Part 14

“At ease,” ordered Captain Yates, to the sergeant of the troop outside. So the remainder of the column might dismount, and stretch legs, and swing arms, and watch curiously the many shrouded Indians. Even this was poky work. Yet something was in the air. Evidently Captain Yates and Lieutenant Tom had a scheme up their sleeves.

Three hours passed—and now on a sudden arose a great commotion. From the store issued quick scuffle of feet, and sharp commands. High swelled angry voices, in guttural Sioux; Indians outside began to run.

“Comp’ny—’ten’_shun_! Mount!” shouted Captain Yates. “Right into line—march! For’r’d—march! Trot—march! Comp’ny—halt!”

In line they had drawn up before the agency door. An Indian within was loudly speaking, as if calling to arms. At least five hundred Indians came running, with their rifles; and out through the doorway was being hustled between two of the soldiers another Indian, arms bound behind him, blanket fallen from his proud, handsome, stolid face. Only his eyes flashed defiance. Two soldiers opened the way; Lieutenant Tom and the fifth soldier followed.

“Rain-in-the-Face!” aside said somebody, in the ranks; and the name traveled right and left. That was Rain-in-the-Face, a prominent Unkpapa warrior, who had been arrested by Lieutenant Tom.

“Advance—carbines!” shouted Captain Yates, above the tumult; and butts of carbines were promptly placed upon thigh, muzzles up. This was a “ready,” for quick action.

The Indian orator was still shrieking and urging; the other Indians were jostling and clamoring, and from all directions the crowd was being increased. It looked bad for the little company of cavalry.

Rain-in-the-Face made no resistance. He was hoisted upon a horse, and ringed by a guard of soldiers, who gave not an inch before the scowls and threats around-about.

Gradually, as through the post interpreter Captain Yates now talked to the Indians, the tumult died. They knew that in a stand-up fight on the spot many of them would be killed; and they knew that Rain-in-the-Face had been arrested for good cause. So presently away they began to rush, to their village, to pow-wow and maybe get reinforcements.

“Fours right—march! Column right—march!” ordered Captain Yates; and with Rain-in-the-Face in the middle, out from the agency moved the compact cavalry column.

When halt was made at the temporary camp just outside, speedily was it known to all why Rain-in-the-Face had been arrested. A couple of weeks before, the Sioux gathered at the agency had a great dance, during which the warriors had recited their biggest deeds. They spoke in Sioux, but Charley Reynolds the scout was sitting near, watching. He understood Sioux. When Rain-in-the-Face had entered the circle, and boasted of his career, suddenly Charley pricked his ears, but gave no sign that he heard; for Rain-in-the-Face was vaunting how, a year and a half before, he had killed two white men.

One was a fat man with no hair; him he had shot from his horse and had finished with the war-club. The other was a younger man, the fat man’s companion, who had taken refuge in a clump of trees. He had signed for peace, and had offered his hat; but he also had been shot, with bullet and arrow. No scalps were taken, because the fat man had been bald and the other man had very short hair.

Then Charley Reynolds knew that he had found one of the murderers of Veterinary Surgeon Honzinger and Sutler Baliran, killed when inoffensive and unarmed, on the Yellowstone expedition of the summer of 1873. Out slipped Charley, as soon as he could, and hastened with the news to General Custer at Fort Lincoln.

General Custer had kept the news quiet, lest the Sioux should be alarmed and send word to Rain-in-the-Face. He was accounted a mighty warrior, for he had made a record by hanging four hours, in a Sun Dance ceremony, by ropes fastened to splints thrust through his chest and back. He had five well-known brothers—Bear’s Face, Red Thunder, Iron Horn, Little Bear, and Shave Head: warriors all. So whatever was to be done must be done cunningly. And so it had been done.

Waiting there in the agency store, until the Indians should give glimpses of their features, when Rain-in-the-Face finally had dropped his blanket a little Lieutenant Tom, with a leap from behind, had clasped him about both arms.

At Fort Lincoln Rain-in-the-Face confessed to the murders. He evidently expected to be hanged at once, for he dressed himself in black. His brother Iron Horn, and other leading Sioux, tried to comfort him, and in council with the general they pleaded for him. But all actions and talk were conducted in a solemn dignified manner, as befitting the great Sioux nation.

