Wolf Mountain Moon: The Battle of the Butte, 1877

Chapter 24

Hoop and Stick Moon 1877

Telegraphic Briefs

DAKOTA

Wild Bill’s Murderer.

YANKTON, January 3.—In the United States Court to-day, John McCall, convicted of the murder of Wild Bill, was sentenced by Chief Justice Sponnon to be hanged March 1. He will carry the case to the supreme court. The only ground of defense is that he was intoxicated, so as to be unconscious of the act.

Wooden Leg watched the soldier column through those first fat flakes of snow as dry as alder leaves became in late autumn. The wind caught them, spun each one in a whorl, then scutted them along the ground. At times there was no sense in trying to shade one’s eyes to peer into the downriver distance. But for a moment, perhaps no more than a heartbeat or two, the wind dance of the snow stopped as if the sky suddenly held its breath … while the young Shahiyela warrior could see clear enough to make out the shapes of the soldier scouts, walk-a-heaps, and wagons plodding out of the first pale light this stormy dawn.

“They won’t give up,” Yellow Weasel said dolefully.

Wooden Leg wanted to turn to the older warrior and tell him just how much of a fool he was for ever thinking the white man would give up.

But instead of angering Yellow Weasel, Wooden Leg swallowed down his youthful impulse and said quietly, “With my own eyes I have seen what the soldiers did to Old Bear’s village on the Powder last winter. Understand that there is something that does not let these ve-ho-e soldiers give up their chase of our villages. No matter the distance. No matter the cold.”

Wooden Leg would know. Born in the Black Hills near the Sacred Mountain, this was his nineteenth winter—having matured in many ways over the last three seasons of fighting the white man. Now a member of the Hemo-eoxeso, the Elk-horn Scrapers warrior society, he cast a long shadow upon the ground: there were only two Ohmeseheso warriors who stood taller than Wooden Leg.

How he would have loved to ask Yellow Weasel why any man could think the ve-ho-e would ever give up following the villages … but instead Wooden Leg bit down on his tongue. Sometimes it was more honorable not to say something than to show the foolishness of another.

“Go on now—vo-ve-he,”^* Sits in the Night ordered Beaver Claws, one of the younger scouts in his pack of wolves. “Ride back to our village to tell Crazy Horse, to tell the chiefs. The soldiers come on this morning!”

They all watched the youngster leap onto the bare back of the spotted pony, then pull his blanket about him. Beaver Claws kicked the animal in the flanks and leaned far forward as it spurted off into the snowstorm. Wooden Leg breathed deep of the sharp air. He hadn’t been able to sleep all that well last night wrapped in his one blanket and buffalo robe, cold as it was. They made themselves no fire, even after the whole long day of rain. Instead, the wolves had huddled in a cottonwood grove through the night as the winds shifted and the rain changed to an icy snow.

As soon as it grew light enough to see the far bank of the river, they moved out—quietly on the soggy, sodden, snow-covered ground. Watching the veil of snow and foggy mist until they saw signs of the ve-ho-e fires, listening until they heard the white men laughing, grunting, talking in their camp before they would continue their pursuit of the village for the day.

The weather this morning would slow the soldiers down even more, Wooden Leg thought. It was good, because the chiefs had calculated that the Bear Coat’s men should be within attacking distance of the village by that very afternoon. But while the ponies and travois could disappear quickly over broken ground, up the mouth of a coulee and into the far reaches of a distant canyon, the ve-ho-e soldiers were invariably held back by their slow animals, by the sheer bulk of those wagons hidden beneath the dirty, oily canvas stretched tight over iron bows.

All the wolves had to do today was stay just out of sight, but right in front of the army in its worming march. Close enough to keep track of the Bear Coat’s progress, but far enough away that they would not be discovered again as they had been a few days before. Those were their orders from Crazy Horse. In fact, Sits in the Night’s wolves were instructed to build the fires in those campsites the soldiers had come across the last two days: let the scouts find the fire pits still warm; leave behind a few old ponies ready to die anyway … all those sorts of enticements that would draw the Bear Coat farther and farther into their trap.

The white man always went for the bait.

Wolf Tooth, another leader of their scouting party, threw up his arm just ahead of them. They all halted. Listening, straining their eyes into the snowy middistance. A thin layer of wispy fog clung to the leafless willow, surrounding the copse of cottonwood. They waited. Then suddenly Wolf Tooth pointed. And Wooden Leg saw.

