by Tim Champlin
Wilder was still standing beside me, composed, but with a faraway look in his eyes. He only glanced toward the battle now and then as if afraid of what he might see there.
It seemed only a few minutes before the village was captured—without most of its inhabitants. They had managed to escape, some of them to a rocky defile on a hillside south of the village, thanks to the slight warning they got from the stampeding horses. But some of the Indians would never flee again. Their bodies lay sprawled in grotesque positions where they had fallen. From this distance, a few of the forms looked smaller—women and children, perhaps, who couldn't run as fast as the others. I could see two of our own men lying on the ground, and two others who had been hit and were trying to crawl away.
It was amazing to me how quickly the Indians had recovered and reacted after their initial surprise. One big sergeant grabbed the long hair of a dead Indian, jerked his head up and, with a couple of quick strokes of his hunting knife, scalped him. The firing had died down to some sporadic popping and the soldiers were already looting the lodges. Some of the men came out chewing on something that looked like dried meat.
About this time a lone horseman came riding back up the hill where Wilder and I stood. It was Lieutenant Shanahan. He pulled up his jaded horse. "Curt, Major Zimmer has ordered me to put you under arrest," he announced, somewhat stiffly. "I'll have to ask you for your arms."
"Sure, Brad." He handed up the carbine, stock first, Then he slipped the Colt from his holster and gave it up.
"Sorry to do this, Curt," Shanahan said, sounding truly apologetic, "but I have no choice."
"That's all right. It's not your fault."
"C'mon and climb up behind me. I'll give you a lift down there. I think this horse can still carry double that far. It's Crawford's horse." Wilder took the offered arm and swung himself up onto the horse's rump. They rode off and I trotted on down the hill on foot after them.
The Indians who had escaped to a rocky defile on the far hillside were entrenched where our men could not get at them without exposing themselves to a lethal fire. When this was discovered, the fight settled into a siege. A few of the men were ordered to keep the Indians pinned down with a more or less constant fire, while others were sent to round up the Indian ponies that had stopped a mile or so away, and herd them back into the valley.
When I got down to the village, I discovered that our troops had taken a half-dozen prisoners—four men and two women. From them, through sign language and the scout's interpreting, we learned that this was only one of several small villages in this area—an area known as Slim Buttes, named for a series of tall, unsupported rock spires around the valley, not far away. Slim Buttes had been a traditional annual meeting ground for the Sioux since before the white man came, the prisoners told us. Other small villages in the vicinity were all under the leadership of Crazy Horse. In fact, the stolid captives told Zimmer, they had already sent runners to Crazy Horse's camp with news of the attack. Zimmer countered by dispatching a courier to General Buck to hurry with reinforcements.
Wilder was not shackled, though a private was assigned to guard him. But the soldier had little interest in this duty when he saw all his comrades hauling out buffalo robes, corn, and dried meat from the tepees. Consequently, I was able to talk to Wilder with no restrictions. I saw the guard almost drooling as he watched his comrades eating.
“Don’t worry about it, soldier,” I told him. “Those Indians you captured were laughing a few minutes ago about our boys eating that meat. Turns out it’s not buffalo—it’s Indian pony and dog. They told the Major we’d kept them on the run so much this summer, they hadn't had time to hunt."
The private grinned. "I don't feel near as hungry now," he said. "I wondered why we didn't see any dogs in this village. Never saw an Indian village without dogs."
The mule train and the rest of the men with the horses had been called up, and at that moment, they came riding down into the valley. It wasn't long before all of them had the story of the fight and of Wilder's insubordination. Wiley and Cathy were at Wilder's side immediately where he sat on a fallen log at the base of one of the conical hills. The private was standing guard respectfully, just out of earshot.
"Curt, I know you had your own reasons for doing what you did, but let me ask you one thing," I said as the four of us sat together.
"Sure."
"Couldn't you have done more to keep women and children from being killed by leading the charge and directing the soldie yourself?"
"Maybe. But there comes a time to everyone, sooner or later, when you feel it's time to take a different fork in the road. I just felt this was the time for me." He looked up and saw the distressed look on my face. "Don't worry about it. This was not really a spur-of-the-moment decision. I've been doing a lot of thinking about things for the past few months."
"Is this the end of your military career?" Wiley asked.
"No doubt about it. But, in a way, I'm glad. Been having trouble for quite some time squaring the idea of killing with my conscience. Wiley, you're the one who finally crystallized it for me. It's bad enough to have to fight soldiers or warriors, but civilian bystanders is another story. That's General Sherman's and Sheridan's whole philosophy of total war—kill the entire enemy population and destroy their property to undermine their will to resist."
"Is that really their attitude?" I asked.
"Not officially, but I've heard it expressed by them in private meetings and briefings. But where it really shows up is in their actions."
"How's that?" Wiley said.
"Apparently you never saw Atlanta during the war after Sherman got through with it. If he did that to white people—his own countrymen, really—do you think he's going to have any compunction about destroying some copper-colored aborigines who have a totally different way of life?
"Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying I’m an Indian lover. By our standards, they're dirty, dishonest, and brutal to their enemies. But they are human beings, and I've finally decided in my own mind that humans shouldn't kill each other—unless it's strictly a matter of self-defense." He shrugged. "It's as simple as that."
Cathy leaned over and silently hugged him.
A fusillade of shots rang out and I looked down the valley, where the soldiers were trying to storm the brushy, rocky fortress where some of the Indians were entrenched. As I looked, I saw a solider jump up, grab his chest, and pitch backward down the slope.
"Another useless casualty," Wilder said.
"What happens now? A court-martial?" I asked.
"Yes. Then disgrace, loss of my commission, maybe a prison sentence. The army just opened a federal prison a couple years ago at Fort Leavenworth: But sometimes they're a little easier on officers—especially ones with previously good records. But I don't plan to stay around to find out."
"Oh?"
"Buck and the rest of the command are on their way up. Should be here before noon. And, if I'm any judge, Crazy Horse will be here with his force before dark. There'll be a battle of some sort. During the confusion, I plan to escape."
"Just let me know what you want and I’ll help you,” Wiley offered eagerly. "In fact, if you don't care, I'll go with you. I’m pretty tired of living like a starving groundhog and playing nursemaid to a bunch of ornery mules."
"Hell, Curt, if they catch you, you could be shot as a deserter."
"That's probably the least of my worries. This is a sick command—no food, no transport, no purpose really, except to get the hell back. They won't be chasing deserters. I think I know army ways well enough to outwit them, once I get clear. Getting loose from here may be the big problem."
"But even if you get away from here, where will you go, what will you do?" Cathy asked, plaintively.
"If I can get my hands on a good Indian pony, I'll head for Deadwood. Don't have any plans beyond that." He sounded relaxed, lighthearted, as if a great weight had slid from his back. "Have to put some distance between myself and the military so ther
e won't be such a chance of being recognized by somebody. But there's always work of some sort in these frontier towns. I won't starve until I can find something better. I've got a good education, and I think I've paid the government back for that by now."
He stopped talking abruptly, and I looked around to see Major Zimmer approaching. "Who gave you permission to consort with this prisoner?" snapped Zimmer. "Get away from here. This man is under arrest."
Wiley started to retort, but I caught his eye and shook my head in warning and then motioned for him to move away without replying.
"Private, keep this man under closer guard!" Zimmer ordered.
As I looked back, he threw a gauntlet down on the ground in front of Wilder. "Take a look at that, you coward!" he almost shouted. "Just pick it up and take a close look!"
Wilder made no move to pick up the glove, which further infuriated his superior.
"The name of Captain Miles Keogh is marked on the cuff. He died with Custer. And we've found the guidon from the 7th Cavalry and a few horses with their brand. What do you think of your precious Indians now, Captain?" His voice dripped with scorn. "The squaws you were so damned anxious to protect were probably out looting and mutilating the bodies of the 7th before they were cold. And do you know what else we found in some of those tepees? We found letters of good conduct issued to this particular band by Indian Agents. A bunch of damned incompetent, Indian-loving civilian appointees! Good conduct! God Almighty! They'll be good when they're all exterminated, maybe—not before."
"What did the Sioux have to say about it— or did you bother to ask them?" Wilder asked, calmly.
His manner seemed to goad Zimmer. His face flushed even redder. "Sure, I confronted them with it. Of course they lied and denied they were at the Little Big Horn. Claimed these things were brought to camp by some other warriors."
"How do you know they weren't telling the truth?"
Even though he had turned his back to me, I could almost feel the withering look he gave Wilder. "We'll deal with you later, mister. You'll live to regret the day you ever crossed swords with me," he said grimly as he stalked away.
"By the way, George, what was the final count on the dead children?" Wilder called after him in his most familiar, insolent tone. Zimmer pretended he didn't even hear.
Chapter Twenty
I got my hands on some of the dried pony meat and corn and, when no one was around, brought some to the guard and to Wilder. Then I secured some more for myself and the two Jenkinses. Dried Indian pony and corn was sure a lot easier on the palate than cavalry horse. It actually had a certain resemblance to dried beef.
"We've got to help Curt get away, if that's what he wants to do," Wiley said, while we sat together on the ground, gorging ourselves on the Indians' food. "We can't leave him in this mess."
"Well, like he said, his best chance would be on an Indian pony. And we've got to get one for him. All our horses are done in. And none of the soldiers would stand a chance of overtaking him on one of ours," I answered.
"Hey, what about one of those five or six horses from the 7th Cavalry?" Wiley said. "They're probably fresh. And they would be bigger and stronger and more used to a saddle and bit."
"It's going to be tough enough getting him a mount, much less a saddle. It's not that far to the Hills. He can ride bareback. Those ponies have a lot of endurance."
"You're probably right. If we get caught stealing army property, it would go tough on us."
"Huh! Not half as tough as it will if we're caught helping a prisoner escape. Were you serious about wanting to go with him?"