While the general waited specific orders from the War Department, Rain-in-the-Face must be confined in the guard-house. Here he stayed for almost four months. He remained ever calm, ever proud, looking at nobody when he was permitted to walk back and forth, chained to another prisoner, for exercise.

Early in the morning of April spread an alarm, from sentry to officers. Through a hole made in the wooden wall by white prisoners Rain-in-the-Face had stolen away. He did not appear at the agency. He was not found in the nearby camps. However, soon, by mouth to mouth, Sioux to Sioux, from Sitting Bull’s band of hostiles far up the Yellowstone River in Montana he sent word. Charley Reynolds himself was authority.

“Rain-in-the-Face says,” reported Charley, “to tell the Long Hair and the Long Hair’s brother that he will cut their hearts out because they put a great warrior in prison.”

XXI

SITTING BULL SAYS: “COME ON!”

This summer of 1875 no regular campaign or expedition was made by the Seventh Cavalry. The few months were spent in drills at Fort Lincoln and Fort Rice, and in short scouts to reconnoitre and for practice. However, there was no telling when the whole regiment might be ordered out in a hurry. The Sioux muttered constantly; and according to Charley Reynolds and other persons who knew, around the posts, they were “going bad.”

Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse were still outside the reservation, in their own country of the Powder River and the Big Horn region; but even Red Cloud and Spotted Tail, who had first signed the treaty of 1868, agreeing to the reservation of Dakota, complained stoutly of unfair treatment.

Red Cloud had claimed that the Sioux were being robbed in their supplies; some of the supplies sent out by the Government never reached them, and other supplies were unfit to use. An investigation proved that Red Cloud had spoken truth.

The Northern Pacific Railroad had stopped at Bismarck, but the surveys on across Dakota had been made, and this also annoyed the Sioux. They had understood that no white man’s road should cross the reservation without their permission. And, of course, there was the Black Hills trouble.

“Well, what do you think, these days, Charley?” invited Odell, as the summer wore on, and only rumors filled the air. “It’s getting late for war, until next year; ain’t it? But I hear there’s a thousand miners in the Black Hills, and they’ve started a town they call Custer City.”

“Lonesome” Charley Reynolds slowly puffed at his pipe, and gazed before with his calm, sombre dark-blue eyes.

“There’d have been war, if there’d been buffalo,” he answered. “But old Red Cloud was smart enough to send out runners, to count the buffalo, and the runners reported mighty few. ’Cording to my notion, taking the plains altogether, north and south, six or eight millions buffalo have been butchered by white market hunters. The buffalo is what the Sioux and the Cheyenne live on. Red Cloud sees that with the buffalo gone the Sioux are beholden to the whites for meat; they can’t carry on a war, long; and that’s why instead of a fight Red Cloud and Spotted Tail are favoring selling the Black Hills to the Government. The whites have the Hills anyway. Those Custer City lots they’re selling are Injun land. ’Tain’t just and right—but it’s white man’s way. As long as we don’t want the land the Injuns can have it; but when we want it, then we find some way of getting it.”

Reports came in of a great council held September 17, at Crow Butte, near the Red Cloud agency on the north line of northwestern Nebraska. Here the United States met the Sioux nation and the Northern Cheyennes and Arapahos, to barter for the Black Hills. Part of the Indians wanted to sell, part did not. They spoke of Pah-sap-pa as their “House of Gold.”

The United States offered them $400,000 a year as long as the white men should want the Hills; and offered to buy for $6,000,000. The Sioux laughed. They asked, some $30,000,000, some $60,000,000; or “support for every Indian, so long as the Sioux should live.”

Said Little Wolf, Cheyenne chief:

“There has been a great deal stolen from those Hills already. If the Great Father gets this rich country from us he ought to pay us well for it. That country is worth more than all the wild beasts and all the tame beasts that the white people have.”

Said Crow Feather, Sioux:

“Even if our Great Father should give a hundred different kinds of live-stock to each Indian house every year, that would not pay for the Black Hills. I was not born and raised here for fun. I hope the Great Father will look and see how many millions of dollars have been stolen from those Black Hills; and when he finds it out, I want him to pay us that. And we will not allow white people to be coming in by many trails. The thieves’ road made by the Long Yellow Hair is enough. That we can watch.”

