by Tim Champlin
"That's your opinion," Shanahan countered, evenly. "I believe everyone in Washington, from President Grant on down, is concerned, at least indirectly, with the welfare of this country. It's our manifest destiny to expand our boundaries to the West Coast, and we're a major part of that expansion. We, in this expedition, are a part of history."
"'Manifest destiny'?" Curt repeated scornfully. "I wonder what genius thought up that term? The only thing that rivals it for pure horseshit is the idea of 'holy war.' This whole business of driving the Indians off the land—of making and breaking treaties when it's convenient. It's been going on for a hundred years or more, and I think we're seeing the last of it now. I think we're at the high point of Indian resistance right now. This has been the summer of the Sioux. It'll be all downhill for them from here on. There's really no place else for them to run—except maybe to Canada. The army will bring up more and more men, and I'd bet that in just a few more years, all the tribes will be herded onto reservations, and that'll be the end of it. All the useless killing of whites and reds—what does it accomplish? It secures more land and gold for greedy people who don't want to work and pay for it."
"I think I'll interview General Buck," I said, to break the strained silence that fell when Wilder stopped speaking.
It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, and I was tired and impatient, but I tried to keep my tone professional as I questioned the general where I found him finishing his meager meal.
"We're about one hundred sixty miles west of Fort Lincoln, and two hundred miles directly north of the Black Hills," he replied to my query.
"Are you going to send in a courier, sir?"
"Yes, to Fort Lincoln to carry some mail and telegrams."
"What are you going to do now?"
He paused, thoughtfully, looking away from me at nothing and stroking his beard. When he spoke, his voice was slow and deliberate. "We are five full marches from Fort Lincoln and at least seven marches from the Black Hills. We would lose about half our horses if we go to the Fort for supplies and return. We would also lose about two weeks of time. If we want to stay on the trail of the Indians in the hope of winding up this campaign successfully, I have only one choice—we will start for the Black Hills in the morning."
"What about rations, General?'
"We have only two and a half days' rations, but we have to make them last for at least seven days."
"What?" I was incredulous.
"It's got to be done It's obvious now that the Sioux and Cheyenne have gone to the Hills and to the agencies. We’ve got to protect the miners and plunish the Sioux on our way south."
“We’re not really in shap to punish anybody, are we, General?”
“We have to toughen ourselves to it. You can be sure the Indians are feeling the effects of this march, too. We've got to keep the pressure on them."
"General . . ." I struggled to form the words, in my amazement. "Do you actually propose to march two hundred miles in this wilderness with used-up horses and dead-tired infantry on two and a half days' rations?"
"Yes. We'll go on half-rations immediately. I'm sending a telegram to General Sheridan for supplies in wagons to meet us at Crook City or Deadwood. If they don't arrive, the settlements will have to feed us. Besides, this country looks pretty good for game. We should be able to shoot something to supplement our supplies."
My face must have registered my doubts because, as he turned away, signaling the end of the interview, he said, over his shoulder, "If all else fails, we can always eat our horses."
This offhand remark sent a chill down my back. Eat our horses!
"I'd rather eat my brother," was Shanahan's reaction a few minutes later when I repeated what the general had said.
"Better cinch up your belts," Wilder said.
"If I cinch mine up any more, the buckle’ll be rubbing my backbone," Wiley Jenkins observed.
"And I haven't been this thin since I was fourteen," Cathy added, hitching up her soggy jeans. "Wish I had a set of scales to weigh myself."
"Well, if you don't relish horsemeat, it looks like your diet is going to last a few days more," Curt said. "Besides, I thought you needed to knock off a few pounds, anyway." He grinned and then ducked as she swatted him across the shoulders with her hat.
The soldiers had made a great effort to collect a lot of combustible wood and somehow managed to build up some large campfires that night for warmth and cheer. I made a lean-to shelter of my blanket with some cut saplings and crouched under it to write up my dispatches to send out with the courier to Fort Lincoln. As I wrote, I could look out and see steam rising thicker than smoke from the entire camp. Then it began to rain again harder than it had rained all summer.
