Trumpet on the Land: The Aftermath of Custer's Massacre, 1876

Chapter 17

12-16 July 1876

The Utes—Crook

CHEYENNE, July 14—Negotiations have been making for some time through Captain Nickerson, of General Crook’s staff, with the Utes, who are all enemies of the Sioux on account of oft-repeated attacks on them, to secure their co-operation in the present movement against northern hostile Sioux …

Gen. Merritt’s Fifth cavalry arrived at Fort Laramie to-day, and will move north via Fetterman to join Crook, from whom no additional news had been received, although no fears are entertained of the safety of his command.

Custer’s late action has had the effect to take courage out of couriers, and none can be had to make the trip.

Sitting Bull Killed

CHICAGO, July 14—The Tribune has a special from Fort Lincoln, given further details of the Little Horn fight, and says that Sitting Bull was killed and also a white man named Mulligan, Sitting Bull’s chief adviser … It is thought that Sitting Bull’s band obtained nearly $20,000, the soldiers having just been paid.

John Finerty wasn’t going to talk Quartermaster John V. Furey out of a new pair of shoes, much less boots. When the newsman went back to Furey’s wagon camp in the morning to beg even a used pair out of supply, the answer was still no.

Dejected, he clomped back to the bivouac he was sharing with the three other reporters, staring down morosely at the upturned toes on his brogans most all the way. What worked well in the city did not work well out here. But then, back in Chicago a man did not willingly walk mile after endless mile through deep and icy snow as he was forced to do on the Powder River campaign back in March; nor did a Chicagoan repeatedly dunk his shoes in bone-chilling mountain streams and allow them to dry right on his feet—something guaranteed to make the toes curl up on the finest Irish footwear cobbled in that windy city by Lake Erie.

Flies buzzed and droned from sunup to sundown, and this morning of 12 July was no different from all the others endured in Camp Cloud Peak in the weeks since Crook’s fight on the Rosebud. Except for the Sibley scout, it was BOREDOM in a boldface banner headline.

“So you’ve had your fill of scouting for a while, eh?” Baptiste Pourier had asked Finerty earlier that morning.

“Just stay away from me, Bat!”

The half-breed had chuckled. “When I come over here to ask you to go out with me and Frank—I figured you’d tell me you had lots of stories to write for your paper back east. Stories about the time you almost lost your hair with Lieutenant Sibley!”

John had whirled on the scout, growling, “Told you to stay away from me!”

“Easy, Johnny,” Seamus Donegan had cooed. “He’s just trying to pull your leg.”

“So you’re going out to scout again, Seamus?” Finerty had asked his fellow Irishman.

“Sure am. Like Bat told you, the three of us’re going to show Washakie and some of his warriors where we got ambushed in the mountains. Last night, soon as Grouard told him about our fight, Washakie wanted us to take him to the place where we killed White Antelope. Sure you don’t wanna come along?”

“No, thank you,” Finerty had grumbled. “I’ve got some dispatches to catch up on.”

He’d take a little more boredom before he grappled against a wilderness crawling with scalp-hungry hostiles.

Besides bacon, beans, and biscuits, boredom was a commodity in plentiful supply. For literate men like Finerty, the lack of reading matter weighed particularly heavy. Except for two small libraries of paperback books a pair of officers had hauled north in their saddlebags, there was only the dog-eared, grease-stained, three-week-old newspapers that came up from Fetterman with the supply wagons to make the rounds of camp, then make the rounds again and again until the papers fell apart with so much handling. Come night the flies and other winged pests disappeared, but the wolves, coyotes, and now the Shoshone auxiliaries all raised their primal voices to the stars and the moon. Even an inveterate gambler like Finerty found the idea of a game of poker or keno too odious for words.

That Wednesday morning Crook was having his troops prepare to break camp again just as they had been doing every few days, this time for a move to a new streamlet less than two miles to the north. Here the men would try the fishing in some new creekside pools and the horses would luxuriate in new pastures. This periodic changing of camp also accomplished another object lost on most of those soldiers whose task it was to make the moves. While the sergeants did allow the men brief liberty to swim, fish, or hunt, there was no time off that would allow real boredom to set in.