So the United States did not buy or lease the Black Hills—the Pah-sap-pa of the Sioux and the Cheyennes. Ned heard many arguments, for and against, at the post; but he could not see that the Indians were much in the wrong.

However, the Government considered that it, also, had a grievance. Out there in the Powder River and Big Horn country, off the reservation, were Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. The treaty said that this fine region of northeastern Wyoming and southeastern Montana from the Dakota and Nebraska lines to the Big Horn Mountains was all Indian property, to be Sioux hunting-grounds as long as there was anything to hunt. Here were ranging the free bands of Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse; but the whites of Wyoming and of Montana looked upon these rovers as dangerous, and the Crows, who were trying to live peaceably on their reservation to the west of the hunting-grounds, declared that the hunter Sioux stole their horses.

“When these Sioux change from hunting buffalo to hunting scalps or horses, if they can’t find them one place they will another,” complained the whites—some of whom rather coveted the Powder River country for themselves.

“We might just as well go out and fight like we used to,” complained the Crows, “instead of being good Indians, for we don’t gain anything by it if other Indians are allowed to steal from us.”

It was becoming a popular custom among the Sioux for their young men to slip away from the reservation limits, join the free bands, and have a good time until they decided to come into the agencies for supplies.

All in all, matters between the Sioux nation and the nation of the United States were not satisfactory. Before the middle of December it was known at Fort Lincoln that the Government had ordered Sitting Bull and the other bands to come in upon the reservation before the end of January, or to suffer the consequences.

“Huh!” grunted Odell, as the news reached Fort Lincoln, on its way to the various agencies. “That means war.”

“Yes, and likely a winter campaign, too,” chipped in Sergeant Butler of Ned’s company. “Another Washita for the Seventh!”

“Won’t Sitting Bull or Crazy Horse come in, you think?” queried Ned, anxiously.

“Charley says they won’t,” quoth Sergeant Butler, nodding toward the scout.

Charley was sitting in the barracks room, taking things easy, by the stove.

“No, they won’t,” he asserted, calmly. “Why should they? They’re on their own grounds, guaranteed to them by the Government, where they can live and hunt. What’s more, half the Sioux nation will be joining ’em. I’ve got a heap o’ respect for Sitting Bull. He’s the biggest power in the Sioux nation to-day, though he isn’t a chief.”

“Do you know him, Charley?” asked Ned.

“Yes, I know him. He’s a short, heavy-set Injun, with a broad homely mug, and brown hair and light complexion pock-marked up. Only Injun I ever saw having brown hair. His Sioux name is Ta-tan-kah-yo-tan-kah. He’s an Unkpapa, and his name as a boy was Jumping Badger, until he counted a coup on a Crow carcass and took his father’s name. He’s not a chief, or son of a chief except a subchief, but he’s the smartest Sioux living. The war chiefs don’t think much of him. His specialty is making medicine and guessing at what’ll happen. He’s a good guesser, too. And he sure can read human character.”

“Won’t he fight?”

“Oh, he’s done some fighting, Injun fashion. Up at Buford (Fort Buford) they’ve got an old roster of the Thirty-first Infantry, that belonged to Sitting Bull and that another Injun stole from him. He’d pictured it full of himself and his killings and stealings. So he’s been a warrior; but among the other Injuns he ranks as big medicine and not as a man like Crazy Horse or Gall or Red Cloud; except that he hates the whites and always will, I reckon.”

“Do you know Crazy Horse, too, Charley?”

“Yes, I know Crazy Horse. He’s an Oglala Sioux, but his band are mostly northern Cheyennes. Crazy Horse is a fighter, all right. You can bet on that. Chief Gall is their general, though. Next to him is Crow King. If we have a fight, it will be Gall and Crow King and Crazy Horse doing the planning, and Sitting Bull doing the prophesying, urging ’em on.”

“We can beat them, anyhow.” This was the confident voice of Boston Custer. “Bos” had been appointed forage-master, so now he counted himself a member of the regiment, and was proud of the fact. He liked to mix with the soldiers, sometimes, and be one of them, even if his brother was the commanding officer.