Chapter Nineteen
The weather did not improve for the next three days. Every creek, wash and arroyo was running full of water. The mud was unbelievable. In places it was so gummy that it sucked the shoes right off the infantrymen's feet.
Two to three hundred cavalrymen who had to dismount and lead their feeble horses were following up the infantry in the column. Every once in a while I heard the crack of a pistol or carbine as one of these soldiers put his poor horse out of its misery. Some of the horses simply staggered and fell dead in their tracks, while others just lay down and refused to move. Since I was walking most of the time anyway, I was tempted to abandon my horse to forage for himself, but I needed the writing materials he carried in the saddlebags.
In spite of General Buck's optimistic prediction, this section of the country seemed devoid of any kind of game. We didn't even see a rabbit. On half-rations, many of the men were so hungry they took to slitting some cactus they found along the line of march and roasting the pulp--when they could find any wood that would burn. But this diet promptly produced some type of dysentery. By September 7th, we were out of hardtack, low on coffee, and the little remaining sugar and salt were dissolved by the constant rain. That day I saw two soldiers by the side of the trail carving up the hindquarters of a horse they had just killed.
It was horsemeat or nothing, so the five of us who now messed together made an unspoken vote for horse-meat. That afternoon Wilder and I skinned part of a horse that had to be shot, and carved some steaks from his carcass. While we were at this, Wiley and Lieutenant Shanahan somehow managed to start a small fire with some wet grass and shavings from a few small sticks. We grilled the steaks on willow sticks, with no salt, and tore at it with our teeth and knives. I noticed Cathy only took a few small, tentative bites and left the rest, her face even paler than before. About all I can say for worn-out cavalry horsemeat is that it served to sustain our lives. It was the consistency of stringy leather and had the flavor of sweaty blanket. Maybe the meat would have been slightly better if the horse had been a little fleshier.
We were just finishing this early evening meal about four-thirty when General Buck finally decided the situation was getting desperate enough to send a detachment ahead to Deadwood to buy and bring back all the supplies they could find. He ordered that a picked group of a hundred and fifty men—fifteen from each troop of the 3rd Cavalry—be mounted on the best remaining horses, and put under the command of Major George Zimmer, Captain Curtis Wilder, Lieutenant Bradley Shanahan, and Lieutenant Emmett Crawford. They were to be accompanied by a pack train of fifty mules.
Of course I volunteered to go. Since my horse was worn out, I managed to trade him for one in somewhat better condition to another correspondent who was staying behind. Wiley would be going to help with the pack train and he saw to it that Cathy rode with him. Privately he confided to me that he damn well intended to see to it that she stayed in Deadwood. We moved out just after total darkness had set in. The rain had stopped, but a heavy mist was still obscuring everything. For about two hours we rode in silence, with the mule train closed up and closely guarded by Wiley and the other packers to keep them from getting away or lost. Now and then, Frank Grouard, who was guiding us, had to stop and strike a match to check his compass. Ab
out nine-thirty the misty rain clouds cleared and the stars appeared overhead for a few minutes—just long enough for Grouard to check our course by the position of the North Star and the Big Dipper. Then the clouds obscured everything again. About midnight we stopped and tried to get some sleep in the rain and mud, but few of us, except the most practiced or tired, were able to do more than catnap before the order was given by Major Zimmer to move out as the first faint dawn showed about four A.M.
It was another terrible day of rain and mud and rough country. We rode only about twenty-five miles in eleven hours. Around three P.M. Frank Grouard, who had been scouting ahead, rode back and reported to Major Zimmer that an Indian village lay ahead. Zimmer twisted his square frame in his saddle and spoke to Wilder, a few yards behind him. "Captain, have the detail wait in that hollow over there while I take a look at this village."
Without waiting for a reply, he and Grouard rode on ahead. Wilder, with a low command and an arm signal, led the column into a shallow ravine about thirty yards away where he gave the order to dismount. We stood around, shivering in the chill drizzle, holding our horses. Nobody spoke. A sense of dread foreboding settled over the three companies. A few of the men wiped the clammy moisture from the barrels of their carbines and attempted to dry off the cartridges. Finally, Grouard and Zimmer reappeared, and the three officers rode up to meet them.
I was standing a few feet away.
