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

Chapter 27

10 August 1876

Later from Crazy Horse

CHEYENNE, July 29—Previous reports via the Missouri River agencies are in part confirmed by news received at Fort Laramie from Red Cloud today. Runners have arrived at that agency, said to have come from Crazy Horse’s band of Menneconjous, and stating that that chief, with a portion of his band, had left Sitting Bull’s domain and are en route to the agencies avowedly to treat for peace. The turning over of the agencies at Red Cloud and Spotted Tail has not been without difficulty. While a majority of the Indians are disposed to submit gracefully there is quite a number who express dissatisfaction at having soldiers placed over them, and a final council is being held at Red Cloud today.

Some dissatisfaction is felt by the Indians at the meager supply of food, which consists entirely of corn, flour and beef. They insist on sugar, coffee, and tobacco, in fulfillment of stipulations, and further attributing the departure from the agencies of those who have joined the hostiles to this fact rather than a desire for war.

If Crook had put Eugene Carr in charge of this column with himself as scout, brooded an unhappy Bill Cody, why—they’d likely be about the business of catching the fleeing Sioux by now. But, he considered with a sigh, even though he and the Fifth’s lieutenant colonel shared the same mind in that respect, and even though Crook had him assigned as chief of scouts, no one had thought to ask Cody for anything more than the most minimal advice.

Thank God for the sun that had warmed the air by midmorning.

On either side of Cody the valley began to widen, the scorched hills rolling away toward the striated bluffs that rose like yellow-and-red walls on the east and west. Far to the north, perhaps as much as ten miles or more, Bill spotted the wisps of a distant dust column. He would keep his eye on it as he probed far ahead of the marching infantry, Merritt’s cavalry bringing up the rear behind them. Keep his eyes moving across the slopes of the timbered hills dotted with pine and juniper and stunted cedar. Once again the breeze came in company with the dawn that morning to clear the air of the ash and smoke. How good it was to breathe this elixir of the high plains.

Just before beginning their march earlier that morning, Carr himself had commented, “The grandest country in the world for Indian and buffalo now. Two years hence it will be the grandest place for cattle.”

After covering some twelve miles since leaving last night’s bivouac, Cody began to feel suspicious about that column of dust rising from the northern horizon. After loping the buckskin back so that he could quietly report his discovery to the general, Crook ordered him ahead to determine what the expedition’s column might be facing.

Atop the next rise Bill halted, pulled out his field glasses, and trained them on the distance. Sure enough, whatever moved beneath that thick cloud of dust and ash was slowly covering ground. He waited a few minutes, watching the cloud, unable to see anything but the dust column for the intervening hills.

Hearing the yips and hammer of hoofbeats behind him, Bill turned to find some oncoming Shoshone. They too had spotted the strangers in the distance and come racing forward. Behind them charged the handful of Crow. Farther back more of the Shoshone, the Bannock, and a dozen or more of the Ute. On either side of Cody they came to a halt and fell silent. For a long, eerie moment, they regarded that cloud now rising no more than six miles in the distance. Then with a sudden, concerted explosion, the entire group yelped and savagely wrenched their ponies about-face, kicking moccasins into the animals’ flanks and sprinting back toward the head of the column. There Bill figured the allies would hurriedly make their medicine: painting, taking covers off shields, checking weapons, and singing their medicine as they prepared to ride into battle.

As he again brought the field glasses to his eyes, Cody made a little sense out of the distant, antlike figures, figuring them to be feathered and fringed horsemen charging about. Behind them came many, many more—some moving left, others speeding to the right, those in the center circling up, all clearly in preparation for battle. But as those feathered horsemen out in front were joined by units forming up row by row by row, it gradually dawned on Cody that they might in fact be Terry’s command.

For several more minutes he continued to watch in that warmth of the morning’s sun, studying the middistance through his field glasses until at last he saw the wheeled caissons of the Gatlings and the Rodmans brought up to center, their gun crews deployed in readiness. On the rise and fall of the gusty wind Bill caught faint snatches of blaring bugles about the time he saw far to the rear of the artillery those dirty canvas bows of white-topped wagons hurrying into a defensive corral.

“I’ll be go to hell right here!” he exclaimed. Then turned with a start as the hammer of hooves interrupted his muses.

Coming up strong behind him were at least three dozen of the allies, by this time fully painted and decked in their finest battle array. In a clatter of noise and billowing cloud of ash, they skidded to a halt around the renowned Buffalo Bill.

