Wolf Mountain Moon Page 7

  Big Leggings had turned against his mother’s people and agreed to help lead the Bear Coat on Sitting Bull’s trail.

  “The half-breed says he has not turned against you, Uncle,” declared White Bull, his arm still aching from the bullet wound suffered at Cedar Creek. “Big Leggings tells the agency Indians that he is only helping the Bear Coat so he can talk you into surrendering.”

  “Why should he want me to surrender?”

  White Bull scoffed, “Because Big Leggings thinks it is a good thing for our people.”

  He stared at the fire a long, long time, watching blue flames lick along the dry cottonwood limbs.

  Finally the Bull spoke. “Sometimes I am not always right.”

  “What is not right now?”

  “People,” he replied morosely. “I get fooled by people.”

  “The wasicu?”

  With a sad, mirthless grin, Sitting Bull shook his head. “No—I always expect the worst from a white man, always expect that he will not tell me the truth … and I have never been disappointed.”

  White Bull leaned closer, asking, “If not the wasicu—then who have you been fooled by? The agency Indians?”

  “No. By the half-breeds. The ones who have their Lakota blood fighting their wasicu blood. Men like the Grabber.”

  Leaning back, White Bull nodded. “You saved his life that snowy day long ago.”

  “I thought I did right, even when he ran away from the Hunkpapa and made a home among the Crazy Horse people.”

  White Bull nodded. “His wasicu blood is evil: he brought the Three Stars down on Old Bear’s Shahiyela last winter—and he stays with Three Stars’s soldiers all through the summer.”

  “Yes, I saw him with the soldiers at the Narrow Buttes,”* Sitting Bull admitted. “And now … another half-breed I trusted has turned his back on me.”

  White Bull took his good arm to draw a thumb across his throat. “You could have killed both of them.”

  “Yes,” Sitting Bull replied, his eyes lit with a cold fire. “One day I may still have the chance to do just that.”

  So it was that while part of the Bear Coat’s army marched west and the others marched south by west up the valley of Big Dry Creek chasing nothing more than a planted rumor, Sitting Bull turned about and led his hundred-plus lodges all the farther to the east, on past the soldier stockade at Wolf Point, still farther downriver to the mouth of the Redwater, which flowed into the Minisose† from the south. In those frosty days at the heart of the winter moon they ascended the high tableland to the forks of the Redwater—far from the soldiers, where his people could hunt, make meat for the coming cold, scrape the hides for the many lodges needed by those who had lost all at the Cedar Creek fight. For the time being Sitting Bull had more than 250 of his people crammed into no more than three lodges and some ninety-two shelter tents they had scraped together since the glory days of the previous summer.

  As the weather began to warm again, the thick ice in the Minisose began to soften and crack, then finally started to splinter, breaking apart into chunks larger than a council lodge. This is good, the Bull thought. If the soldiers cannot recross on the ice, they will be stranded on the north side of the Minisose. It was the first favorable sign to happen to his people in a long, long time.

  Hadn’t he warned them after the great victory at the Greasy Grass? Warned them not to touch the soldier spoils? But like children, his people had not listened to the words of the Great Mystery. So for some moons now they were being scattered and driven across the prairie before the winds. First they had been harried east to the Narrow Buttes, where the soldiers had found one of the villages and killed American Horse.

  Then they had fled north to the valley of the Elk River*—where the Bear Coat had found them, decided to fight instead of talk, and the wasicu impoverished the Lakota once again.

  Now the army was marching for another winter. And Sitting Bull was sure the Bear Coat would keep on marching after his people until he had taken them across the Medicine Line† into the Land of the Grandmother.#

  There was little choice but to run.

  Wakan Tanka had warned them there would be a terrible price to pay for disobeying.

  Now there could be no doubt that Wakan Tanka had turned His face from His people.

  Given his orders by Miles at Fort Peck before the colonel had departed with the lion’s share of the regiment, Luther S. Kelly and three others—Jim Woods, Billy Cross, and the old mountain man John Johnston—headed down the south bank of the river to search for any Sioux villages that might be in the neighborhood, coming in off the trail to join up with Sitting Bull. After all, the Hunkpapa were reportedly fleeing west, away from the army.

