Summer of the Sioux

by Tim Champlin

  He grinned wearily back at me. "Never."

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was a joyous homecoming. We were welcomed back into camp like returning heroes. And I can't even find the words to express the joy of living that overcame me on that sunny Monday morning, July 10.

  After a good bath in the creek and a change of clothes, I felt almost like a new man, but still very tired as I sat down to eat with the rest of the detail. While bathing, I had caught a glimpse of my reflection in the waters of Goose Creek and was startled at the shimmering image that stared back at me. It was the gaunt, bearded face of a stranger. As soon as I had eaten, I borrowed a razor, scissors and Wilder's tiny mirror. I gave myself a good, close shave and then trimmed as much of my hair as I could see.

  The rest of the day we rested and were besieged over and over by various members of the command to repeat the story of our narrow squeak. Most of our audiences whistled, shook their heads in disbelief, and looked at us like we were men returned from the dead. General Buck was out of camp on one of his frequent hunts in the adjacent mountains. But Colonel Peterman, who was in charge in his absence, was lavish in his praise of Frank Grouard and Big Bat for their cool judgment in leading our escape. He was also complimentary about Captain Wilder for having the good sense to take the scouts' advice. That's why what followed later in the day came as such a surprise to me. In the general celebration, I had missed seeing Wilder for a time. But about three he came into our tent, where I was stretched out, dozing in the afternoon heat. He sat down heavily on the opposite cot and blew out a long, tired sigh.

  I opened one eye. "Why the long face? I'm still giving thanks I'm alive and well, even though I'm pretty irritated that my only toothbrush was in my saddlebags."

  "Well, I'm thankful too. But if the Sioux had scalped me, it would've deprived Zimmer of the pleasure."

  "Oh, no. Not again."

  "He called me into his tent and really chewed me out for leading my patrol into a 'trap.' Called me an incompetent nincompoop who wasn't fit to command troops. Said I ought to be court-martialed for being so lax. 'Course that was just bluff since Colonel Peterman has publicly commended the scouts, and me, too, indirectly."

  "I don't think it was anybody's fault. But the scouts led us into that; you didn't. We were ordered to find the Indians, and we did."

  "I know. But, as the officer in charge, I had the veto power over any recommendations of the civilian guides. Frankly, Matt, we both know that neither of us would be sitting here now if it weren't for those two scouts."

  "Sounds like being acting C.O. of the 3rd has gone straight to Zimmer's head. Just throwing his weight around again."

  "Unfortunately, he's not man enough for the job, in my opinion. Wonder why it is that the light-headed ones always seem to rise to the top."

  "Well, give him enough time and he'll hang himself. His type usually does."

  "I don't know if I can wait that long."

  The strange tone of his voice made me glance sharply at him. But his downcast face told me nothing. "Were there any witnesses to this tongue-lashing?"

  “No.”

  "Then forget it. If anything develops from it later, it'll be your word against his. You heard what Colonel Peterman said about the 'Wilder Scout,' as they're beginning to call this action. Zimmer wouldn't dare write up an official reprimand after that. He's just trying to keep you rattled and let you know he's still the boss. But, without even trying, you've hit him in his most sensitive spot."

  "Oh? Where's that?"

  "In his pride. You've stolen the limelight from him for the time being."

  "You're right." He grinned. "I hadn't thought about it that way. To hell with him." He rose and stretched. "Man, I ache all over. I imagine I'll feel even worse in the morning. It's going to take a day or two for me to get over this."

  "Have you seen Cathy since we got back?" I ventured.

  "No." The smile disappeared from his face. "Think I'll let that matter rest, at least for now. She's apparently made her choice."

  "Oh, don't be so damn stiff. You sound like somebody's maiden aunt. Go after her. I dare you to take her away from Zimmer," I challenged, "provided Zimmer even has the inside track with her. What better way to get the old bastard in his pride again?"

  "I don't want to make a fool of myself running after some young girl who's not interested in me."

