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

Chapter 31

25-26 August 1876

Courier Headed Off

OMAHA, August 10—The courier sent to Red Cloud agency from Fort Laramie, Monday last, returned there last night, and says that when near Running creek he was met by six Indians, who shot at him and wounded his horse. He hid among the sand hills and escaped.

What General Sheridan Says

WASHINGTON, August 11—Following is General Sheridan’s letter to General Sherman, transmitted by the president to congress to-day, with his message, asking for more cavalry or volunteers:

CHICAGO, August 5, 1876—General W. T. Sherman:—I have not yet been able to reinforce the garrisons at Red Cloud, at Spotted Tail or at Standing Rock, strong enough to count the Indians or to arrest and disarm those coming in. I beg you to see the military committee of the house and urge on it the necessity of increasing the cavalry regiments to one hundred men to each company. Gen. Crook’s total strength is 1,774 and Terry’s 1,873, and to give this force to them I have stripped every post from the line of Manitoba to Texas. We want more mounted men. We have not exceeded the law in enlisted Indian scouts; in fact we have not as many as the law allows, as the whole number in this division is only 114. The Indians with Gen. Crook are not enlisted or even paid. They are not worth paying. They are with him only to gratify their desire for a fight and their thirst of revenge on the Sioux.

P. H. SHERIDAN, Lieut-Gen.

In the forenoon of 25 August the Carroll put off from the north bank of the Yellowstone River where the captain, crew, and passengers had spent an uneventful night, though they took the precaution of keeping armed pickets on shore to alert the steamer should hostiles put in an appearance.

This second day of their trip downriver Bill Cody found himself even more anxious to return to his loved ones, perhaps even more so than any of the others onboard—the sick and disabled, as well as the correspondents who were fleeing back to hearth and home. If to others it seemed he had chosen to rake in his chips and call it a night, so be it. Bill wanted to be as far east as possible, as fast as possible—with not a single reminder of what he might be leaving behind out here in the wilderness he loved with all his heart.

Throughout yesterday’s leg of the journey Cody had paced the upper deck until the reporters cornered him in the afternoon to seek his opinion on every facet of the summer campaign. Just so he wouldn’t have to tell them what he really thought of the army’s hunt for the hostiles, Bill hid the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. Not until this morning had he ventured out from the crew’s tiny bunk room, to settle on a bench in the pilot’s wheelhouse as the Carroll sped on down the Yellowstone for Fort Buford, on to Fort Lincoln and beyond—taking him into the rest of his life.

“Smoke,” called the pilot, pointing, then hit the stained outer lip of a brass cuspidor with a flying gob of tobacco juice.

Bill stood, peering downriver, out past the tall capstans, where he saw black columns smudging the sky. “A steamer?”

“Yup. Likely looks to be two of ’em.”

Within minutes the captain had ordered his pilot to put in along the north bank just above the mouth of O’Fallon’s Creek, where they watched the progress of the two steamers churning up the Yellowstone. With their shrill, steamy greetings the Josephine and the Yellowstone whistled and put in near the Carroll as the passengers— civilians and soldiers alike—hollered out greetings, lumbering down gangplanks to go swapping stories.

Two days before, the Yellowstone had been fired upon by hostiles some thirty miles below the mouth of Glendive Creek. One soldier was killed. The next morning during their stop at Lieutenant Rice’s Glendive stockade, the passengers aboard the two steamers learned that war parties had been a constant source of nuisance, attempting to run off the herd and destroy the outfit’s supplies. Perhaps because of those reports of enemy activity farther down the river, instead of continuing his journey out of hostile country, the Carroll’s nervous captain chose to put about and follow the other steamers upriver.

Bill had no sooner begun to register his colorful complaint than a familiar voice called out his name.

“Buffalo Bill!”

Turning, Cody found the face of an old friend and business associate. “Texas Jack!”

Jack Omohundro, a longtime friend on the plains as well as Bill’s recent partner in their stage productions back east, raced up the gangplank just as the Carroll’s crew hoisted it out of the way and put off from the bank.

They shook and pounded one another on the shoulder until Bill asked, “Where the hell did you come from?”

“Coming upriver on the Josephine!” Omohundro replied. “After you run off last spring, I figured I could sit on my ass back east, or I could come out here and get some action for myself. Hell—it’s all over the press back there how you took that Cheyenne’s scalp!”

“What’re you going to do here?”

“I’m scouting—for the Fifth Infantry.”

“Nelson Miles?”

“Well, not rightly. Not just yet anyway,” Omohundro equivocated. “As soon as I run onto Miles, I’m sure I can land me a position. I came upriver with Lieutenant Colonel J.N.G. Whistler, who’s bringing with him two more companies of the Fifth Infantry to join Miles and General Terry.”

“Jack?”

Bill and Omohundro both turned to find a slim, weasel-faced officer climbing the ladder to the upper deck. Jack leaned and whispered from the side of his mouth, “That’s Whistler.”

“Jack!” the officer exclaimed. “I was hoping I’d track you down. I can’t find anyone onboard any of the steamers who will act as courier for me.”

