let the steamers go downriver. He must retain them all for my use to patrol the Yellowstone. And I want clarification on the reports of Indian activity along the river as well. But probably most important—I want Whistler to take his two companies back to the mouth of the Tongue, where he can commence building huts for the winter.”
Captain Edward W. Smith, Terry’s adjutant, graciously offered, “Mr. Cody, you can have my horse for the return trip down the Yellowstone. Appears you might have used up Colonel Whistler’s thoroughbred in bringing those messages to the general.”
“Why, thank you, Captain,” Cody replied, turning to study Smith’s horse. “Looks like a sturdy animal. Yes—I’ll take you up on that offer.”
It wasn’t until sometime after midnight that Bill made out the dim glow of the lamps on the bow and stern of the three steamboats, each one gently bobbing atop the Yellowstone’s current in the patter of unending drizzle. Finding a suitable place to make a crossing, Bill presented himself to Whistler and handed over Terry’s messages.
The lieutenant colonel read over the dispatches written by Captain Smith, then looked up at the civilian with worry lining his face. “Terry wants clarification that the Sioux are making a show of it along the river? Why, the hostiles have been a damned nuisance ever since you left, and it’s been getting worse. I’m afraid things are about to fall out of the frying pan and into the fire.”
“Seems like I missed all the fun you fellas been having.”
“Cody,” Whistler continued, his brow furrowed in worry, “I’ve got to send information to the general concerning the Indians who have been skirmishing around here all day. All evening long I’ve been trying to induce someone to carry my dispatches to Terry, but no one seems willing to undertake the trip. So I must fall back on you. It is asking a great deal, I know, as you’ve just covered over eighty miles on horseback; but it is a case of extreme necessity. And if you go, Cody—I’ll see that you are well paid for it.”
“Naw. Never mind about the extra pay, Colonel,” Bill said, taking his wet buckskin coat from the back of the chair and shaking more moisture from it. “But get your dispatches ready. I’ll start as soon as I swap my saddle over to my own horse.”
“Won’t you at least have another cup of coffee?” Omohundro suggested, stepping forward to hand his friend the steaming tin.
“All right, I will, Jack. While the colonel here gets his dispatches ready and you go saddle the buckskin.”
Even though he had just come in from a long day’s journey; even though the hostiles had been skirmishing with the soldiers on the steamers from first light until dusk; even though he was about to ride his own favorite horse on that perilous return trip—Bill Cody tucked those letters inside his shirt and dashed down the gangplank to take up the reins from Omohundro and leap once more into the saddle.
As the steamer’s crew was swinging in the gangplank, Omohundro called out from the rail, “You watch your hair, Buffalo Bill!”
“I sure as hell will, Texas Jack—at least until Lulu can run her fingers through it!”
As Cody had left to ride back to Whistler through the badlands in the rain and the darkness of that night before, an anxious Terry wrote Crook an afterthought, seeking to persuade Crook one last time to join him in his concentration of troops along the Yellowstone.
There is one thing which I forgot to say and that is that it appears to me that the band which has gone north, if any have gone there, is the heart and soul of the Indian mutiny. It is the nucleus around which the whole body of disaffected Indians gathers. If it were destroyed, this thing would be over, and it is for that reason that I so strongly feel that even if a larger trail is found leading south, we should make a united effort to settle these particular people.
Crook would not be deterred. He would not be turned. He would have his victory. And he was determined to share it with no one.
Six hours after leaving Whistler on the
That dawn Terry cheered, “Never thought I’d see you back here so soon, Mr. Cody!”
“Didn’t really count on it myself, General. Whistler needed a courier—and it appears I was the only one who wanted a breath of fresh air!”
Chapter 32
26-29 August 1876
What Forsythe Says.
ST. PAUL, August 10—General Forsythe, of General Sheridan’s staff, passed through the city yesterday, having left Terry’s camp at South Rosebud a week ago last Tuesday. In conversation with army officers while here General Forsyth corrected many erroneous statements recently telegraphed from Bismarck … It was stated that General Terry had fallen back eighty miles, which is mere nonsense, and gives a false impression to the public … The evening before General Forsythe left General Terry, a scout from General Crook’s command had reached General Terry. General Crook was then somewhere near the head waters of the Rosebud river, or between that and Tongue river. Now, at this time General Terry was at the mouth of the Big Horn river, and in order to make communication between himself and General Crook easier, he dropped down the river to the mouth of the Rosebud …
The scout alluded to furnished the news that Indian trails had been found leading to the east between Gen. Crook and the Yellowstone. A junction of Gens. Terry and Crook at a point further east than the Big Horn was likely to prevent the escape of the Indians to the east and north of the present scene of operations. Another misstatement is to the effect that the troops under General Terry are disheartened at the prospect before them … On the contrary, Gen. Terry and his men are in the best possible spirits, and are only too anxious to meet the horde of savages in a square fight. There is no fear as to the result.
The Indians, he learned, were still supposed to be massed somewhere between the Rosebud river and the Big Horn. The impression prevailed that one of two alternatives was left them—either to scatter to the eastward and toward British America, or southward to the Big Horn mountains. Though they were in front or in close proximity to Gen. Crook’s command, it is not believed that they would show fight or allow Gen. Crook or Gen. Terry to get a chance at them in a body.
In a predawn mist that twenty-sixth day of August, with Terry’s latest appeal in hand, George Crook once more sought to make his point as diplomatically as possible, without expressing that he did not want to chase Terry’s Sioux. He wanted to chase his own. Taking pen in hand, he wrote:
My understanding has always been that Crazy Horse, who is an Oglala and represents the disaffected people belonging to the Southern Agencies, is about equal in strength to Sitting Bull, who similarly represents the Northern Sioux; besides, it is known that at least 1500 additional warriors left Red Cloud Agency and joined Crazy Horse this spring and summer and are supposed to be with him here.
Should any considerable part of the main trail lead in the direction of the Southern Agencies, I take it for granted that it must be his, which will not only increase the embarrassment of protecting the settlements in my department, but will make me apprehensive for the safety of my wagon train.
Should I not find any decided trail going southward, but on the contrary find it scattering in this country, or crossing to the north of the Yellowstone, you can calculate on my remaining with you until the unpleasantness ends, or we are ordered to the contrary.
We march this morning. Good bye.
As the infantry slogged into the lead through the mud, sergeants bawled orders for the cavalry to form up for