There, not very far away, came the three, no four … now five horsemen—their animals with their heads bowed, plodding slowly into the fog and surging snowstorm.

“Go back,” Sits in the Night ordered sharply.

The others turned their ponies quickly at the command. But Wooden Leg was the last. He wanted to get himself a little better look. After all, he hadn’t seen such creatures since last winter on the Powder River.

Out of the swirling, wind-whipped gloom they appeared again. Just as they had on the southern edge of Old Bear’s camp that morning only heartbeats before the soldiers had charged in with their pistols drawn.

Army scouts.

“Hotoma!” Wooden Leg whispered into the wind, calling upon the mysterious bravery medicine of a Tse-Tsehese warrior.

Oh, how he yearned for the trap to close!

Wooden Leg hoped that this time the ones who led the soldiers to the villages would be the first to die.

By the time it was light enough to see on that sixth day of January, it was plain there was a prairie snowstorm in the process of working itself into a lather up and down the Tongue River Valley.

Snow whirled in this direction and that—up, down, and sideways on a cutting wind that made it all but impossible to keep the fires lit. Men stood about in their blankets at breakfast fires—grumbling, stomping cold feet back into frozen boots that had never fully dried out, never come close to warming, snowflakes readily clinging to the damp weave of their wool coats or matting on the wet, stringy buffalo hair of their winter overcoats and those heavy leggings lashed to their belts. At least it warmed the blood to curse a man’s officers, his commander, and perhaps even the unseen, taunting enemy who kept on disappearing farther and farther up the valley.

An enemy who was always just out of sight. Just beyond reach. Nothing more than a wisp of smoke—like that smoke needling off the puny fires they had eventually abandoned early that Saturday morning.

From time to time just below the hulking clouds Seamus got himself a glimpse of those distant gray-and-purple-shaded Wolf Mountains once more being dappled in white with the approaching storm. Throughout that morning and into the afternoon the column was again forced to cross the Tongue several times as the sandstone buttes closed in on one side; then a mile or so farther they shoved themselves close to the other bank. Hours were consumed with excruciating physical labor as relays of men were ordered up to join Lieutenant Oscar F. Long’s engineering crew in chopping away at the frozen mud of the banks, to lay down as much deadfall as they could find to corduroy the approach, and to hack away at the creaking, splintering ice before the mule and ox teams were able to trudge through the shallow water of the Tongue with each crossing.

First one, then a second, and finally a third Indian camp they passed through. That dreary afternoon in the midst of the icy snowstorm, the scouts came across some gaunt, wolfish, half-starved Indian ponies the village had evidently abandoned. Nearby in the midst of some lodge rings a half-dozen small fires still smoldered in the driving snow.

Late in the day Donegan halted and stared south into the dance of white against the ever-changing background of leafless bush and striated sandstone butte. He watched the Crow trackers and Buffalo Horn disappear ahead of them in the white smear.

“Luther, there’s a reason they’re letting us get this close.”

Kelly stopped beside him, for a long moment staring into the swirl of snow as he raked the hoarfrost from his mustache. “We’re catching up with ’em, that’s all. And they surely know we’re on their tails.”

Wagging his head, Seamus continued, “The ground … what Crazy Horse has chose to make his stand—it can’t be all that far now—”

The sharp crack of carbines shattered the snowy stillness of the air, answered by a half-dozen yelps, cries, and squeals of surprise.

No more had Donegan and Kelly kicked their mounts into motion and yanked pistols from their holsters than two horsemen appeared in front of them, heading straight for the white scouts. Both the Irishman and Kelly raked back the hammers on the pistols as the two warriors started screaming while they kept on coming.

“Hold it!” Seamus hollered. “It’s Leforge’s boys!”

“Damn if it ain’t,” Kelly growled.

The pair shot past, crying out in their tongue, their long hair flapping out from beneath the wool hoods of the blanket coats.

Kelly shook his head, asking, “Where the hell’s—”

Another shot, this time a pistol … then a second.

“Where’s Buffalo Horn?” Donegan asked.

“Yep.” Kelly smiled.

“That’s one brave Injin got himself in a scrap,” Seamus declared. “C’mon, we can’t let him take ’em on all by himself!”