Every other day the tents were struck, to be pitched in a new camp a few miles away. Horses were constantly herded from one patch of grass to another, picketed and hobbled against brazen raids by the enemy. Wagons had to be loaded up for every move, then unloaded when the new site was reached. New sinks near the creeks had to be dug for the mess cooks, and new latrines were a must for an army the size of the Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition. On those days when camp was not to be moved, the cavalry troops exercised their horses at a walk, trot, and gallop, which kept each man in constant contact with his animal.

This steady rotation of fatigue details made Finerty come to believe that the greenest recruit who had marched north from Fort Fetterman with Crook in May couldn’t help but be a hard-muscled, savvy campaign veteran by the end of the summer.

Like the nightly visits of the Sioux come to try running off some of the horses or Tom Moore’s cantankerous mules, as well as the warriors’ daily attempts to set fire to the grass surrounding the white man’s camp, every afternoon saw a thunderstorm roll across the valley with enough fidelity a man could set his watch. Before the onslaught of today’s downpour, Finerty figured to enjoy this sunny morning by getting in a little fishing, making only a halfhearted effort and using some of the abundant grasshoppers for bait—more an excuse to doze in the shade of rustling cottonwoods than to catch anything. He was nearly asleep when he heard the first voices of those fishing across the narrow creek.

He sat up at the excitement in their voices, shoving his floppy slouch hat back on his head, blinking his eyes, shading them to peer into the distance where many of the other fishermen were pointing off to the north. Already his heart pounded with the memories of his narrow escape from the Sioux, swallowing hard—afraid they were under attack. With the smoky haze clinging to this high country after the hostiles’ last attempt to burn the soldiers out, John couldn’t be sure—but it appeared to be only three of them. Likely only scouts for a larger war party.

Quickly glancing over his shoulder, he reassured himself that he wasn’t so far from camp that he couldn’t make it back on foot, even in those damned worn-out brogans. Headed his way loped Captain Anson Mills, trailed by a hastily assembled squad of troopers from his M Company following him out of camp.

Looking again to the north, he saw the trio of riders ease off the top of that nearby hill, urging their mounts down toward the stream where Finerty stood with other fishermen.

A growing chorus of voices behind him told the newsman that the camp had indeed been alerted. Perhaps it was only some of the men who had gone to the site of the Sibley ambush early that morning with Washakie and his warriors. But as the breeze nudged aside some of the gray haze, Finerty saw that the trio rode army horses, not the smaller Indian ponies. Of the riders two wore dusty blue tunics while the third sported a greasy gingham shirt. Kepis rested on all three heads.

“Them’s soldiers!” someone shouted as Mills and his men rattled and jingled past, prodding their horses down into the creek and splashing up the far side without slowing.

“Soldiers?” Finerty said, realizing the trio was just that as he tossed aside his handmade willow fishing pole and stood staring at the water. “Shit. Not again,” he grumbled, then lumbered down into cold water, soaking his old shoes one more time.

Wet to the knees, John slogged up the north bank and trotted after Mills and his detail, reaching them about the time the captain halted his M Company and awaited the approach of the trail-ragged trio.

When they halted, all three horsemen saluted wearily. It was a moment before one of the trio licked his lips and asked, “Captain?”

“Mills—M Troop, Third Cavalry.”

“This is General Crook’s camp?”

“It is,” Mills replied. “Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“Benjamin F. Stewart, sir. Private, E Company. Seventh U.S. Infantry.”

“Good Lord,” Mills murmured almost under his breath. “Are you attached to General Terry’s Dakota column?”

One of the others nodded and said, “James Bell, E Company, Captain Mills. Yes, sir. We come from General Terry’s camp on the Yellowstone.”

“Mouth of the Rosebud, sir,” the third gushed. “William Evans, I’m with E Company too.”