  As soon as Miles had locked up his agreement with the half-breed named Bruguier, Kelly and the rest recrossed the softening ice on the frozen Missouri on the nineteenth and started east to look for Sioux. A day later Captain Simon Snyder started up the Big Dry with his four-company battalion.

  The fat gray clouds that rolled in on the nineteenth began dropping snow before dawn on the twentieth. Accumulating rapidly, it soon obliterated any hope of finding old trails leading in to the Fort Peck country. On they slogged for more than fifty miles following the twists and turns of the Missouri until they reached a point opposite the old trapping post of Wolf Point. It was there Kelly’s men smelled a faint hint of smoke on the cold wind, searched cautiously for the cause. Down among the trees along the south bank they discovered a cottonwood stump still smoldering, the snow melted away for some distance all around. There were enough foot-and hoof-prints, as well as cooking fires to account for as many as four lodges of Sioux. Where they had gone in the last day or so, Kelly’s scouts had no way of knowing.

  The snow had done well to cover the Indians’ trail but was tapering off now to nothing more than a few random flakes. Frustrated, Kelly turned to gaze across the river. Firelight glowed red-orange against the low-hanging cloud bellies—a sure sign there was life within the Wolf Point stockade.

  “Jim, you and the rest make us a fire. I’ll see who’s to home and be back shortly,” Kelly said as he stuffed an ice-caked buffalo-hide moccasin back into the stirrup and raised himself to his saddle.

  With the temperatures moderating over the last few days, the river’s ice was beginning to soften enough that it proved to be some tricky business making that crossing any time of the day—much less here at sunset. Luther urged his mount onto the ice, whereupon the animal immediately fought the bit, struggling against its rider.

  After those first few steps it was clear to Kelly that the top layer of the ice had thawed during the warmth of the afternoon, leaving behind huge puddles of water and slushy ice scum that extended all the way to the far shore. Better to go afoot, Kelly figured—to be out of the saddle if the horse took its own head, or the ice splintered below them. Freeing his lariat from the saddle, Luther tied a crude hackamore around the mount’s head and muzzle, then set out for the north bank on foot, tugging on the lead rope.

  Man and horse waded cautiously through the water and slush, picking their way through the deepening twilight. Every place he found the ice beneath his moccasins too spongy, Kelly turned back and made a slow, looping detour until he was once again walking on something a little more solid. It was growing dark by the time they reached the north bank and finally stood on firm footing among the bare, frost-coated branches of cottonwood and willow.

  From the pair of white traders operating inside the crude stockade Kelly got some coffee and learned that three families had crossed the river that morning, scampering to the north because of word the army was marching along the south bank of the Missouri. It was black as the pits of hell by the time Kelly again stood on the bank, attempting to measure his chances of making it back across in the dark. A lot harder, he thought, to see the thin patches of soft ice without any moonlight to speak of. But, on the other hand, the ice might thaw all the more by morning—making a crossing even more difficult.

&
nbsp; In the end the scout convinced himself that the cold nighttime temperatures would harden the spongy ice and improve his odds come first light. Besides, he decided as he turned back to the stockade, it would be good to share the evening with the two new faces, their Assiniboine wives and half-breed children, to hear new stories and to talk over the problems with the Sioux.

  “I’m one glad sonuvabitch the army’s finally getting around to taking care of those red bastards,” grumbled the older of the pair, pushing some long greasy hair out of his eyes as he turned to spit into a crude corner fireplace.

  “’Bout time too,” the other agreed with a nod. He was busy removing a thick crust of dirt and animal fat from beneath his fingernails. “Mebbeso them redbellies’ll stop bothering the good Injuns and turn out for some good once the government can make ’em into farmers.”

  The following morning one of the trader’s sons led Kelly down to the bank to show him where the three Sioux families had crossed to reach the north side, although the recent snow had blotted out any sign of just where they had ended up going from there.

