy they had mourned the night before. All the relatives appeared in hideous black paint, many of them weeping openly. The boy was buried in the shallow ford of the streambed, and afterward. several Indians rode their ponies back and forth across to be sure all traces were obscured.
Each seriously wounded soldier was carefully loaded onto a litter slung fore and aft between two surefooted mules. It was no spring ambulance, but it was the best that could be devised under the circumstances. The less seriously wounded were put on travois behind horses and mules and the entire command slowly began a withdrawal, its pace regulated by the slowest of the injured.
Instead of riding in formation with our Company B, Mac and I decided to ride off to one side of the column. We had gone only about a half-mile when I noticed some dismounted Crows clustering around something in the deep grass off to the right of us. Mac and I rode over and found them grouped around the stiff corpse of a Sioux warrior. The body had a bullet hole in its breast, but was otherwise unmarked. The Crow, chattering among themselves, gleefully started their mutilation. First they stripped the body of all clothing and ornamentation. Then they scalped it. One Crow sliced off the warrior's ears and put them in a pouch he carried at his belt. Others hacked off his fingers, toes, and nose. Mac and I protested, but they only laughed at us and pretended not to understand.
Finally, one big buck cut off the penis and held it overhead, a grin splitting his brutal features. He shouted something in broken English to the effect that there would be great distress among the squaws when they found out what had happened. They all cheered and laughed. Just then Captain Wilder, attracted by the commotion, rode up with a squad of men. He drew his revolver, and with a few hard words, put a stop to any further dismemberment.
I was sick with disgust. "Damn, Mac, that may be common practice among various tribes, but a sight like that sure makes me lose any respect I ever had for the Crows."
"Well, they talk a good fight around the campfire, but most of 'em would rather attack a dead Sioux than a live one." He pulled his horse's head around. "Probably why the Sioux have always bested them until the white man came along."
The command rode on up and out of the valley of the Rosebud following the easiest grades possible. Small bands of mounted Sioux or Cheyenne watched us from the hilltops but ma
de no move to hinder our departure. Mac and I took the opportunity during the morning to ride back and forth along the column, observing the movement of the wounded.
I rode up alongside Colonel Wellsey to speak to him just as two men on foot were lifting the ends of his travois up the steep bank of a feeder stream. The foot of one of the soldiers slipped and he dropped his end. The injured man was pitched off and rolled over a few feet down the bank. The soldier cursed himself, and the other man sprang to help.
"It's okay, boys. I'm not hurt," Wellsey replied when the private began apologizing for his clumsiness as they eased him back onto his litter. The officer's cheerfulness under the circumstances amazed me. He still couldn't see because of the swelling and the bandages around his head. In spite of the laudanum, he had to be in pain. He acted as if he was sorry to be a burden to the soldiers who had to carry his travois poles.
"He has a better disposition, wounded, than most men do whole," Mac remarked, reflecting my own thoughts.
"Especially Major Zimmer."
"Speaking of the devil, do you suppose he'll be the C.O. of the 3rd Cavalry now that Wellsey is out of action?"
"Sounds likely. Reckon Wilder's thought of that?"
"Glad I'm not in uniform."
"Yeh. Wilder's the one who'll be catching hell if that happens."
We camped early that evening at a level spot where there was good wood, water, and grass. We were still a few miles from our wagon train at Goose Creek. After the camp had settled in and before supper, I got up the courage, at Mac's prompting, to seek out Surgeon Donnelly to get my hand and leg attended to. "Compared to these other cases, Doc, I feel like a fool coming to you with something like this," I said as I sat down on a campstool for the bluff Irishman to examine me.
"You let me worry about that." He took my hand and gave it a professional inspection. "Did you pour any whiskey on this?"
