Reap the Whirlwind (27 page)

“We leave him to his ever-enduring sleep,” John Finerty pined quietly as he came up alongside Seamus in the heavy silence.

“Seen enough soldiers buried out here,” Donegan replied as they moved back toward camp among the other mourners.

Finerty gazed at the hills growing black as indigo against the twilit sky. “I suppose you have, Irishman. Perhaps the burial of a man at sea is all the more lonely—but right now I am struck that the interment of a soldier in this great American wilderness is about the gloomiest of funerals I ever care to attend.”

Glumly, Donegan replied, “John, sad truth is you will likely witness many more burials before Crook finishes this march.”

“A shame, then, that Private Tierney should die by his own hand as this campaign is only beginning. The first of Crook’s brigade to lay his bones beneath the terra incognita of Wyoming.”

8-9 June 1876

“W
hy the hell didn’t you have the general come get me?”
Seamus Donegan bellowed at John Bourke.

“So now you savvy Crow?” Bourke snapped back at the angry Irishman.

“A little!”

“Damned little, I’ll bet! We aren’t even sure it was Crow.”

“Maybe I could’ve kept them talking long enough to find out who it was, and if they knowed something about Grouard.”

Bourke gnawed on his lower lip a minute, as if he were considering it. “Maybe you’re right, Seamus. A damn shame that Arnold scared the visitors off.”

“Now we’ll never know who they were, and what they came to tell us.”

“Why you so sure they had something to tell us?” Dick Closter asked.

Bourke agreed. “Yeah—Arnold figures it was some Sioux warrior wandered up and bumped into us.”

Donegan shook his head. “No, boys. We was being looked for. Just like I warned you. We’re being looked for because we aren’t where we said we was supposed to be. And now they heard that son of a bitch named Arnold
answer them in Lakota—I’ll bet they’re high-tailing it back to the Yellowstone. Long gone now! Good and spooked.”

Just past midnight on the morning of the eighth pickets along the banks of the Tongue heard the persistent howling of a coyote—the means used by many tribes of the northern plains to announce their arrival. A moment later the howls were followed by a single voice hailing the camp from the south side of the river. Thing was, that voice didn’t speak in English, so the frightened picket ran to get his sergeant of the guard, and he went to fetch up the officer of the day, and that soldier, Swiss-born Captain Alexander Sutorius, decided to grab the first civilian he found who claimed he knew some Injun talk. Happened that it was a man named Ben Arnold who had been hired to ride courier service between Fort Fetterman and the campaign column, carrying mail, dispatches, orders. But for some reason early that Thursday morning, Arnold thought he recognized the Sioux tongue, then responded in kind—and lo and behold: nothing more was heard of that disembodied voice across the river, hidden by boulders and willow brush.

At dawn the following morning Bourke joined the Irishman in crossing the Tongue, where they found the moccasin prints of those mysterious night visitors, as well as tracks of five unshod ponies. They even discovered a weary, used-up animal some distance away from the river, likely abandoned by the unknown warriors who had hailed the camp only to be scared off.

“Crook figures it the same way you do,” Bourke told Donegan later when he returned to the packers’ camp as that afternoon of the eighth grew old.

“So the general finally believes that was a runner from the Crow?”

The lieutenant nodded. “Yeah. Which means he’s gotten angrier and angrier all day about it. And ordered Arnold back to Fetterman.”

“Fired him?” Closter asked.

“That was the man’s last ride south,” Bourke declared.

“What of that other courier come in today?” the old packer inquired.

“Dispatches from Fetterman.”

“Any good news from headquarters you can tell us?” Donegan prodded.

“Sheridan wired that he’s ordered up the Fifth Cavalry from Kansas to guard our rear—do what he can to block the roads north. Which is good to hear, because Sheridan also informed Crook that Agent Hastings has finally admitted that most of the able-bodied males of fighting age have already left Red Cloud, rushing north for this country. Still, some more good news did come over in a separate wire from Camp Brown.”

“The post over on the Wind River?” Donegan asked.

“Informing Crook that over a hundred Shoshone were already on their way to join up with him.”

“That oughtta perk up the ol’ man!” Closter said.

“About all that could perk him up, what with the past couple of days,” Bourke echoed. “We’ve heard the bad news that a wire’s down somewhere between Fetterman and the Crow agency in Montana.”

“So Crook didn’t get word to the Crow?” Seamus asked.

“Doesn’t appear likely.”

“Then Frank Grouard is all on his lonesome to get the tribe sold on fighting alongside Crook when he meets the Sioux and Cheyenne. He’s on his own.”

Crook had designated that eighth day of June as one of rest for man and animal both. While many tried their luck with fishing, the rains of the past few days had swollen the creeks and rivers, building them to a muddy torrent unfit for any sport. Nevertheless, a group of infantrymen did fashion a crude seine across the Tongue, managing to snare a surprising number of shad to augment their diet of salt pork and beef on the hoof.

Late that afternoon a party of sixty-five miners trudged into the column’s bivouac, on their way from the Black Hills and making for the Montana gold fields, just as the two mysterious miners had predicted days before. They asked to march along with the general’s army, and Crook agreed, perhaps a bit more buoyant now that he knew some of his Indian allies were on their way to join up. If the Crow did not receive his call to arms and would not come with Frank Grouard’s prodding, the general nonetheless
would have something on the order of 130 Shoshone allies, along with the miners—another two hundred guns with which to launch his attack against the hostiles of Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse.

After bumping into the immense Crow war party, Frank Grouard had crossed the rain-swollen Big Horn River and rode some eight miles back to their village in the shadows of the dark-green foothills.

For much of the way Baptiste Pourier and Louie Reshaw had been talking with the Crow warriors, who competed with one another, all clamoring to converse in their own tongue with the two half-breeds. From time to time Bat would holler something of note to Grouard in English.