“Not the Sioux,” he announced with an impish smile on his face.

But when they returned only quizzical looks of total disbelief, he realized none of them understood. Stuffing the field glasses back into a saddlebag, Bill put his hands to work with sign talk for the allies.

“Not Sioux. Soldiers. Walk-a-heaps. Pony soldiers. Their scouts—Sparrowhawk and Corn Indian scouts.”

For a moment they seemed dubious of his assertion. Then suddenly one of the Shoshone laughed and nodded, saying something to the others as his hands signed.

“Good joke the white soldiers do on us! This good joke for us to make war on soldiers—and not on Lakota!”

When the rest of them all had their laugh, cheering behind them at new arrivals reaching the scene, Cody told them, “You stay. I go. I go talk to their soldier chief.”

“We come with you,” signed the big Shoshone.

“No,” and Bill shook his head too. “The soldier scouts think we are Lakota. I want no shooting.”

The Snake grinned hugely and bobbed his head. “Yes—they think we are Lakota. We think they are Lakota, and we ready to fight. Good joke the white man do on us!”

Leaving the allied scouts on the crest of that hill, Cody put spurs to the big buckskin and loped north toward the distant figures. As he drew nearer, he clearly made out the Indian trackers riding back and forth, back and forth in the vanguard, giving their little ponies their second wind. Immediately behind them he saw the guidons snapping on the sharp breeze. Company by company, ten in all.

Second Cavalry to the right. Those would be Brisbin’s men. And covering most of the ground on the left, brought front into line for battle, were the remnants of Reno’s Seventh.

How they must be smarting, Bill brooded as he closed on a mile of the distant horsemen. They were butchered, they lost half of their officer corps—and when they saw us, they figured they were finally going to get their revenge. How disappointed they must be seeing me instead of Crazy Horse making for their Unes. All those men mauled by the Lakota—chomping at the bit to get in their licks.

Three quarters of a mile out he saw the wide front of cavalry bring their carbines forward on the black leather slings. Fragments of distant orders bawled over the cavalry units floated his way on the warming winds. In throbbing cadence with the buckskin loping beneath him, Bill rose in the stirrups, tore the wide-brimmed, cream-colored hat from his curls, and began to wave it at the end of his arm like a semaphore.

In a matter of heartbeats a half-dozen riders broke away from the cavalry front and headed in his direction under a single headquarters flag. Bill slapped the hat back on his head and put the spurs to the buckskin. The horse leaped away, racing into a ground-dizzying gallop. In moments he reined up, raising dust and ash, as the officer in the lead signaled a halt.

“Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?” Cody asked, looking over the men for any familiar face.

“Captain Thomas B. Weir, Seventh U.S. Cavalry,” the dark-eyed man replied with a snap. “Just who the hell are you?”

Bill swept the hat from his head once more and made a graceful showman’s bow of it. “William F. Cody, Captain. At your service. I bring General Crook’s compliments.”

“Buffalo Bill Cody?” asked the standard-bearer in a gush.

Weir silenced the soldier with an obsidian glare and immediately demanded, “What are you doing out here?” “Guiding Crook’s column, Captain.”

Weir attempted to peer over Cody’s shoulder. “General Crook? That’s his column coming along behind you?”

“So it was the Wyoming column raising the dust yonder,” a second officer said. He nudged his horse forward and held out his hand. “Lieutenant Edward S. Godfrey. Seventh Cavalry.”

“Thank you for your courtesy, Lieutenant,” Cody said as he shook the offered hand. “Sorry to hear how the Sioux butchered your regiment on the Little Bighorn.”

“We’ll have our revenge,” Godfrey swore.

“Only a matter of time, ain’t it?” Bill sat back in the saddle. “Looks like you fellas were ready for battle.”

“Our scouts reported seeing what they took to be the enemy south of us—marching our way,” Weir explained.

With a grin Bill replied, “And we saw what we first took to be the Sioux north of us, heading straight for our line of march. So that leaves one big question unanswered, fellas: just where in bloody hell did the Sioux go?”

Troops Coming Forward

NEW YORK, July 29—Three hundred soldiers for the Sioux country will leave tomorrow morning.

WASHINGTON, July 29—One hundred and twentyone recruits are to be forwarded to regiments in Dakota and Colorado, and 44 to General Terry’s command.