  I shrugged. "Well, suit yourself. If you're not interested, I might try, myself."

  "Really?"

  I couldn't keep a straight face at his pained expression. "No," I laughed. "There's an Irish girl in Chicago I’ve got my eye on. Cathy’s not really my type.”

  We heard some commotion outside as horses approached. We went out and saw General Buck and several of his aides riding in from a hunt. Their horses were loaded down with elk, deer, and mountain sheep, and the hunting party was being escorted in by two companies of the 3rd.

  "Why the big escort?" I asked Wilder.

  "Colonel Peterman sent them out to get General Buck right after we came in this morning. Apparently, some Crows came into camp yesterday with a garbled tale about a big battle where all the soldiers were killed. Couldn't make much of it through the interpreters, Shanahan said. But when we came in with our story, Colonel Peterman got mighty uneasy and sent for the general."

  "Looks like all that game will take care of our fresh-meat problems for a while," I remarked, as the general's party dismounted, and several soldiers took charge of their mounts and began unloading the field-dressed carcasses from the pack horses. Just then the two privates we had left behind at Big Goose Creek were brought into camp and were greeted by everyone with a welcome like we had received earlier.

  General Buck dismounted and went into his tent, followed by Colonel Peterman. The general took the news of our scout and the Crow story of another big battle with his usual stoic air. In fact, his reaction was the same the next morning when Louis Richaud and some half-breeds rode in from Fort Fetterman with official dispatches that confirmed the rumor about a big battle. Custer and five companies of the 7th had been wiped out at the Little Big Horn River only a week after and thirty miles north of our own encounter on the Rosebud. Richaud gave our shocked command the details of the disaster after delivering the official account to the general.

  "Just like that damn Custer to take two hundred and sixty good soldiers with him when he departed," Wilder remarked to me. "Sounds like the arrogant bastard disregarded orders and tried to grab all the glory for himself without reporting back and waiting for reinforcements. Well, the army is better off without him, but I'm afraid certain people will make a posthumous hero of him, and we'll never really be rid of him."

  "Y'know, that could've been us if we had gotten far enough north to hit that big village we were after."

  "Or that disaster might never have happened if we had gotten through to Terry on the Yellowstone."

  "Well, so much for the 'might-have-beens.' We know where they're massed now. Our 'scout' confirmed it, even if we hadn't heard about this. The question is, what is the general going to do about it?"

  We glanced toward our bearded commander, who was just then scanning one of the telegrams Richaud had delivered. General Buck snorted and stuffed the paper into his pocket. He looked up and saw us watching him. "General Sheridan sends his regards and his compliments on our action against the Sioux. He tells me to hit them again—and harder. I wish he'd make a trip out here from Chicago and show us how to surround three Indians with one soldier." With that disgusted comment he walked off to his tent with a fistful of dispatches to digest at his leisure.

  There was a lot of talk pro and con among the officers for the rest of the day about Custer's actions, with Major Zimmer and Lieutenant Shanahan among those who defended the unconventional cavalry leader. Wilder said little on the subject to avoid any useless arguments with his messmate and any further problems with the volatile George Zimmer.

  The next day the Snake Indians--213 of them—returned as
they had promised: They were still under the command of their old chief Washakie and his two sons. Their reappearance surprised me, but I kept it to myself. I had long since reconciled myself to the unpredictable whims of all Indians and never expected the Shoshones to keep such a long-term promise. Nevertheless, General Buck was glad to see them since they had proven themselves good fighters, and they swelled our numbers.

  The following day, the thirteenth, our wagon train arrived from Fort Fetterman, escorted by seven companies of infantry from the 4th, 9th, and 14th Regiments.

  A whiskey peddler came in, unobtrusively, with the train. Some of the men and officers, who had been in the field about two months without a drink, didn't waste any time giving the peddler all the business he could handle. And this was no moderate drinking. They were making up for lost time. A few of them, who had the money and the urge, got thoroughly drunk. In fact, one of the captains named Ryan, whom I had seen around but only casually met, got drunk on duty and failed to place his pickets properly. He was promptly arrested by Major Zimmer and tried in the field. He was relieved of his command and ordered back to Fort Fetterman with a choice of resigning his commission or being court-martialed.

