Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 03 (9 page)

Also, there was the danger that Sitting Bull might worry more about what his father thought than what the enemy was doing. That was the surest way to get killed. In battle, you had to think only about your adversary. It was fine to take risks to demonstrate your courage. Jumping Bull, like every other Lakota warrior, had done that. Sitting Bull would do it, too. But he had to keep his attention on the enemy, not on his friends or family. If you rode against the Crows while looking over your shoulder to see whether your friends were impressed, they would not be impressed for long.

A year after his first coup, Sitting Bull’s band was camped on the Musselshell River, north of the Yellowstone, at the western fringes of Lakota territory. The hunting was good, and the camp was busy. But the presence of the buffalo herds meant that other Indians could be in the area, and the camp leaders, Jumping Bull among them, took care to send scouts in every direction. The best defense against a surprise raid was not to be surprised at all.

Every day, scouts in twos and threes went out, to report on the movements of the buffalo herds and to watch for signs of an enemy presence. In the second week, the scouts came back with the news that unknown Indians were lurking in the area—probably scouts for a larger band nearby. They were watching the Lakota camp, and there was the chance that they had already sent word of their presence back to the main band and now simply wanted to make certain that the Lakota village stayed put.

Jumping Bull dispatched fifteen men to investigate. Sitting Bull went along. They rode up into the hills, where the scouts had seen the spies. When the war party reached the point where the spies had been seen, Sitting Bull dismounted, along with his uncle, Four Horns. Already adept at reading sign, Sitting Bull was anxious to sharpen his skills. He talked to anyone and everyone about interpreting the least evidence, from bent grass to snapped twigs, and Four Horns was one of the best there was at reading sign.

A moccasin print would tell more, maybe even the tribe the spies belonged to, because every tribe
had its own technique for constructing footwear. Four Horns found some broken twigs and a patch of grass that had been closely cropped, perhaps by waiting ponies. There were horse apples at the edges of the grazed patch, and they were fresh. Four Horns used a stick to gauge how long they’d been there, inserting it a couple of inches then withdrawing it to assess the moisture, and announced that they were no more than an hour old.

The anxious Hunkpapa looked at the hills around them, as if they already felt eyes on them. Four Horns found some pony tracks, the slightest of impressions in the damp grass and, on a wet patch of earth, a clear print. “That way,” he said, pointing to the west. “Flatheads, I think.”

The warriors waited for Four Horns and Sitting Bull to remount, then moved off in the direction Four Horns had indicated. They rode cautiously now, not knowing for certain how many of the enemy there were. The signs indicated two ponies, but if they had ridden off to get allies, there was no way to estimate how many there might be.

Up one hill and down the far side, they were able to track the two mounts. Skirting the edge of a creek, Four Horns found where the Flathead ponies had crossed. The Lakota followed, two men making the crossing first to make sure no one was waiting in ambush on the far side of the stream. When they gave the all clear, the rest of the band followed.

It was getting warm, and the dew on the grass was drying quickly. This would make it harder to follow the pony tracks. The Lakota kicked their
mounts into a trot. Four Horns was in the lead, keeping one eye on the ground and the other peeled for the enemy. Sitting Bull rode beside his uncle, checking the terrain ahead, looking for possible ambush sites. As they neared a ravine, cutting diagonally across their path, he called his uncle’s attention to it.

“That would be a good place to hide and wait for us,” he said.

Four Horns nodded. “It would be. But remember, we don’t know if they know we are here.”

“Shouldn’t we prepare for the possibility? Act as if they had seen us? If they were watching the camp, they might have seen us ride out. They may have either run away or gone to get their brothers.”

Four Horns thought for a moment, then agreed. “I think maybe we should do as you say.” He told the other warriors to move cautiously and stay back from the ravine, just in case. They rode parallel to it for a few hundred yards, watching carefully, looking for some sign that the enemy lay in wait. Anything could give them away—a careless peek, the tip of a feather, a startled bird or rabbit.

If one of the enemy was careless and did not pinch the nostrils of his horse, it might whinny when it scented the Hunkpapa ponies. That is all it would take to give them away. It was up to the Hunkpapa to notice the little things that might take away the advantage of surprise.