Jabbing spurs into their mounts, the two civilians shot into the snowstorm as the voices of the retreating Crow trackers disappeared behind them. More pistol shots, followed by what was clearly the ring of a carbine.

“That Bannock’s having himself all the fun!” Kelly roared.

From behind them there came a clatter of hoofbeats. Turning in the saddle suddenly, not sure whether to expect an ambush by a war party of Sioux who had suckered them, or the arrival of the Crow trackers who had somehow worked up their nerve again, Seamus found John Johnston and Johnny Bruguier racing up on their tails about the time all four reached the edge of a small clearing.

There on foot near his skittish pony stood Buffalo Horn, the long reins looped around his left wrist, slowly levering one cartridge after another through his repeater. He whirled in a crouch at the sound of the hoofbeats, ready to fire at the white scouts; then a big smile cracked his dark face. He turned again and snapped off another shot at the ten or more horsemen disappearing into the blinding storm with a clatter of hooves and shouts to one another, taunts flung back at their enemy.

Snatching up his pony, the Bannock leaped onto the animal’s bare back and rolled into motion to join the others as they all set off again at a lope after the Sioux. In less than a mile the ground started to rise. Ahead of them the enemy horsemen reached the brow of the ridge, halted in a spray of snow, and circled in a tight formation.

Just as the white scouts and Buffalo Horn reached the bottom of that slope, the sharp edge of the terrain above them suddenly sprouted more than two dozen warriors. He couldn’t be sure in the snowstorm, but Donegan figured there had to be more than thirty-five or forty Lakota horsemen up there now—all of them pretty much motionless, eerily motionless, for some reason content for the moment to watch the bottom of the bluff, where Kelly hollered out for all of them to halt.

Then Seamus added, “Take cover, dammit!”

Instantly wheeling their mounts in a corkscrew, the civilians shot back some twenty yards into a tiny grove of old Cottonwood. Among all the old deadfall Donegan was sure they could make a stand of it, once the guns started cracking and the bullets flying, until Miles sent a company of foot soldiers on the double time.

But no sooner had the scouts dismounted on the fly, sliding in the snow behind the thick cottonwood trunks that lay rotting across the grove, than the warriors on that snowy ridgetop disappeared into the snowy mist … as if they had never been there.

“You see what I saw?” Kelly asked.

Bruguier nodded. “They’re sneakin’ round on us?”

“We’ll wait,” Donegan said. “Keep your ears open.”

They did wait, but heard nothing more than the snort of their horses, their pawing at the icy ground to find something to eat. Ten minutes, twenty, then after a half hour they finally decided that the Sioux weren’t doubling back on them.

“I don’t get it,” Johnston said. “They wanted to sucker us into their trap with them damned decoys. Why didn’t they just wait a shake more when they’d have us in a corner, then rub us all out?”

“They weren’t out to do anything to us with no decoys,” Donegan claimed as they mounted up and started back to the command.

“They had us dead to rights,” Johnston protested.

“Wasn’t us they was wanting,” Kelly advised.

“That’s right,” Donegan agreed. “Not when Crazy Horse wants the whole damned outfit with one big fight.”

Buffalo Horn nodded his head, but not a word did he say. He didn’t have to; he showed how much he agreed with the big Irishman by suddenly sliding one flat mitten across the other—violently.

“That’s right, Buffalo Horn,” Donegan echoed. “Doesn’t take a smart Injin like you to know Crazy Horse will be patient enough until he can rub us all out.”

Just past four P.M., with the snowstorm still raging, Miles decided to call in his scouts, station his pickets, and go into camp on a relatively flat piece of ground just above Hanging Woman Creek. By sheer refusal to give in, the column had managed to scratch out another fifteen miles that day with the storm wailing at their backs.

As twilight closed around them, the wind came up and began to howl, bringing with it even more snow. By the time it was completely dark just past five P.M., the encampment was being battered with periods of sharp, icy hail, gusting and flying horizontally like the snow it accompanied. The men did what they could to find shelter out of the wind as the thermometer steadily dipped far below zero.

Try as he might, Seamus could not recall any such godforsaken weather in any more godforsaken camp pitched in any more godforsaken a patch of wilderness—wind, sleet, hail, and snow.