  "Isn't that penalty a little harsh?" I asked Wilder, as we watched the disgraced captain being escorted, under guard, out of camp the next morning after breakfast.

  "Yes. Ryan's a fine, conscientious officer. I hate to see his career go down the drain like that because of one mistake. But I guess General Buck figures he has to maintain discipline by making an example of him. We are in the field under battle conditions, what with those braves sniping at us the past few nights."

  "Placing those pickets wasn't really his job, was it?"

  "Not directly. But it's his responsibility to see to it that his sergeants get it done. Of course, the noncoms don't, as a rule, need any supervision about something routine like that."

  "Well, routine or not, the pickets have been keeping those Indians from making off with our horses these past few nights."

  "You're right." He blew into his tin cup and sipped his coffee tentatively. "Those little night raids we've been getting aren't really dangerous. Just one or two Indians at a time using it for a little sport. Showing their bravery by trying to slip past the sentries, maybe run off a few horses, and keep us on edge, knowing they're close by."

  "By the way, what happened to that whiskey peddler?"

  "He was a civilian, so General Buck couldn't arrest him, but he confiscated all the whiskey and ran him out of camp."

  "Those several barrels of whiskey'd better be well locked up, or somebody's sure to be into them."

  "I doubt if anybody in uniform will try it again after seeing the punishment the men got, and what happened to Ryan."

  "Zimmer's walking around like the King of the Mountain since he got rid of Ryan."

  "I wonder if he really thinks he's enforcing discipline or is just one of those self-centered bastards who's not happy unless he's playing 'Lord and Master' and abusing his power?"

  "God knows."

  Breakfast was just over the next morning and the camp was settling into its usual dull daily routine when we were surprised by the arrival of a Sergeant Stark and two privates. They were attached to the 7th Infantry and had managed to get through with dispatches from General Terry on the Yellowstone by traveling at night and hiding by day to avoid the hunting and war parties that infested the country. But they reported they had crossed no large, recently made Indian trails. Sergeant Stark brought more details of the Custer disaster.

  General Buck called his staff officers into his tent with the couriers, and they didn't come out for over an hour. I wasn't privileged to be part of this conference, but Wilder briefed me later at supper. The "Wilder Scout" that I had been part of, along with the news from the messengers, convinced General Buck that a huge village must still be somewhere near the Little Big Horn valley where Custer had been wiped out. Even though we’d been reinforced by the infantry from Fort Fetterman, the general still planned to delay taking the field again. General Merritt’s 5th Cavalry was on its way in from near Red Cloud Agency to reinforce us also. Even Lieutenant Shanahan, who had been a staunch supporter of General Buck, was growing a little irritated and impatient with the continued hesitancy of our commanding officer to go against the Sioux.

  General Buck sent the three couriers back to Terry two days later with some message I didn't get. My own dispatches, with eyewitness accounts of the "Wilder Scout," had gone back to the telegraph at Fetterman by way of a paid courier a few days before.

  The camp, with the additional infantry and our Snake allies, settled into the same boring routine we had known before. But, as the last half of July rolled away, blistering days following each other as alike as clumps of sun-browned buffalo grass, I kept my vow to myself that I would never again be bored with life, no matter what my circumstances. In fact, I remarked to Wilder, after about ten days, that our near-disaster in the Big Horns almost seemed like a bad dream—as though we had never really been there at all.

  "Huh! Some dream," he retorted. "If it was a nightmare, I'm glad I don't have them often. I might not wake up from the next one."

  During these peaceful days I entertained myself by swimming, fishing for trout, reading everything I could lay my hands on, sleeping, eating, and generally taking it easy. I also did some makeshift repairs on my wardrobe, and was allowed to requisition a pair of cavalry boots to replace the ones that had been torn up beyond repair by our march out of the mountains. Since I had lost my horse and saddle, I didn't venture much beyond the confines of the camp.

