“How’d you like some good news from this here Sitting Bear fella?” Frank spilled it.
The general cracked a smile. “Why, you devious bastard! That’s why you’re smiling. But—if Crazy Horse is going to slip away before I can get there, what good news could you possibly have for me?”
“How about a village of Cheyenne dropping in your lap?”
“Cheyenne, you say?” Crook asked, taking a step closer.
“The biggest damned village the Cheyenne had together in a long, long time,” Frank exclaimed. “Sitting Bear’s been there—claims that village got more Cheyenne in it than they had when they camped alongside the Lakota and Custer marched down on ’em all at the Greasy Grass.”
Crook whirled about, pounding a clenched fist into his open left palm, a fire igniting his eyes. “Bourke! Goddammit, Bourke—move! Get me Mackenzie! Get Mackenzie here on the double!”
Just before sunrise Crook sent out a large party of his Indian allies—each man selected for his expert knowledge of the surrounding countryside—to follow the Crazy Woman upstream into the mountains, searching for any sign of the enemy village estimated to be no more than forty-five miles away. With the scouts went a small command of soldiers under First Lieutenant Henry W. Lawton, Quartermaster of Mackenzie’s Fourth, charged with preparing the stream and ravine crossings for the attack march.
As soon as there was enough light to work that morning of the twenty-third, the packers and the cavalry set about the task of unloading Sharpe’s wagons and packing all the rations and ammunition that would soon be hoisted onto the backs of Tom Moore’s mules. While Mackenzie’s cavalry would soon strike out to follow the trail the scouts had taken into the mountains that morning, Crook himself had decided to remain behind with Teddy Egan’s K Troop of the Second Cavalry which would be engaged as provost guard at headquarters and employed as couriers, along with Dodge’s infantry and artillery and any men on sick call, all of them charged with protecting Captain Furey’s wagon train, which would remain corralled right where it was until such time as Mackenzie called them up for support.
That morning Mackenzie grew bitterly disgusted with the glee shown by those soldiers who were to be left behind at the Crazy Woman.
At the same time, he was clearly worried. Like the general, Ranald Mackenzie feared most that the enemy would surrender without a fight. As John Bourke had put it during last night’s officers’ meeting, “A fight is desirable to atone and compensate for our trials, hardships, and dangers for more than eight months.”
By midafternoon that Thursday, the spearhead of Crook’s winter campaign was ready.
“Stand to
In the cold blue air lying low in the valley of the Crazy Woman, officers called out the order to the anxious troopers. Company noncoms had made sure every man had two blankets, one of which he draped over the back of his horse to protect the animal from the intense cold. The other was to be rolled behind the saddle.
“Prepare to
Sergeants echoed the command up and down the company rows of tents and picket lines.
Those horse soldiers settling down upon those God-uncomfortable McClellan saddles would not be taking their tents and Sibley stoves along from here on out. Only those two thin blankets, along with a shelter half or the protection of each man’s heavy wool coat, would have to do until they rejoined the wagon train. To dispense with some of the other baggage, Mackenzie ordered his officers to mess with their companies.
Eleven hundred men—as many as a third of which were Indian scouts—trudged away into the growing gloom of that winter afternoon carrying three days’ rations in their packs and another seven on the mules bringing up the rear. Each man had on his person twenty-four rounds of pistol ammunition and in his saddle packs one hundred rounds for his seven-pound, forty-one inch, .45/70 Springfield carbine.
Mackenzie loped to the lead and set the pace himself out in front of the guidons and his colorful regimental standard, the top of the pole bearing the battle ribbons his own Fourth Cavalry had won in a legion of contests against the Kickapoo, Lipan, Kiowa, and Comanche across the southern plains.
Here at the age of thirty-six, Ranald Slidell would at last pit himself against the best of the northern tribes.
It was to be Three Finger Kenzie’s last Indian fight.
The village migrated while Young Two Moon and the other wolves had been out discovering what all those tracks on Powder River meant.
By the time the four returned, the People had moved to a beautiful canyon at the southern end of the Big Horn Mountains, rimmed with high, striated red-rock walls, through the heart of which flowed a branch of the Powder River itself. The
“We have time to save our village,” Crow Necklace gasped in the cold air, relieved to find all still peaceful.
“Let’s hurry down to give the warning!” High Wolf said, then wheeled his pony about and led the other scouts down the narrow game trail toward the end of the valley.
The four howled like wolves as they approached the camp. Instantly men, women, and children burst from the lodges, quietly murmuring as the scouts slowly led them through the long, narrow campsite to the lodges of the Sacred Powers. There the four Old-Man Chiefs awaited their return, standing silently as the sun finally made its way over the eastern rim of the high valley.
“You have discovered what the tracks mean?” Morning Star asked as the crowd hushed.
“Soldiers,” Young Two Moon answered.
The talk around them grew louder, like a rumble of a mighty river beneath a thick layer of ice.
“What of these soldiers?” Little Wolf asked. “Where are they going?”
“They could be going anywhere!” Last Bull interrupted. “They could be searching for Crazy Horse! They cannot know we are hidden here inside these mountains!”
“Perhaps you are right,” Morning Star said, his face grave, as if he wanted to believe.
“No,” young Crow Necklace said recklessly, challenging his elders, stunning the crowd by his disagreement with the powerful war chief of the Kit Fox Society, Last Bull. “They will be coming here.”
Last Bull whirled on the young scout, stepping right up to his pony and glaring at Crow Necklace. “How are you so sure?” he snarled.
“Only what we saw,” was the answer.
“And what we heard,” said Young Two Moon, feeling desperate to protect Crow Necklace.
“What you heard?” Little Wolf asked, moving up beside the ponies.
“In that soldier camp we saw many, many Indians,” Young Two Moon explained.
“No!” many of the people protested in disbelief.
“Captives?” asked Morning Star.
“No,” the young scout answered. “They were soldiers. Four different tongues did we hear in that camp while we stole ponies and ate their food.”
“What enemies of ours are these that come to help the soldiers in our own country?” Little Wolf demanded, his eyes narrowing.
Perhaps the old chief was remembering how the soldiers had attacked that sleeping camp on the Powder River last winter, Young Two Moon thought as he began to answer, “Pawnee, Shoshone, yes—our old enemies. But … but Arapaho … and … and
“Cheyenne!”
“Yes,” Young Two Moon said. “If those soldiers and all their Indians reach our camp … I think there will be a big fight here.”