The Secretary of War has sent to the House a dispatch of General Sheridan, recommending the increase of companies of Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, and Seventh Cavalry to one hundred men each, as was done for two regiments on the Rio Grande.

Gen. Sheridan estimates that the number required to fill the regiments of cavalry on the frontier and in Texas to the maximum of 100 men to each company will raise 2,500 men, at the expense of ․1,534,800. Gen. Sherman prefers the regular enlistments to volunteers.

“General—Terry’s got wagons enough to move at least a corps,” Cody growled as he eased out of the saddle near Crook’s waiting command.

“What do you mean?” John Bourke asked, watching the showman and scout wag his head.

“Were they really gonna try to catch the Sioux hauling around lumber like that?”

Cody put into words a lot of the sentiment felt among the Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition when the two columns finally joined there in the valley of the Rosebud where the Indian trail turned sharply to the east at the mouth of Greenleaf Creek. The enemy had squirted out between the jaws of Sheridan’s nutcracker. The Sioux and Cheyenne were running free.

Angry to discover that his prey had escaped, perhaps even more nettled that he had been captured by General Alfred Terry, Crook ordered his command into bivouac and sat down to await Terry’s arrival. Bourke agreed—let Terry come to Crook.

“This command is now too large,” the general grumbled as he sat in the shade to wait. “We won’t find any Indians while a force like this sticks together.”

Within the hour a headquarters contingent from the Dakota and Montana command rode into camp under their guidons and regimental banners. Crook’s personal cook, Private Phillips, gathered up what eating utensils he could beg off the officers and, upon a strip of canvas spread upon the ground, served Terry’s staff a lunch of the best Crook could offer—hard bread and salt pork—as the two field commanders talked of what they must now do. That evening Terry returned the favor and played host, spreading before Crook’s staff a banquet feast, complete with a variety of meats as well as canned vegetables.

When the frank discussions began in earnest after supper, Terry pointedly asked, “General, why didn’t you in form me that you were changing your plan of action, going to sit out a wait for reinforcements?”

To which Crook replied by asking his own question, “General—how have you remained totally unaware that the hostiles have all fled, and into your department to boot?”

“Listen, George,” Terry said, his eyes softening, “I want to make it clear right from the start that I’m not going to pull rank here as the senior officer.”

“Agreed,” Crook replied with a sigh. “We have bigger fish to fry than deciding who commands what.”

With their points made in the first moments of that tense conference, the two then got down to determining how best to give chase. While both steadfastly refused to accept that they were weeks behind the hostiles, Terry and Crook knew only one thing for certain: the enemy had turned east and was heading either northeast for the Yellowstone or would continue straight for the valley of the Little Missouri.

But in the event that Sitting Bull’s people were in the process of heading north … Terry called in Colonel Nelson A. Miles.

“I’m detaching you, Colonel,” the general told the commander of the Fifth Infantry. “Take your companies on our backtrail in escort with our wagon train and return to the Rosebud depot. There you are to load your men aboard the Far West and establish outposts at every possible crossing of the Yellowstone between the mouth of the Rosebud and the mouth of the Tongue.”

Wearing a look of great satisfaction, Miles asked, “On the north bank of the river, General?”

“Yes. You will also establish a depot at the mouth of the Powder so that our two columns can draw upon those supplies of rations and ammunition when needed as we march east.”

“When may I depart, General?”

“As soon as your men and the wagons are ready, Miles.”

Terry then turned to Crook. “Before the colonel de parts, I will restore your column to a full fifteen days’ rations. I’ll be stripping my command down to light marching order as you have your command, General.”

“I’m to understand that you’re firm in your decision that we should unite in our pursuit?” Crook questioned.

“Yes,” Terry answered.

“But don’t you see—as commander of the Department of the Platte, my concern is following Crazy Horse and the southern Sioux who range over hunting grounds south of the Yellowstone. My fear is that now, with the bands moving off to the east, they’re about to threaten the settlements in the Black Hills.”

“And as commander of the Department of Dakota,” said Terry, “I’m primarily concerned with Sitting Bull’s bands of northern hostiles who usually range north of the Yellowstone, in fact all the way into Canada. My gravest worry is that the Sioux will cross the river, for at that point they have an open field all the way to the border. I won’t be able to pursue them once they’ve crossed into Canada.”