"What about you, Cathy?" I turned to her. She had been eating quietly and thoughtfully.
"If Curt and Wiley go, I'm going, even if I have to just walk out of camp on my own and meet them somewhere later."
"Why don't all four of us go?" Wiley suggested, his eyes lighting up. "If we're caught, what can they do to us? We're civilians."
The idea of going myself hadn't really occurred to me, but I turned the idea over in my mind. The more I thought about it, the more it appealed to me: The three of us might be able to help Wilder without endangering ourselves. General Buck might report the incident to my paper, but unless I was caught in the act of helping a prisoner escape, I could claim I thought the campaign was over and chose this time to leave without telling anyone. If it weren't for collecting my summer's wages, I might not even go back to my paper. It seemed incredibly dull by comparison to frontier life. There were newspapers springing up in the West that probably needed good, experienced men.
"Okay, I'll go."
"Good!" Wiley said, slapping his hands together.
"But we'll have to wait until later today or tonight to see what develops. There'll have to be a lot of commotion or darkness or both to cover our move. And we don't want to ride out of the clutches of the army into a nest of Sioux and get ourselves killed. Wiley, you're good with animals. Why don't you get some rope or leather straps and fix up some sort of hackamores or bridles—four of them. I don't think these ponies will take to bits. And we don't have time to persuade them. The Crow use snaffle bits, but I don't know about the Sioux. We’ll have to watch our chance later to steal the ponies. Shouldn't be too difficult if they don't tether them. There are at least two hundred in that herd. We may need a pack horse. If we can manage it, we should take one of the mules. Either of you got any personal belongings you mind leaving behind?"
They shook their heads.
Shortly after eleven A.M. General Buck arrived with the column. If he was informed immediately about Captain Wilder's arrest, he gave no indication of it. With him, it was always first things first, and he ordered several companies of infantry and dismounted cavalry to surround the gully and flush out the barricaded Indians who had caused most of our casualties. They began blazing away until the cracking of rifle fire became almost a continuous roar, echoing from the surrounding hills. The squaws in the rocks became terrified and began singing their awful death chant. Then the babies began wailing and the combination could be heard even above the gunfire.
General Buck called for a cease-fire and then, through Grouard as interpreter, offered to allow the women and children to come out. The offer was accepted and the general personally went to the mouth of the rocky gorge, rain dripping from his dirty white hat and beard, and took the hand of the first squaw out. She was a tall, fine-featured woman who had a papoose strapped to her back. She was trembling all over and grabbed the general's hand in both of hers and refused to let go for fear of being tortured or killed.
In all, eleven women and six children were taken out, but the braves refused to come out and began firing again. The battle raged for almost two hours. Finally, General Buck called for another cease-fire and again asked the braves to surrender. He told them, through Grouard, that they would not be harmed further.
"No quarter!" yelled one man a few yards down the line. The general shot him a look that would have shattered marble, and the soldier clamped his mouth shut. A minute or two later, a big, broad-chested Indian showed himself and held out his rifle, stock first, to General Buck.
"It's Chief American Horse!" I heard one of the troopers exclaim.
He had been shot in the abdomen, and his intestines protruded through the hole. But he stoically walked forward, without help, holding himself together with both hands, in spite of the pain he must have been experiencing. Blood seeped between his fingers. Two surviving braves followed him out, and the three of them walked to a small camp fire about twenty yards away and sat down among some of their own people.
Surgeon Donnelly came forward mid signaled to American Horse that he wanted to examine his wound. He needed only a cursory examination to see that it was mortal. He looked over at the general and shook his head, but proceeded to wind a clean, white bandage around the chief's midsection.
General Buck ordered all the dead and wounded taken from the gully. There were three squaws and one baby, and one scarred brave covered with Indian je
welry. One old squaw had been riddled with bullets, the second had the top of her head blown completely off, and the third had only a single small hole in her left breast and appeared to be merely asleep. The Indians, soldiers, and scouts all crowded around to view the bodies, showing various emotions, ranging from hate to disgust. But the Indians, strangely, showed no emotion at all. The largest tepee, belonging to Chief American Horse, was turned into a hospital tent, and the surgeon, Dr. Donnelly and his orderlies began work on wounded troopers and Indians.
Major Zimmer had Wilder confined in one of the tepees under guard of a different soldier. I saw General Buck go in to see him and stay about twenty minutes. I attempted to get in to see Curt, but was turned away by the sentry, who said he was under orders not to allow anyone else to visit.
Several more of the starving cavalry horses too far gone to recover, had to be shot.
Wiley unobtrusively made away with their bridles and reins, detached the bits, and fashioned four bridles he thought the Indian ponies would tolerate.
About mid-afternoon Crazy Horse hit us.
It was during a burial service for two of the soldiers killed that morning. The sharp crack of Winchester repeaters from the western bluffs was the first indication that he and his band were anywhere around. The burial was quickly abandoned as bullets came whizzing around us. What looked like several hundred Sioux on horseback could be seen circling among the trees and rocks on tops of the rugged bluffs on three sides of the valley.