“Yeah, they saw our signal mirrors flashing,” Pourier said. “But they didn’t do nothing about it because they figured it was Sioux, figuring only Indians would know their signals.”

“They thought we was Sioux?”

“Makes sense,” Bat replied. “You saw that war party at the river yourself, Frank. The Crow knew the Sioux was in their country, coming from the same direction we was.”

It did make perfect sense, Grouard grudgingly agreed, even if it got down in his craw a bit.

That evening, when they reached the large encampment, the Crow fed their three visitors before holding their first council. Beneath the clearing skies Grouard told the chiefs and headmen that he had come to enlist the help of their tribe, to ask for warriors to follow him back to the camp of Lone Star Crook’s soldiers, who were marching to attack the enemies of the Raven People.

“He sent word for you to come over the singing wire—asking your agent to ask you to help him,” Grouard said, then fell silent as he waited for Bat to translate into the Apsaalooke tongue.

“They say the agent never told them,” Pourier explained. “Say he never got the message from Crook.”

The Crow politely listened, then smoked ceremonially, and finally war chief Old Crow said they would all think on it until another time. From the looks on those dark faces
gathered at that council fire, Grouard was sure he had failed to convince the tribe to send allies to join Lone Star at Goose Creek.

That following morning Frank bolted down his breakfast, then had Pourier wrangle a private session with Black Foot and Crazy Head, two of the leading warriors among the River Crow. It took some talking to convince the pair that Crook intended to drive the Lakota and Shahiyena back to their agencies, far from Crow country once and for all—but they finally agreed to believe, at least to the extent of calling another council so they could again propose joining up with the Lone Star soldier chief.

“If you decide you won’t go with me,” Grouard finally told the implacable warriors at that council, “I will be starting back tomorrow morning.”

“Why are you in such a hurry?” Black Foot demanded sourly.

“Because Lone Star needs me. And I want to fight the Lakota. If the Crow do not want to fight them, at least
I
will help the soldiers drive your enemies out of
your
land. Any one of your warriors who realizes what a great honor it will be to drive the enemy from your hunting ground can join me when I return to the Lone Star. I will leave in the morning.”

The headmen murmured among themselves, then eventually let Crazy Head make the announcement.

“If you will stay another day while we move our village to the banks of the Big Horn, we will send many of our young warriors with you.”

This was about the best news Frank could have gotten after days of danger getting to the land of the Crow, days of frustration suffered since their arrival. True to its word, the next morning the village packed up and ambled slowly to the east, eventually stopping to make camp along the Big Horn River.

That night Bat came to Frank and told him the Crow were holding another council.

“I don’t like the sound of things. We better get on over there pronto,” Pourier urged.

Indeed, the Crow were reconsidering their decision. More than a few had voiced their fears of the Lakota, and
now it seemed that contagious anxiety had spread among much of the tribe. Having heard enough to disgust him, Grouard bolted to his feet and shouted above the growing clamor—pointing at Big Bat.

“I am new among you. But my friend, Left Hand, has always told me the Crow were a brave people. Though small in number, the Crow always fought bravely against the mighty Blackfoot to the north, the Shahiyena to the south, and the overwhelming Lakota out of the east. But now, as I hear the frightened words of this council—I cannot see any of the brave Crow Left Hand told me about. Where are they? Do they live somewhere else? Tell me where I can find them—because I am going back to Lone Star’s soldiers tomorrow. I will fight the Lakota since you will not!”

Turning on his heel, he pushed through the thick cordon of haughty onlookers watching the council.

Beneath the starry sky he stomped on toward the place where he had left his saddle and bedroll. At least he figured he could get a good night’s rest before heading back in the morning.

“Grouard!”

Still fuming, he turned, recognizing Pourier’s voice. Bat came up and stopped before Grouard, accompanied by an aging warrior.

“Grouard—this is Old Crow.”

He only nodded at the warrior, then looked back at Pourier. “I’m going to turn in now, Bat. I got a long trail back.”

“But Old Crow wants to talk,” Pourier explained. “Wants to know when you fix on going back to Lone Star’s soldiers.”

He shrugged, eyes narrowing and words sharp as the edge of chipped flint. “Dammit—I already told ’em. Heading out in the morning.”

Old Crow listened as Bat translated, while never taking his eyes off Grouard. After all that silence, the aging warrior spoke, and Bat translated happily.

“Says he’ll go with you, Grouard! Can you believe that? This man’s an important war chief—and he says he’ll go back with us!”

At the same time, Old Crow turned to call into the night. A young boy emerged from the shadows, holding the reins to a fine war pony. Old Crow swung atop it as easily as any youngster and headed back into the village, haranguing the Crow—challenging them to join him as part of Lone Star’s war on the Lakota.

“What are you afraid of?” he said, snarling at them. “It is our job to drive the enemy from our land. We must not have the white man do it for us. I will go—even if I am alone. Perhaps I am the last Apsaalooke!”

Early the following morning Frank took Bat and Louie down to the banks of the river and located the raft. As they were repairing it for their trip back across the Big Horn, Old Crow showed up with only three others.

“They want to know if you will wait to start back until tomorrow morning,” Bat translated, with hope still written on his face.

Frank counted on that hope more than any of the promises these people had made only to break. “All right. Tell him the three of us will cross the river and camp for the night. After breakfast in the morning, we are leaving.”

Between Grouard’s threat to leave, and Old Crow’s taunting challenge, something did the trick: by nightfall Grouard counted 159 Crow warriors on the east bank of the Big Horn River with him, each one outfitted with an extra pony and his finest weapons. They were ready to move out with the half-breeds at first light.