“The three of you … rode down from the Yellowstone?”

“Yes, sir,” Stewart answered. “We have dispatches from Terry. We’d appreciate you taking us to see General Crook.”

Lieutenant Charles King was one of the first to be electrified by the news from Captain Thaddeus Stanton that reached Colonel Wesley Merritt by courier just past noon, the fifteenth of July.

Camp Robinson

Saturday July 15 1876

General

A considerable number of Sioux Warriors left here for north this morning. The Cheyennes are also going … The Indians think you are still at Sage Creek & along there, and count on getting by you easily … The agent here is thoroughly stampeded by the threatening bearing of the Indians since the Custer fight … Thinks there are not troops enough to protect the agency in case of trouble.

I will wait here until I hear from you. Send a small escort when you wish me to join you …

Stanton

General Merritt

P.S. 12. m. It seems now that the Cheyennes left last night—all except a few old men & women. So you will have to hurry up if you catch any of them. About 100 Indians, wounded in Crook’s fight, are reported to be distributed among their friends here … Indians leaving here will doubtless scatter in any direction in small parties, to get by you. Let me know where & when to join you.

Stanton

The Cheyennes have disposed mostly of their lodgepoles, and take their families on ponies.

“The Cheyenne are breaking!”

Through their bivouac now the word spread like wildfire through the Fifth Cavalry: the colonel had decided to postpone their march north to reinforce Crook for the week it would take to countermarch and catch the escaping Cheyenne in a trap. Surely his superiors would understand that such an action must take precedence over Sheridan’s orders to join the Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition.

Two things were clear from Stanton’s dispatch: the agency Cheyenne still believed the Fifth was off to the northwest, blocking the route they must travel to reach Sitting Bull’s confederation; in addition, the Cheyenne appeared fully confident in their ability to elude the pony soldiers.

Much shorter but every bit as urgent was Major Jordan’s own dispatch to Merritt:

I have the honor to report that I have just received reliable information that about 800 Northern Cheyenne / men women and children / containing about 150 fighting men, and a good many Sioux all belonging to Red Cloud Agency are to leave here tomorrow for the north … it is my belief that a good many Indians have been leaving since the receipt of the news of the disaster of Lieutenant Colonel Custer.

“Now we’ll slam the door shut on them,” King vowed.

“We better,” said Lieutenant Colonel Eugene Carr. “If we don’t get there in time, those Cheyenne will join with the hostile Sioux who already wiped out half the Seventh. And once together, no telling what trouble the united tribes could cause. Why, I can imagine how easily they would roll right over the settlements in the Black Hills.”

Carr had reason to be concerned. Only a few weeks had passed since Sheridan had appointed him the commander of a new “Black Hills district” carved out of Crook’s Department of the Platte.

“Deadwood, Custer City … all the rest,” King agreed, imagining what slaughter there would be should the warrior bands strike the far-flung settlements and small pockets of miners and prospectors.

According to Major William H. Jordan, commander at Camp Robinson, at least eight hundred Cheyenne were moving north to join Sitting Bull’s hostiles. But this would be something different: this time the regiment was not chasing the Indians; now their task was instead to cut across the warriors’ trail. Here they were no more than a day’s ride from Fort Laramie at that moment, so it would take what Merritt called a “lightning march” if there was to be any hope for the Fifth turning on its heels to be far to the northeast when the Cheyenne showed up.

“To get there,” King said with exasperation as he looked at the old map Carr had spread across the scarred top of his field desk, “these eight companies will have to remain undiscovered while we march across three sides of a square, riding like the wind itself.”

“Yes,” Carr agreed, dragging his fingertip across the paper, “while the enemy traverses the fourth side.”

“And,” King said, looking into the eyes of that veteran campaigner, “when this weary outfit finally gets there— we’ll still have to be ready to fight the very devil.”