Omohundro explained to Cody. “Colonel Whistler here has been begging for a rider to take messages ahead to General Terry.”

“Important?” Cody asked.

“Yes, sir.” Then Whistler peered at the long-haired stranger. “Do I know you?”

Bill took off his hat and performed a little bow from the waist. “William F. Cody, at your service.”

“Colonel Cody?”

“Yes.”

Whistler presented his hand while tearing his hat from his head. “A pleasure to meet a true American hero, sir! Why, the story of you and that war party that had you surrounded at Warbonnet Creek—and how you handily did in their chief … why, it’s an inspiration to us all!”

Cody cleared his throat, nervous at so much effusive praise. “These messages—you say you can’t find anyone to carry them?”

“Why, no, Colonel Cody.”

With a shrug Bill offered, “I will.”

Omohundro immediately turned and seized Cody’s arm. “Are you sure about this, Bill? No reason you should take such a dangerous chance.”

Cody did not even look at Jack, preferring instead to say to the officer, “I have my horse onboard. When can you have the dispatches ready?”

“Why … they’re ready right now. But I must insist that you take advantage of my own horse.”

“Yours?” Cody asked.

“Yes. A blooded thoroughbred. Onboard the Josephine.”

Bill pulled on his gloves and gestured to the door of the wheelhouse. “Splendid! I suggest you present yourself to the pilot and have him put us in at the next clear channel along the south bank.”

The officer bobbed his head happily, replying, “Of … of course!”

Cody watched Whistler turn on his heel and barge right on through the wheelhouse door.

Omohundro asked quietly, “Just where were you going when we bumped into you, Bill?”

“Home, Jack.”

“Christ, Cody—I was coming out here to grab some of the adventure and fun for myself, and here you’re booking it in.”

Bill smiled. “Doesn’t appear I’m done for … not just yet.”

“That’s got to be a dangerous route—right through the country Sitting Bull’s warriors are swarming over. If you already decided to head back home—why would you want to take this chance?”

“Jack,” Cody said quietly, slapping an arm over Omohundro’s shoulder, “if you’re giving me the choice of riding back upriver on a slow-moving steamboat, or forked in the saddle carrying dispatches and having myself an adventure of it … now, just what the hell did you think I was going to choose?”

Those reports of the raids on the Glendive stockade and war parties firing on the steamboats, news that Cody carried to Terry, was exactly the sort of intelligence calculated to arouse the general’s worst fears that Sitting Bull’s minions were indeed preparing to flood across the Yellowstone.

As soon as Cody reached the mouth of the Powder with his dispatches, an anxious Terry decided he must first consult with Crook. Taking Cody as a guide for his small escort of staff and leaving the rest of his command to come on as quickly as they could, the general hurried up the Powder until they ran onto Crook’s miserable camp late on the rainy afternoon of 25 August.

“Excuse me, General Crook,” Cody said as the two commanders were about to duck under a canvas awning to begin their conference. “Could you tell me where I could find one of your civilian scouts—Donegan?”

“The Irishman? Why, last I knew he rode on ahead with Grouard and White to scout the countryside and see how the trails were scattering. Why?”

“Just wanted to say good-bye to him. For a second time. That’s all.”

Unable to talk with Donegan or White, either of his old friends, Cody settled nearby as the two generals had their courteous, if strained, consultation. Now firmly convinced that all recent evidence pointed to the hostiles converging and massing on the Yellowstone prior to making their race for Canada, Terry suggested a twist on Sheridan’s joint maneuver to capture the hostiles between them: his Dakota and Montana columns to work along the north bank of the Yellowstone while Crook’s men would come up from the south—hammering the Sioux against Terry’s anvil

Despite Terry’s enthusiasm, Crook steadfastly refused to believe that the Crazy Horse Sioux would turn toward the Yellowstone, much less cross to the north.

“If they turn in any direction now,” Crook argued, “they’ll go south—right for the settlements I’m sworn to protect.”

In his conference with Terry, Crook learned that sufficient rations and ammunition lay in storage at Fort Abraham Lincoln on the Missouri River, should the trail of the wandering hostiles extend that far to the east. Assured of that northeastern supply line, Crook stated that the following morning he planned to dispatch a courier to Major Furey in command of his wagons on Goose Creek, with orders to proceed by prudent marches for Custer City in the southern Black Hills, where the supply train was to await Crook’s arrival with the rest of the expedition in the weeks to come.

Not once in their discussions, apparently, did Terry confront Crook with the fact that he had up and left without letting his superior know. Never did Terry press his position as senior officer in the campaign, but instead decided to let Crook pursue the trail of the fleeing Sioux they had run across while marching down the Powder a week before.

In all likelihood Terry understood Crook was not about to be moved to pursue a course other than the one he had already selected for himself. While at the Yellowstone Crook had received a telegram from Major Jordan at Camp Robinson that stated eight warriors had come in to surrender at Red Cloud Agency, reporting to the agent that the main body of hostiles was about to turn south.

Not north to the Yellowstone, and on to Canada, where Terry feared Sitting Bull’s people would then be free to raid into the Montana settlements.