Sometimes just moving slowly was all it took, because one of the warriors lying in wait might get impatient and break cover. Four Horns remembered only too well how Sitting Bull had done that
very thing against the Crows the year before. His nephew had charged down toward the Crows before they were safely contained in the trap so painstakingly laid. That was not a crime, but was simply the kind of thing that young warriors did because they had not learned patience.

The Lakota sat their mounts for a few minutes, watching the ravine. Suddenly, twenty Flatheads burst up and out of it, charging in a tight group toward the waiting Lakota. There was a slight advantage in numbers for the Flatheads, but four to three were good odds. The Lakota stood their ground, launching a volley of arrows from their bows and balls from their two muskets.

The Flatheads skidded to a halt and spread out in a skirmish line, staying on their ponies for a moment, then, when the line was in place, dismounting. They were quick to fire, and the Lakota were forced to back up a bit.

Sitting Bull announced that he wanted to do the daring line, a gallop from one end of an enemy line to the other, deliberately exposing himself to fire. Four Horns tried to dissuade him. For a moment, he tried to imagine what it would be like to ride back to the village with his nephew’s lifeless body draped over his pony. How would he tell Jumping Bull what had happened?

But when Sitting Bull insisted, Four Horns agreed. “Just be careful. Don’t get too close.”

Sitting Bull might not have even heard the final warning, because he kicked his pony into a spurt of speed to reach one end of the Flathead line, then charged forward to get close enough for the
daring line. Without breaking stride, the gray wheeled left, and Four Horns watched as the boy kicked his heels and snapped his leather quirt, the pony seeming to glide over the ground.

The Flatheads took the dare and concentrated their attention on the solitary horse and rider. They had several guns, and Four Horns watched the puffs of smoke blossom from the musket muzzles, then heard the sharp crack of the report. He saw clots of dirt kicked up by the bullets all around the bay’s hooves. Arrows arced through the air in what seemed an endless rain, but Sitting Bull dodged them expertly, using the bay’s body to protect himself, twisting and turning in the saddle as arrows came close.

At the far end of the line, he was still on the bay and raised his hand triumphantly, riding back toward his uncle at a full gallop. Once more, the Flatheads tried to cut him down, but the increased range made it still more difficult.

Four Horns smiled at him. “I see you were hit,” he said.

Sitting Bull looked down at his foot, where fresh blood glistened in the sunlight. “It is a small wound,” he said. “I don’t even feel it.”

“You will later,” Four Horns warned.

The young warrior smiled. “I think so, but right now I think we should chase those Flatheads back where they came from.”

Four Horns agreed, and the Lakota closed on the Flathead line. The two Lakota with muskets concentrated their attention on the Flathead riflemen, trying to even out the disparity as best they could.

The Flatheads dropped back under the fury of the Lakota assault, slowly edging back toward the ravine. Already, three Lakota had been wounded, and two Flatheads lay in the dirt, their ponies waiting patiently beside the motionless warriors.

Pressing the attack still harder, the Lakota forced the Flatheads back into the ravine. Sitting Bull wanted to charge down after them, but Four Horns called him back. “They have the advantage down there,” he said. “We will be easy targets as we try to descend, and they will pick us off one by one. Let them go. They will not be back.”

“But …”

Four Horns shook his head. “No. Let them go. A warrior has to know when he has fought enough. Besides, you have been wounded. We have to find you a red feather worthy of such bravery.”

Yellowstone River Valley
1849

S
ITTING BULL LAY ON HIGH GROUND.
Far below, the Crow camp was silent. It was a small band, so small that not even the dogs had been brought along. Beyond the handful of tipis, a small herd of horses grazed peacefully. It was near sundown, and the Crows were already preparing for a night’s rest. A few women sat in a circle, some of them working on clothing while the others prepared food for the evening meal.

As near as Sitting Bull could tell, there were no more than a couple of dozen warriors with the small band. Their horses numbered around fifty, and two or three dozen more were picketed outside the tipis, close at hand in the event the band was attacked.

