Oregon Lava Beds,* Seamus couldn’t remember when he had been so glad to see the homely faces of so many soldiers. God, was it good to have the company!
As soon as Crook assessed the scene and put plenty of men out on the picket lines, he gave Mills’s attack force first crack at any and all souvenirs they could pull from the lodges before he ordered details to go in search of everything edible in the camp. Only then, he said, would he get serious about the destruction of the Sioux village.
“I’ll wager he remembers how stupid Reynolds was on the Powder,” Donegan told Grouard.
“Damn right,” Frank replied. “All that food and them buffalo robes Reynolds had his soldiers burn. Could’ve filled our bellies and kept us warm, they would.”
What a horn of plenty the Sioux lodges proved to be: besides flour, corn, beans, and tins of jellied fruit, the men found haunches of freshly killed game as well as over two tons of dried meat. Little matter that it might be pony meat. No one with a hungry belly complained.
In addition to the food, soldiers dragged out all sorts of saddles and harness, bolts of calico, cloth dresses and shirts, iron cookware and kettles, along with some tinware—including plates, knives, and spoons. As well, they counted more than two thousand raw buffalo, elk, deer, and antelope hides the women had yet to flesh and tan. And the soldiers found more than a hundred blankets inked with the stenciled letters:
Still, one pile drew the greatest attention as more and more plunder was laid atop the growing mound where Crook himself stood in silence, watching as cases of ammunition, cartons of percussion caps, revolvers, old muzzle- loading fusils, and modern repeating carbines were all thrown into the heap. And a man had only to watch the general’s face to read the simmering anger written there as soldiers discovered more and more souvenirs taken from the Little Bighorn in those lodges destined for destruction.
Besides the I Company guidon and Captain Myles Keogh’s buckskin gauntlets, the troopers found more than a dozen McClellan saddles. Among the pony herd Lieutenant Schwatka’s men reported counting at least three bearing the Seventh Cavalry brand. From here and there soldiers brought up a handful of orderly books in which some of the Indians had begun to draw their pictographs; more cash and army scrip; an officer’s blouse; a great many letters written to and by members of Custer’s ill-fated five companies, some sealed and ready for posting home to families and loved ones at the time those companies marched down into the valley of the Little Bighorn.
“Give them all to Lieutenant Schuyler,” a stoic Crook instructed as the process continued. “We’ll see they are posted as soon as we reach Camp Robinson.”
For Donegan, just looking at those letters was like catching glimpses of anonymous ghosts.
Seamus put his hand inside his own wet coat, his fingers brushing the small bundle of letters he kept tied with one of Samantha’s hair ribbons, stuffed deep in an inside pocket next to his heart. Here remembering the one who awaited his return, he found his heart heavy as a stone, saddened to think how these letters written by Custer’s fallen troopers would one day soon arrive at their destinations back east, reaching fathers and mothers, wives and children and young sweethearts—seeming so much like haunting voices from the dead.
As much as he thought those grim souvenirs might blacken the angry hearts of Crook’s fighting men, what angered some the most was the discovery of several “good conduct” certificates among the plunder pulled from the lodges. One had been issued the previous January just before the deadline when Sherman and Sheridan had given Crook a free hand to march after the winter roamers.
Spotted Tail Agency, Jan. 14, 1876 The bearer of this, Stabber, belonging to this agency, will travel north to visit his people. He will return to this agency within 90 days, without disturbing any white man. If he needs any little thing you will not lose by giving it to him. This is true.
F. C. Boucher
And another, written a month later, read:
Whitestone Agency, D.T., Feb., 1876
Yours, respectfully,
E. A. Howard, United States Indian Agent
The more plunder the soldiers pulled from the lodges, the more rage there must have been among the warriors on the nearby hillsides who were forced to watch this looting of their camp. From time to time they were able to walk some of their bullets in among the troops at the skirmish line.
Nonetheless it was still an unknown number of Sioux who had taken refuge in that brushy ravine who were proving to be the most bothersome to Crook’s men working among the lodges. Near the outskirts of camp, the concealed snipers kept the soldiers ducking and diving for cover until Crook decided he had no choice but to clean out the ravine.
The winding coulee meandered back from the creekbank for more than two hundred yards into the side of a jagged spur of ridge jutting off the face of the chalky butte itself. Eroded to a depth of nearly twenty feet along its steep sides, its bottom extended in width from some fifteen feet to as narrow as six feet, all of it a tangle of brush. None of the soldiers could get a clear shot at the hostiles who had taken refuge in the ravine because of that matted snarl of thorns and buffalo berry—unless a man dared to get right up on the opening of the ravine.
One soldier lay dead already for trying.
With Crook’s arrival some of Tom Moore’s packers had chided the soldiers for their slowness to rush the enemy trapped in the ravine. But when the mule skinners and a few foolhardy troopers made their own rush, they were immediately repelled by an onslaught of rifle fire from the hidden marksmen.
In the face of such stubborn resistance, the general had no choice but to deploy troops to advance on the mouth of the ravine. They set up a constant, withering fire, shooting into the brush in an attempt to drive the occupants out while more and more soldiers gathered on the slopes of the hills north of the action to watch the show. Hidden in the brushy ravine, unseen women wailed and children cried out pitifully. Above the curious soldiers,warriors gathering along the ridge shelves shouted encouragement to those who were trapped. On the hillsides across the creek bottom from the ravine’s mouth stood several hundred troopers and foot soldiers, all soundly cursing the Indians cowering in their cave, venting their spleens at their cornered quarry.
Crook, Bourke, Schuyler, and the rest of the general’s staff took up position west of the ravine. Just to the east of them and closest to the mouth hunkered some of Crook’s scouts: Big Bat and Little Bat, with Buffalo Chips Charlie stretched out between the half-breeds, given the general’s orders to talk to the Indians in their own tongue and convince them to surrender.
As Seamus and Grouard watched, they could hear only bits of the scouts’ talk to those in the ravine, what with the clamor and gunfire and hellish din of soldiers and warriors all yelling themselves insensible, as well as the screaming and wails of those squaws and children snared in what surely must be a death trap.
“General,” scout White called out to Crook, “Big Bat tells me these Sioux are saying there’s more hostiles coming to jump us. Says Crazy Horse is camped nearby.”
“I couldn’t ask for a better birthday present,” Crook replied. “No matter that he’s a day late!”
Turning back to the half-breed scouts, White grumbled loudly as he crawled closer to the edge of the ravine, saying, “If you boys don’t have the nerve—I’ll show you a good shot myself!”
Once, then twice, the two half-breeds pulled at White’s legs, yanking him back from the exposed lip right below some thick brush.
“Leave me be, boys!” White hollered, trying to kick his legs free of the two scouts lying farther down the steep slope. “I can see one of the redskins in there, and I can put a bead on him in a heartbeat.”
One last time Big Bat reached out to get a new purchase on his fellow scout, but that third time White snapped his legs out of reach and rose slightly on his knees to quickly bring his carbine to his shoulder.
A bullet slammed him backward at the very instant that single gunshot thundered out of the ravine and rolled across the narrow creek bottom.
“Oh, God!” White groaned as he was flung down the embankment, his rifle tumbling out of his hand. “My God! I’m done for this time, boys!”
Garnier and Pourier scrambled down the muddy slope and were at his side in an instant. But it was plain to see by the bright, glistening stain on White’s chest that he was shot right through the heart. With his eyes fluttering, Charlie’s legs twitched convulsively for a moment more; then he went limp as his bowels voided.
“Lieutenant Clark!” Crook bellowed.