What, pray you, Sweet Virgin Mother of God, will you throw at us next?

“That’s all I can feed you tonight,” the corporal apologized. “General’s already got us on half rations.”

“I’ll be fine, sojur,” Seamus said, looking down at the soupy remains of the white beans in the cook’s blackened kettle.

The soldier looked in both directions, then said, “Maybeso I could slip you another spoonful—”

“Nawww,” Donegan interrupted self-consciously as he glanced around the camp. “There’s more of these fellas been slogging through water and ice and mud today—they need them beans lot more’n me.”

Instead of using his spoon this time, he brought the tin cup to his mouth and licked what he could of the bean juice from it, then abruptly handed it to the soldier. “You’ll have some coffee for me when I get back, Cawpril?”

“I will, Mr. Donegan. Count on that!”

“Many’s the time I’ve gone days with nothing but army coffee to eat a hole in me belly—so keep that pot steaming for me.”

“I’ll make sure to hold you some back!”

Seamus snapped a salute of respect to the old soldier with the peppered beard, then turned, slapping the front of his coat with one of his horsehide gauntlets, knocking some of the snow and ice from the thick canvas.

“How many?” Miles was asking as Donegan approached the colonel’s fire.

Leforge asked his Crow trackers again. Then Buffalo Horn agreed in his pidgin English. The squaw man nodded to Seamus as Donegan came to a stop at the fire ringed by Miles’s scouts. “They make it more than a thousand warriors, General.”

“How much more than a thousand?” asked an anxious Frank Baldwin.

Leforge said thoughtfully, “Maybe couple hundred more.”

“Twelve hundred,” Miles repeated. “That many, eh?”

“That’s got to be counting every two-legged critter with a man-sized prick big enough to handle a gun, and them who aren’t too old to stay on his feet!” Kelly snorted.

“These here Crow been following the trail and walking through those damn villages same as the rest of us,” Leforge defended his trackers, taking a step toward Kelly. “You got any better idea, go right ahead and tell the general what answer you wanna give to his question.”

“Well, Kelly?” Miles asked after a moment of hesitation. “Do you think Leforge’s Crow are far wrong on their estimation of just how many warriors we might be facing?”

It took him a moment, but Kelly finally shrugged and said, “I suppose it’s always better for us to be prepared to fight off more than we’ll likely ever encounter.”

“I’ll take a crack at it, General,” Donegan declared suddenly.

The eyes turned to him. Miles said, “All right. How many do you think we’re facing?”

Seamus said, “I don’t figure Crazy Horse has no twelve hundred warriors. But I do figure you’ll be facing at least two-to-one odds.”

Miles turned slightly to acknowledge the appearance of the civilian. “So you agree more with Leforge than you do with Kelly?”

“Not taking sides in anything,” Seamus explained. “Just speaking my mind. But like Luther said: be prepared for the worst of it. Either way, I’m only telling you what the sign tells me. That’s what you hired me for, isn’t it, General?”

“By Jupiter if it isn’t,” Miles replied. He banged his thick mittens together. “I suppose you all know by now that we might have to stretch out our rations some.”

“Half rations already,” Captain Casey added.

“Because this campaign’s running longer than I figured it would at first,” Miles explained, staring into the wind-whipped fire. “I had calculated hitting the village far north of here, exacting our punishment, then being on our way back to base. But it appears the enemy is retreating and we’re playing catch-up.”

“How long can we go, General?” asked Captain Butler.

“I’d like to tell you that we could go on till spring if need be … but that’s not the truth,” Miles admitted. “I’ll be damned if my food shortages will force a premature end to this campaign!”

“The men will understand,” said First Lieutenant Robert McDonald.

And Donegan thought, These poor soldiers have no choice, do they? They never do—because you officers always make that choice for them. If they don’t like the choice you’ve made for them, then they can march on and grumble with the rest, or try to slip off and desert. But who in hell is going to desert in this country? And in a blizzard like this?

Miles suddenly seemed cheered. “I know we can whip them, gentlemen. We can whip Crazy Horse and the rest of his henchmen, even if they’ve got us down three or four to one!”

“Just give the men something to fight on, General,” Donegan reminded. “Something, anything, in their bellies is better than an officer’s empty promises when it comes to fighting these red h’athens.”

^*Run!