"It's a Sioux village of about thirty-five tepees in a valley about a mile ahead," Zimmer said. "We're losing the light too fast to attack this afternoon. Have the men fall back about two miles, and we'll camp for the night and hit them at dawn." That was all. The three officers saluted and turned their horses to obey.
I was already in the saddle. Zimmer watched, stolidly, as his order was carried out. His usually florid face was pale and grim under the wide hat brim that was bent down in front with the dripping rain. His great cavalry cape was wrapped up close about him, revealing the heavy legs encased in the high boots and blue trousers. We rode back the way he had come and bivouacked in a gulch that was bordered with a scattering of trees. The soldiers had some hard bread and a few scraps of bacon in their saddlebags to eat. But Wiley shared the packers' supper with Cathy, Curt and me. It was a soup made of flour and grease, and when we heated it over our little campfire, I've never tasted anything so good. The way Cathy spooned it up, she must have been half-starved.
We tried to get some sleep, but, between our nervousness and the discomforts, we didn't sleep much. The five of us wrapped ourselves in our wet blankets and lay down near the fire on some greasy canvas we had taken from the mule packs. I dozed off and on, and finally slept. I dreamed I was surrounded by hideous-looking Sioux and trying to fight them off alone. Then when I started to run, I couldn't move my legs because I was knee-deep in freezing mud and slush. Just as I was about to be cut down, someone was shaking my shoulder and I opened my eyes. The dim form of Curt Wilder was there. A wave of relief swept over me as the realistic dream vanished. I got slowly to my feet, feeling about a hundred years old—stiff and cold with gritty eyeballs and a bad taste in my mouth. I pulled my damp corduroy coat around me, shivering myself temporarily warm.
"What time is it?" Darkness still enveloped us.
“Abut two,” Wilder replied, moving away to rouse some of the soldiers who had managed to fall asleep.
Cathy and Wiley were both awake. Shanahan was up and gone somewhere in the dark. I could hear muffled sounds of men moving around, coughing, rattling equipment. The few fires that still burned were only piles of dully glowing embers, casting very little light. We all moved like zombies as we saddled our horses. Wilder helped Cathy cinch up her mount, while Wiley replaced the canvas on the mule packs. Very shortly everyone was ready and Major Zimmer's voice came out of the darkness, ordering us to mount. Then the command was passed to move out. In less than an hour we were near the spot where we had halted the day before. The murky blackness was still thick with mist, and for the life of me, I couldn't tell how Grouard could find his way in such obscurity. Even a cat can't see in total darkness.
Suddenly the column halted and low-voiced orders were passed back for the mule train and twenty-five of the troopers to remain where they were. Then the order to dismount was relayed and the twenty-five chosen troopers were given charge of their own horses plus another hundred. One hundred dismounted soldiers were to attack the village on foot at first light, while twenty-five mounted men under Lieutenant Crawford were to drive off the pony herd so the Indians couldn't escape on horseback. Zimmer didn't want to risk taking our own horses or mules too close. At the scent of the Indian ponies, our animals were liable to whinny or bray, giving us away before we were ready.
Wiley and Cathy were left behind with the packers, the mules and the twenty-five horse holders, while the rest of us moved forward on foot to be in position by first light. Lieutenant Crawford and his twenty-five mounted troopers moved off slowly to our right in a wide circle to come up to the valley farther west. My heart was pounding so loudly in my ears from nervousness and exertion that I just knew it could be heard several yards away. I was more scared now when we had the advantage of surprise than I had been at the Rosebud when the roles had been reversed. When we had been attacked in June. I hadn't known it was coming, not had time to be afraid.
When we worked our way cautiously to the lip of the shallow valley and looked down we could only vaguely make out blurred shapes of the lodges in the murk. They might have been big rocks for all I could tell. I was beside Wilder as we spread out and crouched down to await daylight. I noticed that he seemed more uneasy than usual. I had seen him under stress before and he was always under icy control. But now he fidgeted, moving around, wiping his hands on the insides of his trouser legs. I heard him take a deep breath every minute or two, and realized he was probably trying to relieve the tension and calm a wildly beating heart, just as I was. A couple of times he turned to me as if to say something, but each time apparently changed his mind. Lights and talking had been forbidden. I desperately wanted to strike a match and look at my watch; it seemed we had been here for hours. We were all coiled as tight as a hundred individual springs, ready to snap as one.