  I spent a lot of my time with Wiley Jenkins, playing cards, fishing or just talking. We had been through a lot together, but we didn't really know each other. As he gradually learned to trust me as a friend, he opened up, and behind the facile exterior, I caught glimpses of his past, his personality, his fears and ambitions. I discovered he had been asked to leave the University of Kentucky at the end of his sophomore year, after he pursued parties and girls with greater vigor than he had pursued his courses.

  "Couldn't get interested enough in any particular field of study," he explained, passing the whole thing off with a wave of his hand, even though I could see it bothered him more than he wanted to let on. Apparently, it was this failure at college that precipitated the final break with his father. He had left home, clerked briefly at a Cincinnati dry-goods store, but quickly tired of this. Then he was drawn by the lure of the steamboats passing up and down the Ohio. He collected his savings, and booked river passage for St. Louis. In St. Louis he worked for a time as a stevedore and then took another steamboat to the upper Missouri. It was in the Dakota Territory that he first encountered the Plains Indians and the postwar army. And in the next four years, he traveled back and forth across the West, with frequent visits home to Kentucky. He had worked at every conceivable job, from railroading to driving a freight team. And it was during this time that he had picked up his skill as a mule packer.

  In his disjointed narratives, he played down his various escapades with women, but I knew his handsome face, easy smile, and athlete's body were probably an irresistible lure to most women. He was widely read and literate, his interests tending toward philosophy, literature, and history, rather than to the sciences. This was probably another point of divergence from his engineer father.

  We gradually drew Wilder into our company and the three of us spent more and more time together when Curt wasn't busy breaking up fistfights and handling discipline problems among the bored troopers in his company. It seemed to me he was becoming increasingly fed up with army life—although he seldom voiced his dissatisfactions. Since we were in the field the routine drill of garrison life was absent, and the soldiers had even less to occupy their time. Old animosities flared. Desertions were being reported at muster every day, as some of the men decided they'd had all they could take. Even the officers were getting on each other's nerves. For the most part, they were expressing the frustr
ation of General Buck, who conveyed this down through his battalion commanders to the officers to the noncoms. And the crushing weight of all this frustration, in the form of excessive discipline, fell on the hapless shoulders of the privates.

  But not everyone was on edge. The Indians, the civilian packers and miners, and quite a number of the troopers were relaxed and enjoying the respite from the tension of marching and fighting. General Buck kept the scouts busy almost daily reconnoitering the area within several miles of camp. Indian hunting parties seemed to be everywhere.

  "Must take a lot of meat to supply a massed gathering the size of the one on the Little Big Horn," Wilder said one noonday during one of our frequent discussions over a delicious meal of fresh trout.

  "I never thought about that. Somehow, I forget they have to go about the same business of daily living we do—since I've only seen the warriors in a battle setting."

  "Speaking of battle, I wonder if we're going to spend the rest of the summer camped right here. Some of the men have hauled in several wagonloads of rocks from the foothills and built a few fireplaces and chimneys for cooking. They're really making themselves at home," Lieutenant Shanahan said. "Hate to say it, but General Buck seems to have had the hell scared out of him by the Sioux and Cheyenne. Our stand off at the Rosebud and that Custer thing . . . I believe they've got him buffaloed."

  I was a little surprised at Shanahan's appraisal. But he impressed me as a climber type, and if someone else, commander or not, didn’t come up to his standards of perfection, then he was quick to denounce him. “Somebody else thinks he’s been buffaloed, too,” I added.

  “Oh?” Wilder looked up.

  “Have you seen some of those newspapers the couriers brought in?”

  “Just glanced through one or two of them to find out what was going on in the rest of the world.”

  “Well, some of the editorials I read did everything but accuse the general of cowardice. And these papers were two weeks old. I can imagine what they’re probably writing now.”