Cody put into words a lot of the sentiment felt among the Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition when the two columns finally joined there in the valley of the Rosebud where the Indian trail turned sharply to the east at the mouth of Greenleaf Creek. The enemy had squirted out between the jaws of Sheridan’s nutcracker. The Sioux and Cheyenne were running free.
Angry to discover that his prey had escaped, perhaps even more nettled that he had been captured by General Alfred Terry, Crook ordered his command into bivouac and sat down to await Terry’s arrival. Bourke agreed—let Terry come to Crook.
“This command is now too large,” the general grumbled as he sat in the shade to wait. “We won’t find any Indians while a force like this sticks together.”
Within the hour a headquarters contingent from the Dakota and Montana command rode into camp under their guidons and regimental banners. Crook’s personal cook, Private Phillips, gathered up what eating utensils he could beg off the officers and, upon a strip of canvas spread upon the ground, served Terry’s staff a lunch of the best Crook could offer—hard bread and salt pork—as the two field commanders talked of what they must now do. That evening Terry returned the favor and played host, spreading before Crook’s staff a banquet feast, complete with a variety of meats as well as canned vegetables.
When the frank discussions began in earnest after supper, Terry pointedly asked, “General, why didn’t you in form me that you were changing your plan of action, going to sit out a wait for reinforcements?”
To which Crook replied by asking his own question, “General—how have you remained totally unaware that the hostiles have all fled, and into your department to boot?”
“Listen, George,” Terry said, his eyes softening, “I want to make it clear right from the start that I’m not going to pull rank here as the senior officer.”
“Agreed,” Crook replied with a sigh. “We have bigger fish to fry than deciding who commands what.”
With their points made in the first moments of that tense conference, the two then got down to determining how best to give chase. While both steadfastly refused to accept that they were weeks behind the hostiles, Terry and Crook knew only one thing for certain: the enemy had turned east and was heading either northeast for the Yellowstone or would continue straight for the valley of the Little Missouri.
But in the event that Sitting Bull’s people were in the process of heading north … Terry called in Colonel Nelson A. Miles.
“I’m detaching you, Colonel,” the general told the commander of the Fifth Infantry. “Take your companies on our backtrail in escort with our wagon train and return to the Rosebud depot. There you are to load your men aboard the
Wearing a look of great satisfaction, Miles asked, “On the north bank of the river, General?”
“Yes. You will also establish a depot at the mouth of the Powder so that our two columns can draw upon those supplies of rations and ammunition when needed as we march east.”
“When may I depart, General?”
“As soon as your men and the wagons are ready, Miles.”
Terry then turned to Crook. “Before the colonel de parts, I will restore your column to a full fifteen days’ rations. I’ll be stripping my command down to light marching order as you have your command, General.”
“I’m to understand that you’re firm in your decision that we should unite in our pursuit?” Crook questioned.
“Yes,” Terry answered.
“But don’t you see—as commander of the Department of the Platte, my concern is following Crazy Horse and the southern Sioux who range over hunting grounds south of the Yellowstone. My fear is that now, with the bands moving off to the east, they’re about to threaten the settlements in the Black Hills.”
“And as commander of the Department of Dakota,” said Terry, “I’m primarily concerned with Sitting Bull’s bands of northern hostiles who usually range north of the Yellowstone, in fact all the way into Canada. My gravest worry is that the Sioux will cross the river, for at that point they have an open field all the way to the border. I won’t be able to pursue them once they’ve crossed into Canada.”
Bourke could read the despair creeping into Crook’s eyes, the undercurrent of self-directed anger he must harbor for stumbling into the other column: now he would have to assume a subordinate role. For a man used to wielding the power of field command, for a fighting man suddenly to have to answer to a desk-wielding bureaucrat—this had to be about the toughest thing George Crook had ever swallowed in his army career.
Crook pursed his lips as his eyes narrowed, staring at the stained and dog-eared maps that lay on the field desk between the two generals. As distasteful as the admission was, he finally said, “Alfred—you are in command.”
Throughout their long discussions that evening, John Bourke continued to draw decided conclusions from his observations of both column commanders. While Terry was attired in a handsome uniform befitting his rank, complete with shoulder boards and straps, Crook looked more the part of an old frontiersman or campaigner in rough canvas clothing. Among all of Crook’s staff, there wasn’t a complete uniform to be found. In fact, in some of the cavalry companies that had been campaigning since spring, it had become next to impossible to tell the officers from the enlisted.
Late that evening after tattoo, Bourke went on to write in his journal:
General Terry’s manners are most charming and affable; he had the look of a scholar as well as a soldier … He won his way to our hearts by his unaffectedness and affability. He is the antithesis of Crook in his manner. Crook is simple and unaffected also, but is reticent and taciturn to the extreme of sadness, brusk to the point of severity. Of the two, Terry would be the more pleasing companion, Crook the stauncher friend. In Terry’s face I thought I detected faint traces of indecision and weakness; but in Crook’s countenance there is not the slightest trace of anything but
Events would not be long in proving Bourke entirely correct in his assessment of his commander.
It wasn’t just the dissimilarity between the two commanders, though. From the moment they encamped next to one another, the differences between the two columns were about as plain as the noses on a two-headed calf: Crook’s men shambled about in shabby uniforms, dusty and faded, their slouch hats all but shapeless on their heads, while Terry’s men and animals looked better fed from their wagon train, the enlisted more rested from having spent their nights under canvas. In fact, most of the men out of Montana and Dakota looked as if they were preparing to drill on the parade of some post back east. With the possible exception of the Seventh Cavalry— Reno’s men looking haggard and disgusted as well as just plain trail worn—the northern jaw of Sheridan’s pincers appeared to be a well-outfitted army recently arrived in the field.
On the other hand, the Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition had all the makings of little more than a ragtag band of motley brigands, horse thieves, and highwaymen.
So it didn’t surprise Bourke that the men raised no cheers when the two commands met. What was there, after all, to celebrate when you saw just how good the other fellows had it? Nonetheless, the allied scouts attached to both columns raised enough of a howl for all. Shoshone, Crow, Bannock, Ute, and Arikara united in both backslapping and the white man’s customary shaking of hands all around as they shouted out their excited greetings right in the midst of the indifferent soldiers.
Bourke couldn’t help but be envious of the luxury enjoyed by Terry’s men. Reno even spread out a Brussels carpet on the floor in his tent, and one of Terry’s staff had a rocking chair in his—now, that was the way to campaign! In turn Terry’s officers clearly were appalled at the Spartan conditions suffered by the Wyoming column, for each night the Dakota column slept in large wall tents complete with portable beds and even sheet-iron stoves to ward off the cold. Hospital tents served as dining rooms for the officers.
Crook’s command slept under the stars, wrapped only in their saddle blankets, and had a solitary tin cup and a sharpened stick to broil their bacon come suppertime.
Even Bill Cody was quick to see the real difference between the two commands. Later that evening the chief of scouts walked up to Bourke’s fire beside Seamus Donegan and declared, “Fellas, between them two generals, it’s clear to me who’s the real Indian fighter out here in Sioux country.”
“Damn right, Johnny,” the Irishman added. “It’s plain to see who means business.”
“I think you’ve both just discovered that our column has something that runs even deeper than all the tents and crisp uniforms and fancy carpets could provide,” Bourke agreed. “Something I don’t think Terry’s men share: an esprit de corps.”