Instead—here was proof enough that the Sioux were about to heel south for the Black Hills. Straight for Crook’s own department.

Terry bid Crook farewell and good luck, having decided he would go back to his column’s camp on the Powder that night. On the morning of the twenty-sixth he planned to turn his Montana and Dakota troops around and point them north, back to the Yellowstone—giving George Crook free rein to follow the hostiles’ road.

In the end the two hammered out a compromise of sorts. Terry would keep his men active on the river, as well as moving supplies to the Glendive stockade for Crook’s use, should the fleeing Sioux lead Crook in that direction. Meanwhile, Crook remained free to follow the hostiles’ trail, wherever it might take his Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition.

“Bill, I know this is asking a lot, but I need you to make another ride for me,” Terry said late that evening of the twenty-fifth following his conference with Crook, and long after his command went into bivouac just below Crook’s camp on the muddy banks of the Powder.

Cody settled atop one of the canvas stools under the canvas fly outside Terry’s spacious tent. “Where to now, General?”

“Back to Whistler,” the officer explained as the sky went on drizzling and the wind came up. “Tell him not to let the steamers go downriver. He must retain them all for my use to patrol the Yellowstone. And I want clarification on the reports of Indian activity along the river as well. But probably most important—I want Whistler to take his two companies back to the mouth of the Tongue, where he can commence building huts for the winter.”

Captain Edward W. Smith, Terry’s adjutant, graciously offered, “Mr. Cody, you can have my horse for the return trip down the Yellowstone. Appears you might have used up Colonel Whistler’s thoroughbred in bringing those messages to the general.”

“Why, thank you, Captain,” Cody replied, turning to study Smith’s horse. “Looks like a sturdy animal. Yes—I’ll take you up on that offer.”

It wasn’t until sometime after midnight that Bill made out the dim glow of the lamps on the bow and stern of the three steamboats, each one gently bobbing atop the Yellowstone’s current in the patter of unending drizzle. Finding a suitable place to make a crossing, Bill presented himself to Whistler and handed over Terry’s messages.

The lieutenant colonel read over the dispatches written by Captain Smith, then looked up at the civilian with worry lining his face. “Terry wants clarification that the Sioux are making a show of it along the river? Why, the hostiles have been a damned nuisance ever since you left, and it’s been getting worse. I’m afraid things are about to fall out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

“Seems like I missed all the fun you fellas been having.”

“Cody,” Whistler continued, his brow furrowed in worry, “I’ve got to send information to the general concerning the Indians who have been skirmishing around here all day. All evening long I’ve been trying to induce someone to carry my dispatches to Terry, but no one seems willing to undertake the trip. So I must fall back on you. It is asking a great deal, I know, as you’ve just covered over eighty miles on horseback; but it is a case of extreme necessity. And if you go, Cody—I’ll see that you are well paid for it.”

“Naw. Never mind about the extra pay, Colonel,” Bill said, taking his wet buckskin coat from the back of the chair and shaking more moisture from it. “But get your dispatches ready. I’ll start as soon as I swap my saddle over to my own horse.”

“Won’t you at least have another cup of coffee?” Omohundro suggested, stepping forward to hand his friend the steaming tin.

“All right, I will, Jack. While the colonel here gets his dispatches ready and you go saddle the buckskin.”

Even though he had just come in from a long day’s journey; even though the hostiles had been skirmishing with the soldiers on the steamers from first light until dusk; even though he was about to ride his own favorite horse on that perilous return trip—Bill Cody tucked those letters inside his shirt and dashed down the gangplank to take up the reins from Omohundro and leap once more into the saddle.

As the steamer’s crew was swinging in the gangplank, Omohundro called out from the rail, “You watch your hair, Buffalo Bill!”

“I sure as hell will, Texas Jack—at least until Lulu can run her fingers through it!”

As Cody had left to ride back to Whistler through the badlands in the rain and the darkness of that night before, an anxious Terry wrote Crook an afterthought, seeking to persuade Crook one last time to join him in his concentration of troops along the Yellowstone.

There is one thing which I forgot to say and that is that it appears to me that the band which has gone north, if any have gone there, is the heart and soul of the Indian mutiny. It is the nucleus around which the whole body of disaffected Indians gathers. If it were destroyed, this thing would be over, and it is for that reason that I so strongly feel that even if a larger trail is found leading south, we should make a united effort to settle these particular people.

Crook would not be deterred. He would not be turned. He would have his victory. And he was determined to share it with no one.

Six hours after leaving Whistler on the Josephine, Cody reached the muddy outskirts of Terry’s camp along the Powder, just as the column was about to undertake its march back to the Yellowstone. Bill had just covered over 120 miles in less than twenty-two hours, pushing through some of the roughest country on the high plains, across badlands clearly infested with warriors still bristling and brazen following their victory over Custer’s Seventh.

That dawn Terry cheered, “Never thought I’d see you back here so soon, Mr. Cody!”

“Didn’t really count on it myself, General. Whistler needed a courier—and it appears I was the only one who wanted a breath of fresh air!”