I tried to speak, but nothing came out. I just looked at him.
He stood up with his fistful of scalps.
“Come, help me dig out my arrows. We have a trail to follow.”
4
We didn’t just run up on Carson and the remainder of his men as I had hoped. The fugitives had a pretty good trail to follow for awhile, but after they had traveled a bit they began to take pains to knock it out. The Crows riding with Carson—Dead Thing said there were two, plus two white men—were falsifying their trail. It was a hard go even for Dead Thing to track them.
Once we lost the sign for three whole days, and then after a period of riding this way and that, we came across it again, purely by accident.
I’d read in some dime novels about how scouts could follow sign so well, and it is true, some men are amazing, but they are still only men. They have their limitations. Red or white. I think that had we not come upon the sign when we did we would surely have lost Carson, and what later occurred might never have happened. I have mixed feelings about that.
What we found still wasn’t much of a trail, but we followed.
A few days later my horse went half lame. Most white men would have shot the critter. An Apache would have built a fire under it and made it move, injured leg or not. When the horse wore completely out, he’d build another fire. If the animal could not get up, he would kill it and eat part of it, continue on foot.
But Dead Thing was a man of the plains. Survival out here meant the horse, especially for the buffalo-dependent Indians. So we holed up for a few days and Dead Thing healed that beast. It could walk as fresh as new. I don’t know all he did, but he used herbs, kindness and know-how.
I suppose we could have left my horse and rode double, but that wouldn’t have gained us much. We would have had to walk the animal a lot, and if we had pushed too hard, it could have turned up lame due to all the weight it would have been carrying.
Dead Thing had talked me into the right thing, and I was proud I’d listened to him when I swung back into the saddle and we rode after Carson again.
I was glad, too, that I had bought this horse back when Roy and I started mining. If it had been a rent horse, it would have been wiser for me to have just gone on and stole it.
Chapter Eight
1
A few days later we crossed a river called the Tongue and made a cold camp. You could practically feel the Sioux. We played it damn quiet.
Next morning, before the sun came up, we rode out. We had lost the trail, but were playing a hunch we would pick it up again after crossing the river—this one was called the Rosebud.
As we rode, we saw signs of there having been a big stomp not long back. There were arrows, rifles and even the rotting corpses of a few horses. It was plain the Sioux and the cavalry had clashed.
Actually, this gave me a sense of security. It meant the army was about, and that perhaps the hostiles would not be too interested in two men alone, as they would be busy with the soldiers.
I had totally lost track of time, but later I would learn the date and never forget it. It was a day that would inspire controversy for years afterward. A controversy I have stayed out of, in spite of the fact that I was there. It was the morning of June 25 as Dead Thing and I crossed the Rosebud and rode down into an area that would forever after be known by white men as The Little Big Horn.
2
The land in that area is kind of crazy. There are bluffs, ravines, and all sorts of dips in the land. Under the wing of a hill you could have hidden a small train, and if you were not at the right angle, you could not have seen it. That was one reason we did not realize that just on the other side of the rise was General George Armstrong Custer and over two hundred men of the Seventh Cavalry.
Nor did we know that just a little farther on, obscured by the rising and dipping of the land, was a village of Sioux and Cheyenne camped on the Little Big Horn—a village of over three thousand Plains Indians, the biggest single gathering of all time.
After a bit we heard some noise to the right, and figuring we might be coming up on Carson, rode over there. What we found were a half-dozen soldiers holding their rifles on us.
One of the men, who I think was a corporal, said, “More of ‘em.”
The soldiers stood with their mounts next to them, and there were a number of Indian scouts about. More interesting yet—there was Carson, those Crows of his, and two white men.
My trigger finger started to itch, but I said to Dead Thing, “Don’t move. Bide your time.”
Carson looked at us and sort of half smiled. That was almost enough for me to start blazing away, but I just gritted my teeth and held my temper.
A voice went through the soldiers, soft but sharp, and after a moment, a lean, hatless man with short blonde hair and a growth of fresh beard came up. His eyes were the most piercing blue I have ever seen. He was dressed in buckskin pants and a blue-gray flannel shirt.
“Sir,” he said to me, “you and these men,” he waved a hand at Carson, “are in the midst of an army action. There is about to be an engagement with the hostiles down the way.”
Just like that, formal as hell, like a man used to doing what my old dad used to call ‘speechifying.’
I nodded in a stupid way.
“You best take your Indian and pull in with this bunch,” he said, indicating Carson. I wondered how Dead Thing was taking that ‘your Indian’ business. I glanced a look at him. The Crow was stiff as stone, glaring at Carson and his group.
Maybe we could have rode off right then, but that wouldn’t have gotten us Carson. It didn’t seem wise to raise sand right now, and Carson knew that. He and his crew had wandered into the same situation, and now by circumstance they were safe.
For now.
After the engagement, or if we could get alone with them, they were dead men. And those bastards could put that in their pipes and smoke it.
“Thank you for your protection,” I said to the officer. I figured it best to be a bit syrupy and friendly, so as not to give away my real intent. “To whom am I speaking?”