  Staring at the river, disgusted to find that the water and slush were even deeper than they had been at sundown the day before, Kelly asked the boy, “How you figure the ice?”

  Without speaking a word the youth touched fingertips to his lips and shook his head.

  “Don’t speak no English, eh?” Then Kelly looped the hackamore back over the horse’s head, which freed both his hands to sign his question this time.

  Watching the scout’s hands carefully, the boy grinned and nodded, then pointed at the ice. “Suta. Suta”

  “Suta, is it?”

  “Suta.”

  “I don’t have me no idea what suta means, lad,” Luther muttered. “Assiniboine, ain’cha?”

  But as quickly the youth signed that he was volunteering to lead Kelly across the softening ice.

  “No,” and Luther emphatically wagged his head. “I can’t let you do that. Better for me to go out there and take care of myself—don’t care to be responsible for no one else.”

  He turned the boy slightly and pointed up the bank to the stockade. “Now, go. Go on back to your folks.”

  Letting the horse have a good lead on its rope, Kelly stepped down into the several inches of icy slush that washed past his ankles. The ice had indeed softened, but the water was clear, and he now had enough morning light to see down through the water and scum to the ice itself, detouring here and there around a thin patch. By the time he neared the south bank, the others were stomping out their fire, having saddled their horses when they saw Kelly returning.

  He glanced up at the sky and nodded to the trio as he brought the skittish horse to a halt. “Weather looks to fair up today. Let’s see how much ground we can cover to catch up to that Captain Snyder’s bunch.”

  “How long you figger to sit here watching ’em?” William Jackson asked his brother, Robert.

  “As long as there’s a good show.”

  William settled beside his brother on the side of the bluff and laid his army rifle across his legs. Together the scouts watched the struggles of the soldiers on the riverbank below. “Think they’ll ever get us all across?”

  Robert shrugged. “Maybe by spring.”

  The two Blackfoot half-breeds born and raised in the far Upper Missouri region had been watching the officers and soldiers with growing amusement and sometimes consternation over the last two days. Twice each day the pair went out to scout in this direction or that, looking for sign of the Lakota camps, to read the wind for smoke, the ground for travois trails, and to see if they could sight anything of Captain Snyder’s battalion coming in from the south, or Bennett’s outfit returning from Carroll City to the northwest.

  But much of the time they sat and watched the growling, grumbling, frustrated army officers struggling to fight the Missouri—a river cold enough to kill a man in mere seconds, but not yet frozen solid again to attempt a crossing with laden wagons. Why, it was turning out to be some of the best entertainment they’d had in a long time: witnessing Soldier Chief Miles argue with his lieutenant named Baldwin.

  Then, on Monday morning, the twenty-seventh, following Sunday’s disastrous attempts at crossing the river, Baldwin’s men finally did accomplish the improbable and managed somehow to string their line of ropes completely across the river to the south bank.

  Now Miles gave the order to the rest of his officers. “Prepare your companies! We’re going across!”

  The big raft that had stranded Miles and Baldwin for most of Sunday was manned with the first dozen courageous soldiers. They pushed off, to the buoyant cheers of the rest. Every man on the raft pulled their craft into the Missouri’s current, hand over hand on that inch-thick lifeline connecting them to both banks. Away from the bank, as the river grew all the stronger and the ice floes became all the larger—that rope might as well have been a strand of spider’s silk.

  The dozen were no more than a third of the way across the Missouri, steadying themselves, straining to keep control of the unwieldy raft against the chunks of ice colliding with their craft, when an unusually large piece bobbed to the surface upstream, spun around slowly, and began making its way for them. While the men on the raft grunted their exertion, those on shore cheered their efforts to pull themselves out of the way in time.

  Then the ice struck with a terrible clatter, spinning itself and the raft around, to strike the raft on the opposite side before it started to creep and screech its way upon the raft as the soldiers scrambled, hanging on to the rope with their cold, frozen hands, shoving frantically at the block of ice with their feet.