Very gradually, imperceptibly, I was aware of dim outlines of trees nearby. Then the outlines became more distinct, and I could make out the forms of the men crouched along the tree line, gripping their carbines. The valley before us slid slowly from the grip of dim and dripping night and took on some substance. The hide-covered tepees looked gray in the early, misty light. The valley was bordered on three sides by picturesque, cone-shaped hills covered with trees. It was open to the east. We were on the north side. As the light gradually grew stronger from the open end of the valley, I looked in vain for a guard or lookout The Sioux apparently felt they were secure. I could see no pickets anywhere. There was not even anyone with the pony herd that was grazing quietly west of the village. Our own horsemen were somewhere out of sight off to our right. I was shivering—not entirely from the cold and had to grit my teeth to keep them from chattering. My loaded Winchester felt clammy in my hands.
Finally came the full light of an overcast morning. A grassy slope swept down out of the trees where we hid toward the first of the three dozen lodges about a hundred and fifty yards away. Just as Major Zimmer came down the line toward Wilder, a slight movement caught the corner of my eye, and I looked down at the village to see a woman emerge from one of the lodges, followed by two Indian children who appeared to be about three or four years old. The woman had a basket in her hand. Wilder's quick eyes saw them at the same time.
"Captain," Zimmer said in a low, husky voice, "when I give the signal, you lead the men in a charge on that village. We've got 'em completely by surprise. Shoot to kill. We'll get at least some revenge for Custer and the 7th," he added, bitterly. Suddenly he also caught sight of the woman and two children. "Damn! We've got to hurry. Somebody's up." He raised his arm and glanced along our line. "Ready?"
&
nbsp; "Major, there are women and children in that village," Wilder said.
"So?"
"We can't kill them."
"They can kill you as quick as any warrior," Zimmer snapped impatiently. "If they get in the way, cut 'em down. Anybody in that village is fair game. They're the enemy. Are you ready, Captain?" He glared at Wilder.
"No. I'm not killing any women and children. This has the smell of another Washita or Sand Creek Massacre to me."
"What?" Zimmer turned a face on Wilder that suggested he couldn't believe what he was hearing. I swear his eyes positively snapped. He looked like a big cat who couldn't believe that a mouse had just walked into his claws.
"Are you disobeying a direct order, mister?"
"You're damn right!" Wilder shot back, his own face beginning to color above a week's growth of beard.
"Shanahan!"
"Sir?" Brad stepped forward.
"You'll lead the charge. As soon as this action is over, Captain Wilder is to be arrested and confined,"
Just as he finished speaking, our twenty-five mounted men went charging down from the hill a few hundred yards to our right. The pony herd was startled and their heads jerked up. They thundered away, wheeling toward the village and racing toward the open end of the valley.
"Charge! Charge! " Zimmer was yelling beside me. The line of men sprang out of the trees, shouting, and raced down the slope, led by Lieutenant Shanahan. Major Zimmer was close behind them. I stood still with Wilder as the action and noise rolled away from us. He stood with his head down, his carbine hanging at his side. Without speaking, I reached out and put my hand on his shoulder. I was as stunned as anyone else, but I knew this was not the time to say anything to him.
When I looked up a few seconds later, the ponies had beaten the soldiers to the village by a good seventy yards and were stampeding among the lodges, seeking to escape. A few shots were popping as the soldiers got closer. The woman and two children had disappeared somewhere behind a tepee when the ponies raced through. I saw hunting knives ripping open the hide and canvas coverings of the lodges, as the Indians didn't wait to unlace the flaps. One or two of the braves rifles in hand, made a grab for a couple of the ponies as they went by, but it was no use. The herd was suddenly gone, but the Indian warriors rallied quickly. They faced the soldiers and fired two volleys from their repeaters, point-blank. I saw at least three men fall. Then the Indians, young men, old men, women and children, all helping each other, were running. The cracking of rifles and the shouting grew more general, and the smoke began to mingle with the low-hanging mist, and I looked away.