“General George Armstrong Custer, sir.”
If I hadn’t just dismounted a moment ago, I might have fallen off my horse. “I’ve heard of you,” I said.
“I suspect you have.” Then, “Trooper!”
A soldier came forward, leading a beautiful white-stocking horse. The man had a dark, broad-brimmed hat in his hand, and he handed it to Custer. The General put it on and took the horse’s rein.
I was a little surprised. One of the things that had me bowled over was Custer’s appearance. Wild Bill had looked much as he had been advertised, but Custer didn’t. He did not look as youthful as I had expected. Nor did he fit the description I had heard. His hair was not long, but close-cropped, and there was the beard. Only his eyes fit the descriptions—fierce, intelligent, proud.
Much has been said about Custer since that day, pro and con. I myself believe he was vain, impetuous, and glory hungry, but he was not a fool, nor was he crazy. He just made a fatal mistake.
I felt certain his scouts had informed him of the presence of the Indians down there, but even though he knew they were in great numbers, he was not upset. This may have been partly due to overconfidence on Custer’s part, but one thing that folks did not think about later is the fact that a smaller group of trained soldiers generally always fared well against a larger number of Indians. Later, Geronimo would change this, and I was in on that too, but that’s another story.
The axiom was pretty much like this, and it had been coined by none other than old Napoleon of France himself: one trained soldier versus one native soldier had not a chance. The natives were too shrewd and cunning. But a number of soldiers against a superior number of natives could defend themselves to the advantage, due to training and discipline.
And I think that’s what Custer was counting on.
3
Dead Thing climbed down off his horse—for he had remained mounte
d all the time I had been talking with Custer—and Custer went away on his big, beautiful horse, riding slowly down the line of dismounted soldiers.
A soldier directed us into the line with Carson and his men, and then started leading us all toward the rear. Carson and his group watched us, and we watched them. It was one touchy sort of situation.
Finally, I walked up beside Carson, keeping Dead Thing on my left and a bit to the rear. I was afraid that crazy Indian would jump all of them any minute, because he had the look in his eyes. I felt certain that if he did, a soldier would shoot him dead or club him to death. A military campaign did not have time to be judge and jury. Besides, Dead Thing being an Indian and all did not weigh in his favor as far as a scuffle with a white man was concerned.
I said to Carson, “Remember me?”
“You have been trailing me,” he said flatly.
I realized then that he didn’t know who I was, merely thought my only thing against him was the mine claim.
“You tried to jump my gold claim in the Hills.”
“That is certainly a shame.”
“You tried to kill me at a train robbery sometime back. You killed my friend Bucklaw.”
He stopped walking for a moment, and the reins almost slipped from his hands. He looked at me, squinting. My heavy growth of beard had thrown him.
“Melgrhue?”
“One and the same.”
Carson began to lead his horse again, and I followed, pulling at my pony.
“You’re the one that killed Mix, then?”
“You heard about that?”
“I did.”
“It was a great pleasure, Carson. I intend to do the same for you when I get the chance. This Crow behind me was with your group once. He wants your hide for other reasons. Making drunkards of his people, having them dance at the end of your string. Remember him?”
“No, nor do I care. But listen: I can offer you this as a peace offering. My men and I, we hit a big load not long back. We’ve got the gold hid out. You let bygones be bygones, and I’ll see that you get a share, because I certainly don’t need a man at my back with a gun.”
“You should have thought of that before you did what you did,” I said. “And you haven’t got any gold. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been trying to jump my claim. I don’t bargain with polecats.”
Carson shrugged, gave me a venomous look. “Have it your own way,” he said.
“I will.”
4
Dead Thing ended up throwing in with the Crow scouts. He must have been saying nasty things about the two Crow with Carson, because he sat on the ridge with the scouts and after a bit they all looked at the Crow and burst out laughing.
Those two with Carson looked as downbeat as stepchildren with a shrew aunt. I thought maybe Dead Thing was saying things about their lack of honor and the other Crow were eating it up.
After a bit, another Indian, a pretty big fellow, walked up to the Crow and spoke to the scouts. From the way he was dressed I took him to be a Ree.
The Crow moved out, and Dead Thing came over to me. I was about middle ways of the column—I was supposed to fall into the rear, but hadn’t found Carson that good of company, and truth to tell, I hoped being away from him would give him the urge to run so I could follow and finish the job.
Dead Thing said, “Bloody Knife, the Ree, says that all those who want to fall out can. The Crows, my brothers, are leaving. They say to go down to the Greasy Grass is suicide.”
The Greasy Grass. That had been in my dream. The old Indian with the buffalo headdress had said that.
“You’re telling me to hightail it?”
Dead Thing nodded.
“You?”
“I stay until Carson moves.”
“Same here.”
My plan was to wait until the cavalry left for their attack and we were on the hill alone. At that time I still thought they were going down to engage the Indians and would leave us civilians out of it. I was wrong.
After a short while a man that looked like I thought Custer should have looked came over to where I squatted holding my horse’s reins, and knelt down beside me.