  To William Jackson the whole scene was comical in a way—to watch those soldiers fighting to keep that huge block of ice off the raft, struggling against the current that sought to shove it atop their raft. Comical indeed, had it not been that the lives of those twelve men could well be in forfeit at any moment.

  Then, suddenly, the long raft gave a shuddering twist, its end dipping into the river as three of the men were left swinging helplessly from the rope, their legs dangling in air; the huge chunk of ice the size of a freight wagon groaned against the timbers, sliding off the raft.

  As quickly the raft righted itself; the men on board lunged this way and that, slipping and falling in their struggles to bring it back under the shore-to-shore rope while others lunged out with their arms to grab hold of their comrades dangling from the line. Upstream more ice appeared, and the warnings were given from most every throat on shore. Then Baldwin himself was in the river up to his knees at the north bank, waving for all he could, signaling the raftsmen to turn about and return before lives were lost.

  The dozen need no special urging. They pulled and groaned, struggling to haul themselves back to the north bank, where cheers erupted. But in the midst of the celebration Miles immediately went to Baldwin’s shoulder, giving suggestions about how he would accomplish the crossing if it were up to him, offering advice on making changes in the raft’s design, becoming the sort of nuisance that made William and Robert chuckle as they continued to watch the comic opera for the rest of that afternoon.

  In the end no further attempts were made to reach the south bank that Monday, but by twilight Miles turned away from Baldwin in frustration and ended up the day by calling together his own crew to begin construction on a raft of his own design.

  At dawn on Tuesday the men continued their raft building as more snow began to fall. The surgeon reported that the thermometer had dipped to three below through the night, but the heavy layer of snow clouds helped the air rise above freezing by late afternoon.

  Near midmorning the impatient colonel sent one of his staff with Robert Jackson and instructions to ride up the snowy road toward Carroll City to make contact with Captain Bennett’s command. Later, despite the rising river and the increasing danger of large ice floes, Miles launched his raft. After a supreme test of muscle, might, and courage, the soldiers reached the south bank and deposited fou
r of their number with orders to scout up Squaw Creek for sign of the hostiles.

  On the twenty-ninth the combined efforts of Miles and Baldwin succeeded in getting no more than two loads of soldiers across the river with their rations and ammunition. After all that time and all that effort, fewer than fifty men built their fires, boiled their coffee, and prepared for the long winter night on the south side of the Missouri.

  That evening beneath a cold, frigid sky twinkling with a million points of light, a courier arrived with word from Lieutenant Russell H. Day, garrisoned at Fort Peck with a contingent of messengers from the Sixth Infantry. From the way the general stomped and fumed there around his roaring fire, it was clear to William that the news was not good.

  “Damn it all!” Miles bellowed to his officers and those gathered within hearing. “Appears that Sitting Bull’s pulled a fast one on us!”

  “Is he south of the river, where Snyder can get to him?” Baldwin inquired.

  “No. This report says the Hunkpapa never moved west at all!” Miles fairly shrieked in fury and dismay. “The Yanktonais told Lieutenant Day that the Sitting Bull camp is some thirty miles below Fort Peck.”

  “Downriver?” asked Second Lieutenant Charles E. Hargous.

  “Damn right. Somewhere on the Redwater. About halfway between Peck and Buford!”

  First Lieutenant George W. Baird stated, “Then that means Snyder won’t get a chance at them either.”

  “Exactly,” Miles fumed, crumpling the foolscap message in his hand. “There’s reports that Sitting Bull’s at least a hundred seventy lodges strong now, expecting to hunt buffalo between the Missouri and the Yellowstone all winter. But what’s worse than Sitting Bull pulling a fast one on us is that the Fort Peck Indians say the Hunkpapa village is moving south from our country toward the Powder.”

  “That’s where they say Crazy Horse is wintering!” Baldwin cried.

  “Exactly, Lieutenant. And if those two ever get together again, we’ll have hell to pay,” the colonel growled, flinging the crumpled dispatch into the fire. “Even if they don’t rejoin … the fact that Sitting Bull is moving south, perhaps seeking to cross the Yellowstone, can bode no good for the Fifth.”