“Maybe so, maybe not,” mused Charley Reynolds, soberly. “That Bad Lands country is a terror to cross. Those Injuns are better armed than the soldiers, too; with Springfields and Winchesters and Remingtons that they’re getting direct from the agencies—along with plenty supplies. When you run up against those Sioux, son, you’ll know you’ve been in a scrimmage.”

The weeks passed. By the first of February the Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse bands had not come in upon the reservation, and evidently they did not intend to come in. One day appeared at Fort Lincoln old Isaiah, a negro interpreter who had married a Sioux wife and lived at the Standing Rock agency.

“Well, Isaiah, where are the rest of your Injuns?” hailed a soldier.

“Who you mean?” demanded Isaiah.

“Sitting Bull.”

“Didn’t you get his word?” retorted Isaiah. “He say to the soldiers: ‘Come on. Needn’t bring any guides. You can find me easy. I won’t run away.’ That is so, because my squaw tell me, an’ she know.”

XXII

OUT AGAINST THE SIOUX

The general and Mrs. Custer had been away all winter up to this time, sight-seeing in New York. Now they returned by a hard trip through a blizzard—and they returned just in time. Orders had been sent out by General Sheridan, commander of the Division of the West, to General Terry, commanding the Department of Dakota, that the Department must bring the disobedient Sioux to task. Of course, the Seventh Cavalry would take the van, and the Long Hair would lead his warriors.

Reports said that the march was to begin at once; that General Sheridan was anxious for another campaign. And it looked that way, with General Custer bustling about at Fort Lincoln, and with supplies and troops (according to talks among the officers) being collected at St. Paul in readiness for the first trains through to Bismarck.

“Aw, just put the Seventh in the field. That’s enough. We can lick the Sioux and make ’em eat at the Government’s table,” was the slogan in Fort Lincoln.

The plans seemed to be that the Department of Dakota was to attack from the east and the west, and the Department of the Platte from the south. Thus it would be pretty hard for the Indians to escape, except by going north into Canada.

The spring was late. The winter kept coming back again, to snow a little more; and after the snows there were many freezes and cold rains. The general would have started out at any time; but General Terry, at St. Paul, was not ready. He would accompany the column from Fort Lincoln, although General Custer was to command in the field.

Meanwhile the general was letting his hair grow long again, after having had it cut short for his stay in the East, and was preparing his command. There were many drills. Everybody was eager to be gone. Some of the officers, like Captain Benteen and Lieutenant Calhoun and Captain (he had been promoted) Tom Custer and Lieutenant Smith and “Queen’s Own” Cook and “Bandbox” Yates had fought Indians before; others like the new major, Major Marcus Reno, and Lieutenant Reily and Lieutenant Sturgis, were rather green at the business; and so it was with the enlisted men.

As for Ned, he had been transferred to Captain Benteen’s company, which was Troop H. Captain Tom now commanded Troop C.

Word went out that the regiment would take the field in April, sure, if the snow ever quit. Then, amidst the preparations, suddenly General Custer was summoned to Washington. All knew that he hated to go; yet go he evidently must. He had been summoned to testify before a committee appointed by Congress to look into some alleged frauds at the Indian trading-posts. Of course, it was expected that he would come back soon; for who else was there to outfight the warriors of the great Sioux nation?

March passed. Already the army further west, in Wyoming where the snows were not so deep, had fought one battle with the Sioux. On March 17, or Saint Patrick’s Day, the Second and the Third Cavalry out of Fort Fetterman, under General J. J. Reynolds, sent by General Crook the “Gray Fox,” had attacked Crazy Horse’s village at the mouth of the Little Powder River and had destroyed it.

But the Indians had escaped, and had recovered their pony herd, too; so that in the opinion of the Seventh, the job could not compare with the fine job done down on the Washita. However, it was tough luck to be on waiting orders here at Lincoln, while the Second and the Third were busy at work.

No matter, though. Thirty-below-zero weather turned the Fetterman troops home again. Crazy Horse, now crazier than ever, would join Sitting Bull; and there would be fighting enough for everybody.

April arrived, and grew, and still no General Custer appeared. It was rumored that he had been held in Washington, because of his testimony that did not please President Grant; next it was rumored that he had been removed from command of the “Custer” column; and next it was rumored that he would not accompany the regiment at all! This was startling news to the Seventh. What would be a campaign without “Old Curly!”