“The general says we all go down,” he said bluntly.
“I don’t believe I’m in this man’s army.”
“You’ve just been drafted, soldier. And if you don’t like the decision, just make a run for it. The men here have orders to put a hole in anyone who does.”
“In that case I’m proud to enlist.”
The man smiled at me and stuck out his hand. “Tom Custer.”
“General Custer’s brother?” I asked, shaking hands.
“Yes.”
“What’s the situation here? Can you say?”
“Renegade Sioux. We intend to engage them in a surprise attack.”
“They know you are here,” Dead Thing said suddenly.
Tom Custer looked up at Dead Thing.
“No, I don’t think so.”
Dead Thing laughed. “You sent your scouts away. You know they know. It is the horse soldiers you try to fool. They know too.”
Tom Custer’s lip quivered.
“Perhaps. But no one stays on this ridge. First off, you would be sitting ducks for the Sioux, and secondly—”
“You need every gun you can get because you figure yourself in a tight spot,” I said.
Tom Custer stood up. “Perhaps.”
“Understandable,” I said.
Tom Custer left us. I looked up at Dead Thing. That crazy Crow was smiling.”
…them that died on the Greasy Grass…
I remembered those words that had come to me while I fasted, and they came to light down on my head once again.
I remembered the One Who Makes the Buffalo Fall Down, and what he had said. “The grass will scream from the thunder of the horses, from the pain of the dying.”
“Does your head come clear?” Dead Thing said, and I looked at him oddly. The Crow took hold of his horse and led it away.
It was getting pretty close to noon when Custer divided his command. He had led us all down into a dry creek bed and it was there that he had divided us into four groups. This was probably his biggest blunder. Benteen—I didn’t even know that was his name, but found later from reading accounts by people who had not been there—went to the left. Reno—I learned of him in the same way as Benteen—was the center. Custer was the right flank and the ammunition train brought up the rear. Dead Thing, Carson, his men, and me, ended up with the ammunition train. I supposed Custer figured to keep us mostly out of the fight, but have our guns handy if he needed them.
Actually, I don’t think General Custer gave a hoot and a holler what the civilians did. If we had wanted to ride over that ridge that was fine by him. I had a feeling that everyone but Custer, and me—for I was still ignorant of how serious the situation was; I had Carson on my mind—was aware of just how bad things were. I think it was Tom who wanted the extra gun hands. He could see the handwriting on the wall, but just did not want to admit it. Too proud, like his brother.
Me, I just wanted to kill Carson and get it over with. I had trailed that sonofabitch for a long time now, and truth to tell, I did not really have a boiling hatred for him. It had passed. I just knew that I would not rest until I had the job done, or Carson did a job on me.
That was the fact of it, and I was not sure if this was duty or honor driving me, maybe a little of both. Hell, in spite of what I said, maybe sometimes they are the same thing.
Something strange happened just before Custer decided to send us back to the ammunition train. We came upon a tepee with a body in it. Some Sioux had cashed in his chips right there, and as they were very much for the play it as it lays style, they had just left him.
I figured him to be one of the Sioux that had been hurt in that battle on the other side of the Rosebud. (At that time I thought that battle had been Custer’s play too, but later found out it was Crook, and for all practical purposes, he too had lost to
the vengeful Sioux.)
Oddly enough, Custer had the tepee set on fire by his Crow scouts, the bulk of whom took Bloody Knife’s advice, and shortly after that incident skedaddled. Actually, a couple had already beat it before getting that far, and it gave me a crawling sort of feeling in my gut to see them go. Indians had a way of sensing the future, I’d learned that much from Dead Thing. Now my dream was coming back, my vision of the grass covered in blood and of the Man Who Makes the Buffalo Fall Down’s prediction.
Even at that stage, white attitudes of believing only what you could see, smell and touch, were still ruling my thinking. And I didn’t even think of trying to make a break for it.
Besides, there was Carson.
Now it may come to you to wonder why the Crow were allowed to leave—and later the Ree were dismissed, although the Indian who Dead Thing had called Bloody Knife did not go.
Truth is, those Indians were going to do what the hell they wanted to do anyway. They were hired to scout, not fight. No matter what they might have been ordered to do, they would go first chance they got. Not a matter of cowardice, just common sense.
White men are infested with this idea we call duty, and I supposed that Tom thought we would be more willing to stick around, and that the Indians with us would stay since they rode with us in the first place, and had probably been infected with the same oddball white man disease.
And to put it a little more on the head, those Indians had a hell of a lot better chance of passing through this country than we did, and “our” Indians—meaning Dead Thing and the those two with Carson—had bound themselves to us. You can say what you want about conniving redskins and such, but it isn’t true. The Indian is a man of honor. Which isn’t exactly the same thing as a man of duty. The first you do because it feels right, the second you do so no one will laugh or sneer at you.
We went back to wait with the ammunition train. There were just a few of us: some soldiers, Carson, his four men, Dead Thing and myself. I was keeping a tight eye on the major. I felt my moment was coming up, and I intended to play my hand smoothly.