Chapter 21

I entered the scout tent hoping to get a report that the gathering Indian tribes were keeping to their side of the river in accordance with the treaties we had already broken more times than I could possibly keep track of.

It was easy to tell right away that things were not all sunshine and roses from the expressions on their faces. I noticed right away that there were a couple of strange almost-naked savages sitting in the corner in the darkest part of the tent. I knew right away they were pure-blood Sioux and they were showing signs of not being fed for a few days. I guess the boys were giving them a free meal of our Army hash and beans and they were still suffering the indigestion which tended to come with it as an after effect.

“Anything of interest, Sergeant?”

I addressed the chief scout, a wise old Piute from up north that was fully comfortable in Indian Territory or in a white man’s government fort ready to follow a trail no matter how faint into the danger of hostile country.

He looked up at me with an air of resignation in his demeanor and I recognized the sign of a man pushed to the outer limit of his capacity for patience.

“Not good, sir, we got sign in every direction. These warriors were starving in the foothills. The tribes have gathered and they are down to eating their horses because the buffalo are all dead. Hope you don’t mind us sharing our rations with them. They are not interested in shooting white men and only want to get some supplies together to head back north.”

I looked over at the men in the shadows. They kept their heads down and I didn’t blame them in the least little bit. It was like they sensed the debacle soon to follow and they didn’t want to be held accountable for any payback coming their way. I would have done the same thing in their position and staged a full retreat to a safer place away from the chaos of the coming conflict.

The fort was the center of chaos as rumors of the Indian uprising spread faster than manure on humid afternoon.

The new recruits were running around like a bunch of ants stirred up by a herd of horses. I corralled most of my men and we moved outside to a shady space in the tree-line before they could get infected with the bug of worry that always hit the lower-ranked men before a big battle. I set them to cleaning their weapons and checking the ammo for anything that might cause them to misfire. I knew that anytime they were busy with common sense projects the less concern they would have about getting their hair lifted by some rage-addled savage.

I went back inside and checked the level of preparedness in the higher ranks and discovered most of the field grade officers seemed content to just sit back and let “General” Custer do all the planning and set the field of battle. He seemed to have only one mission and that was to force a “meeting engagement” as soon as possible and not allow them to escape for another day. I knew this was his overwhelming weakness and it stretched all the way back to his Civil War days when he threw all caution to the wind and exposed his men to the violence of superior odds. His unorthodox style of tactics managed to win him some beneficial praise from his superior officers who looked good because of his uncommon good luck.

The back corners of the fort were jammed with the wagons and campfires of almost two hundred settlers and farmers seeking shelter from the merciless attacks of the hostile hordes from the north. I roamed amongst them checking the climate of their concern about the deepening crisis. At least, they were safe inside the walls guarded by a contingent of armed cavalry troopers itching to use their trigger fingers at any sign of trouble. There was no doubt that the primary danger was out on the open plain surrounded by the war parties of the gathered tribes seeking to “count coup” and humiliate the hated blue-coats with their Yellow-hair leader.

I recognized one extended family called the Younger family and I accepted the offer of a cup of hot coffee from the old lady called “Granny” Younger. She looked about eighty, but with the harshness of the frontier life, she might only be about sixty and still in her prime. Her granddaughter Annie was looking at me with frightened eyes and I knew she remembered her girlfriend Wanda left broken and blank-eyed on the dirty bank of the river after a raid by a random hunting party stopped long enough to burn out a family of settlers and teach their long-haired women a lesson. The leader didn’t allow them to lift any hair for fear it would cause a vicious pursuit and their horses were already exhausted from the unproductive hunt in what used to be their favorite hunting grounds. Poor Wanda and her younger sister Rebecca had the misfortune of choosing that day to bathe in the cold waters of the fast-flowing river leaving their clothing on the bank stacked neatly in piles with their bonnets right on top. The warriors clowned around with the women’s clothes waving them on the end of their lances and even pretending to put them on and making simpering movements like a frightened woman protecting her dignity. After that, they got down to business and took the two girls in turn like prizes won in some contest. They devoured them and plundered their innocence with laughter and derision because they had none of the skills of the well-practiced squaws back in their home village. I saw the girl Wanda sitting on a stump behind Annie. She was silent and just as blank-faced as the first time I saw her right after the incident with the hunting party. My scouts and I trailed the Indians until they crossed the low mountain range that signaled the border between two countries. I wanted to keep on going, but my men refused to budge and I knew it was a proper attitude on their part because my brain was much too clouded with passion to avenge the damaged girls.

I smiled at Wanda, but the poor thing just looked right through me with her thousand mile look and I knew she was not really seeing me or anything else around her in her private world of compartmentalized disinterest.