Bourke could read the despair creeping into Crook’s eyes, the undercurrent of self-directed anger he must harbor for stumbling into the other column: now he would have to assume a subordinate role. For a man used to wielding the power of field command, for a fighting man suddenly to have to answer to a desk-wielding bureaucrat—this had to be about the toughest thing George Crook had ever swallowed in his army career.

Crook pursed his lips as his eyes narrowed, staring at the stained and dog-eared maps that lay on the field desk between the two generals. As distasteful as the admission was, he finally said, “Alfred—you are in command.”

Throughout their long discussions that evening, John Bourke continued to draw decided conclusions from his observations of both column commanders. While Terry was attired in a handsome uniform befitting his rank, complete with shoulder boards and straps, Crook looked more the part of an old frontiersman or campaigner in rough canvas clothing. Among all of Crook’s staff, there wasn’t a complete uniform to be found. In fact, in some of the cavalry companies that had been campaigning since spring, it had become next to impossible to tell the officers from the enlisted.

Late that evening after tattoo, Bourke went on to write in his journal:

General Terry’s manners are most charming and affable; he had the look of a scholar as well as a soldier … He won his way to our hearts by his unaffectedness and affability. He is the antithesis of Crook in his manner. Crook is simple and unaffected also, but is reticent and taciturn to the extreme of sadness, brusk to the point of severity. Of the two, Terry would be the more pleasing companion, Crook the stauncher friend. In Terry’s face I thought I detected faint traces of indecision and weakness; but in Crook’s countenance there is not the slightest trace of anything but stubbornness, stolidity, rugged resolution, and bulldog tenacity.

Events would not be long in proving Bourke entirely correct in his assessment of his commander.

It wasn’t just the dissimilarity between the two commanders, though. From the moment they encamped next to one another, the differences between the two columns were about as plain as the noses on a two-headed calf: Crook’s men shambled about in shabby uniforms, dusty and faded, their slouch hats all but shapeless on their heads, while Terry’s men and animals looked better fed from their wagon train, the enlisted more rested from having spent their nights under canvas. In fact, most of the men out of Montana and Dakota looked as if they were preparing to drill on the parade of some post back east. With the possible exception of the Seventh Cavalry— Reno’s men looking haggard and disgusted as well as just plain trail worn—the northern jaw of Sheridan’s pincers appeared to be a well-outfitted army recently arrived in the field.

On the other hand, the Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition had all the makings of little more than a ragtag band of motley brigands, horse thieves, and highwaymen.

So it didn’t surprise Bourke that the men raised no cheers when the two commands met. What was there, after all, to celebrate when you saw just how good the other fellows had it? Nonetheless, the allied scouts attached to both columns raised enough of a howl for all. Shoshone, Crow, Bannock, Ute, and Arikara united in both backslapping and the white man’s customary shaking of hands all around as they shouted out their excited greetings right in the midst of the indifferent soldiers.

Bourke couldn’t help but be envious of the luxury enjoyed by Terry’s men. Reno even spread out a Brussels carpet on the floor in his tent, and one of Terry’s staff had a rocking chair in his—now, that was the way to campaign! In turn Terry’s officers clearly were appalled at the Spartan conditions suffered by the Wyoming column, for each night the Dakota column slept in large wall tents complete with portable beds and even sheet-iron stoves to ward off the cold. Hospital tents served as dining rooms for the officers.

Crook’s command slept under the stars, wrapped only in their saddle blankets, and had a solitary tin cup and a sharpened stick to broil their bacon come suppertime.

Even Bill Cody was quick to see the real difference between the two commands. Later that evening the chief of scouts walked up to Bourke’s fire beside Seamus Donegan and declared, “Fellas, between them two generals, it’s clear to me who’s the real Indian fighter out here in Sioux country.”

“Damn right, Johnny,” the Irishman added. “It’s plain to see who means business.”

“I think you’ve both just discovered that our column has something that runs even deeper than all the tents and crisp uniforms and fancy carpets could provide,” Bourke agreed. “Something I don’t think Terry’s men share: an esprit de corps.”

Donegan nodded. “In the weeks to come, when this outfit runs out of hard bread and bacon, when we run low on ammunition and our horses become nothing but boneracks … that feeling of esprit de corps, that camaraderie between fighting men, will be what separates the men from the boys. It will be the only thing that keeps some men going when others fall down on their faces and want to die right where they lay.”