Within an hour of receiving the dispatches from Stanton and Jordan, trumpeters blew “Boots and Saddles” over that camp at Rawhide Creek. In a matter of minutes the regiment was on the march. Merritt had waited long enough. And though they realized they might well be outnumbered at least two to one, his men had nonetheless been itching for this moment.

The Fifth would again prove its mettle.

Merritt was leaving a small guard of the Ninth Infantry to escort his wagon train under the command of the regiment’s own Lieutenant William P. Hall, with orders to come on at all possible speed, even to catching up after the rest of the troops had gone into bivouac after dark. At the same time that the column of fours set out for the west, to fool any lurking scouts into believing that they were merely heading for Fort Fetterman country and not backtracking for the Niobrara, the colonel dispatched a courier racing toward Camp Robinson with orders recalling Stanton, and yet another horseman sent galloping south to Laramie to inform Sheridan of Merritt’s intentions and reasons for disobeying his commander’s orders.

Into the shimmering heat of that afternoon the troopers pushed their animals. The Cheyenne would have no more than a short twenty-eight-mile journey to the northwest to reach the crossing come Monday morning. On the other hand, after a trip of thirty-five miles with what they had left for light that day, the Fifth would still have to endure a forced march of more than fifty miles on Sunday to be there before their quarry had flown.

Fourteen miles later a short halt was called at Rawhide Creek. While the men watered their horses by companies, some of the soldiers waiting their turn filled their bellies with the hardtack they had stuffed into their haversacks from Hall’s wagons. In half an hour they were back in the saddle, this time riding north by west. When the sun keeled over toward the far mountains at five P.M., Bill Cody turned their noses square north for the Niobrara, reaching the river by sunset.

Finally at ten P.M. the order was given to halt, picket the horses, and go into bivouac for what they had left of that night’s darkness. They unsaddled under the tall, naked buttes at the mouth of the Running Water near the Cardinal’s Chair. They had completed their grueling thirty-five-mile march as planned.

After Carr assigned Captain Edward M. Hayes of G Troop to post pickets around the herd and establish a running guard through the night, the rest of Merritt’s command lay upon the cold ground and huddled under their blankets. Come morning those four hundred troopers realized they still faced the daunting prospect of putting in a march of more than fifty miles. If in the next few hours their horses could just get enough of the skimpy buffalo grass to eat …

“The Fifth’s done it before,” Eugene Carr reminded the veterans at officers’ call that night. “You men who were with us in sixty-nine when we tracked down the Cheyenne that time can tell the new boys. This has always been the sort of outfit that can do the impossible. We’ve always put in longer marches than any other outfit—and popped up where the enemy didn’t expect. And now, men—we’re going to do it again. By damn, we’re going to do it again!”

Just as King was drifting off to sleep at midnight, Lieutenant Hall rolled in with his train, traces jangling like sleighs, mules snorting with the smell of water in their nostrils, and an entire company of infantrymen bellowing in hunger, rubbing sore rumps as they clambered down from the wagons. The young lieutenant laid his head back down on his arm, filled with a renewed and respectful awe at what those men of Hall’s had just accomplished: the way they had kept those vital and cumbersome supply wagons moving across that broken, rugged ground, no more than two hours behind the cavalry.

It wouldn’t be the last of William P. Hall’s surprises.

Beneath the stars at three o’clock that Sunday morning the men were rousted from their blankets by sergeants growling commands up and down the rows of sleeping troopers. The men awoke to find breakfast waiting for them—although there would be nothing fancier than bacon and bread to wash down with their coffee. What they got was served in the chill predawn darkness with only a few minutes to spare for a man to relieve himself before he had to throw a saddle on the back of his weary horse and slip a bit into a set of reluctant jaws after the animals were fed their own good breakfast of oats from a nose bag, compliments of Hall’s supply wagons.