The Hunkpapa war party was small, just eighteen men, counting himself, under the leadership of One-Horned Elk. They were slightly
outnumbered, but unlike the Crows they were not encumbered with family and possessions. It ought to be relatively easy to steal some horses, and the chances of serious pursuit were slight. Backing away from the ridge, Sitting Bull could barely suppress his excitement. At eighteen, the warpath was still glamorous, and he raced down the hill to vault onto his horse, anxious to inform the rest of his band that he had found some horses.

He walked his horse for the first half mile, not wanting to risk being overheard. By the time he reached the war party, they had already camped for the night, but Sitting Bull’s news seemed to galvanize them. Gray Horse thought they should wait until morning, but Wolf Killer argued that the Crow were probably looking for a buffalo herd and might be likely to move on at first light. It was better, he argued, that they strike now, when the Crows would not be expecting it.

Wolf Killer’s view prevailed, and One-Horned Elk nodded his approval. It took less than a half hour to make ready. The warriors were already painted for the warpath, and they went through their ritual preparations quickly, some of them making sure their war charms and medicine bundles were in place, others checking their weapons, invoking the aid of
Wakantanka,
or walking off to be by themselves for a few minutes, perhaps to pray or to reflect on what might happen if they were killed or wounded.

Finally they were all ready. Sitting Bull was mounted on his warhorse, flicking the bridle
nervously. He made sure once more that his lariat was coiled carefully, and tucked it more securely into his breechclout. If he were knocked off his horse, the lariat would play out as the horse moved away, giving him a chance to grab the woven rawhide rope and regain control. A man on foot, even one as swift as Sitting Bull, was at a severe disadvantage in combat against a mounted enemy. Often warriors were killed when they were unhorsed and surrounded by a swarm of enemy warriors on horseback.

Satisfied that his lariat was ready, he moved toward One-Horned Elk and waited impatiently beside him.

One-Horned Elk looked at him with a slight smile. “You look like you are not sure you want to go,” he teased.

“I want to go,” Sitting Bull assured him, trying not to sound too eager. He knew that some warriors were reluctant to ride in battle beside a young man who might panic, or who might be so reckless as to endanger others as well as himself. The Lakota made it a practice to rescue their wounded and retrieve the bodies of their casualties whenever possible. A reckless man might get himself killed or wounded so close to the enemy line that it meant another warrior would have to expose himself to danger in order to try to recover the foolhardy victim.

But One-Horned Elk had ridden beside Jumping Bull for years, and he knew Sitting Bull had been well trained, and that despite his youth, the young man had a good head on his shoulders. Still, it
didn’t hurt to tease him a little to help him relax. Going into battle tense and nervous was like fighting with one hand tied behind your back.

When the other Hunkpapa were ready, One-Horned Elk gave the sign, telling Sitting Bull to lead the way since he had found the Crow camp. They rode at a trot, allowing time for the Crow get settled for the night. Their plan was to swoop down on the enemy, drive off their horses, and make their getaway immediately, leaving the Crow to flounder around in the dark. There would be some moonlight, but not enough to be of real benefit to the pursuers.

When they reached the last hill before the Crow camp, Sitting Bull raised his hand to halt the war party for last-minute instructions. As usual, the plan called for the posting of some warriors on the ridge above the enemy camp, while others moved down to drive off the horses. Busy with the rustling, it was not possible to keep an eye on the sleeping enemy. That job would be handled by the reserves on the hilltop, who would sound the alarm in the event of discovery and charge down to delay pursuit while the horses were driven off.

When One-Horned Elk had chosen those he wanted to wait on the hill with him, they spread out in a single line. The others positioned themselves to come in on the Crows from the far side, where the horses were. The herd would be driven right through the camp to create confusion and to pick up some of the mounts picketed outside the tipis. They would never try this if the Crow camp was larger, but it seemed like a reasonable risk
and would make the victory stories more colorful. It would also give the raiders a chance to count coup on the befuddled defenders as they came out of their tipis to see what was happening. And if the Crow were ready for a good fight, so much the better.