Now in these the days of chill April every soldier was on tiptoes with impatience. Custer or no Custer, the time was ripe for the march. Soon the grass would be greening, the Sioux would be able to travel, and the advantage would be all with them. Meanwhile, every report from the agencies was more alarming. The “friendlies” or “reservation Indians” were slipping, slipping, away, away, taking supplies and guns.

“Down at Standing Rock I hear there’s only five thousand Injuns where there used to be seven thousand,” asserted Odell. “The rest have lit out, to ‘visit’ and to ‘hunt’; but you can depind on’t, ’tis to the Big Horn country they’re goin’.”

The four troops of the Seventh from Fort Rice and the six from Fort Lincoln were moved out of barracks into camp, as a more convenient place for rendezvous. The infantry allies arrived, with a battery of gatlings; so did supplies, on the first trains. Bismarck City was alive with the excitement of the preparations.

Bloody Knife the Arikara chief scout could not understand what had happened to the Long Hair. Ned watched him talking rapid sign language with Charley Reynolds; and afterward stalking away gloomy.

“Bloody Knife asks why the Long Hair doesn’t come and lead his warriors out. Too much fuss and wait, he says. The Sioux laugh and brag; and send in word from the hills: ‘Are the white soldiers tired before they start?’ ‘What is the matter with the Long Hair?’ ‘Is the Long Hair sick?’ And so forth. I tell Bloody Knife we have another big chief, named Terry, to lead us; but he says: ‘No want Terry. Want Long Hair. Long Hair never tired, never afraid, heap chief.’”

“Terry’s the man who captured Fort Fisher in Sixty-five, isn’t he?” queried an infantry soldier, standing near. “He must be a good one, then.”

“Yes; that’s how he got his general’s star in the Regular Army, and thanks o’ Congress besides,” answered Odell. “And wasn’t our own Lieutenant Smith there, too, on Terry’s staff? Sure, he was carryin’ the colors, to cheer on a regiment, when a ball so smashed his shoulder that he never can lift his arm above a level. Terry’s all right. He was a good lawyer before he was a good soldier. Everybody likes him. But he’s never fought Injuns. We all want Custer and you can be sure Sheridan does, too. It’s the president, who be head o’ the Army, that’s ag’in him. He’s talked too freely, I reckon, an’ some o’ Grant’s friends have been hurt by it.”

However, the first week in May, who should arrive but General Custer! Afterwards it was known that he had just escaped being left behind entirely. Finally he had begged to be allowed to go upon the expedition whether he commanded or not. “I appeal to you as a soldier to spare me the humiliation of seeing my regiment march to meet the enemy and I not to share its dangers,” had been his telegram to President Grant.

General Terry had joined in the appeal, and now President Grant had consented. General Custer was to command only his regiment; General Terry was to command the whole column; but, anyway, “Old Curly” would be on hand.

He looked thin and haggard, as if he had worried much. His hair was short, and it could not grow out again before the march. Time pressed. Here it was May, spring had opened, the Indians were afield, every day added to their strength.

The officers’ families and the families of many of the enlisted men moved from the post into the camp. Another Custer also turned up. This was young Armstrong Reed, or “Autie,” the general’s nephew. His mother was the general’s eldest sister. “Autie” was younger than “Bos” and Ned. With a school friend he had come out from the East, to spend his vacation being either scout or soldier, he wasn’t certain which. He and “Bos” were wild to go upon the expedition; many of the soldiers also were eager, and did a little bragging; but the women of the officers’ circle and of Suds Row, they were very sober. They knew that the Sioux were gathering, what the delay had done to change the advantage, and how serious the campaign might be. Mrs. Custer’s eyes seemed to be brimming; and so did Mrs. Calhoun’s, and Mrs. Yates’, and all.

Not until the middle of May were orders issued to break camp. First General Terry and staff arrived from department headquarters at St. Paul. General Alfred Howe Terry, commander of the Department of Dakota, was a tall, soldierly man, with long beard and calm, courteous way. Ned immediately liked his looks.

May 17 was the day for the start. The “General” or call to strike tents was sounded at five o’clock in the morning. The wagon train was sent ahead, escorted by the infantry; but General Terry had directed General Custer to march the Seventh around the parade ground at Fort Lincoln, as a compliment to the “wives and sweethearts” there.