By five o’clock the men were pressing their knees against horses’ ribs, following Merritt upon his high-strutting gray, bidding farewell to the valley of the Niobrara, marching north. By midmorning they had crossed the rugged divide between the waters of the Niobrara and the Cheyenne, turning hard on to the east where an hour later, at 10:15 A.M., the head of the column once more hoved into sight of the palisaded walls of the Sage Creek stockade. Lieutenant Taylor of the Twenty-third Infantry and half his H Company came to stand at arms, welcoming back the cavalry. But the Fifth was to enjoy less than an hour out of the saddle while horses were watered and the troopers wolfed down rations from their haversacks.

About the time Hall rumbled in with his train, Carr was already preparing his men to move out. After every company replenished its ammunition supply from the freight wagons—each man ordered to carry every last cartridge he could in his thimble belt and belt kit, as well as filling every spare pocket—the troopers mounted up with three days’ rations in their haversacks and marched away east by northeast as Merritt conferred with Hall. They decided to leave the lieutenant’s large supply wagons behind at the stockade. After watering the thirsty stock only the smaller company wagons rolled away from Sage Creek, emptied and stripped bare of everything. Within the gunwales of those bumpy, hard-ribbed wagons Merritt crammed two companies of infantry, belonging to the Twenty-third and the Ninth.

By noon Carr slowed the column’s pace to four and a half miles per hour along that stretch of the Black Hills Road. Less chance of raising a telltale cloud of dust over the summer prairie that would betray the regiment’s approach. At two-thirty the lieutenant colonel again called for a halt beside a dry creekbed. No watering the horses this time. From there they followed Cody and White due east, leaving the well-traveled road for the trackless prairie.

At five P.M. Merritt ordered a halt for watering their trail-weary stock, then pushed on into the lengthening shadows. More torturous miles across the treeless, rolling heave of undulating grassland. Far off to the south stood the tall, austere, striated Pine Ridge that sheltered the reservation from all but the most brutal of cold winter winds. Almost as far away to their left lay the dark, rumpled corduroy of the Black Hills.

Hours later at sundown King spotted a distant line of meandering green, far ahead on the pale prairieland. Cottonwood, willow, and alder, and another of those rare water courses that crisscrossed this arid country. Minutes later Cody and Buffalo Chips loped back to the head of the column, their long hair caught in the wind as they tore their hats from their heads and waved them for all to see.

“Trail’s in sight!” Buffalo Bill shouted, bringing the big buckskin around in a tight circle; a cascade of dust sent in a rooster tail made a rosy gold in the sun’s dying light.

Merritt stood in his stirrups, gazing into the distance like an old cavalryman. “Any hostiles in sight?”

“Not a goddamned one,” Buffalo Chips White replied.

Instantly nettled, Carr demanded, “We haven’t missed them, have we? Are we too late?”

Cody wagged his head. “Trail’s old. Nothing new’s come this way.”

Carr and Merritt gazed at one another, their lips thin lines of determination, but their eyes twinkling with intense expectation, glittering with the satisfaction of an impossible task well-done.

Down to the timber the Fifth rode, the end clearly in sight. By nine o’clock and the coming of dark, the troopers had unsaddled and made camp close beneath the bluffs. Here the narrow creek swept around in nearly a complete circle, forming the high ridge that would protect the regiment’s cooking fires the men buried deep in pits from discovery.

In thirty-one hours this group of weary animals and trail-hardened men had covered more than eighty-five miles.

“I couldn’t be any prouder of you,” Merritt told his subordinates that night during officers’ call.

“We’re in their front,” Carr reminded the men. “The enemy will be here in the morning.”

“And we’ll be ready for them,” Merritt vowed.

“General, sir?” King asked.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Do we know the name of this little creek?”

Merritt turned to his scouts with a gesture.

Cody stepped forward, loosening the colorful silk tie knotted around his neck. “It’s a tributary of the South Cheyenne, Lieutenant.”

King pursued his answer, saying, “Do we have a name for it—for the record, I mean?”

With a nod Cody replied, “Only what the Indians call

it.”

“What is that, Mr. Cody?” he pressed. “What do the Indians call this creek?”

“Lieutenant King,” the famous scout answered in that hush surrounding them all, “it’s called the Warbonnet.”