Wolf Mountain Moon (12 page)

To William Jackson the whole scene was comical in a way—to watch those soldiers fighting to keep that huge block of ice off the raft, struggling against the current that sought to shove it atop their raft. Comical indeed, had it not been that the lives of those twelve men could well be in forfeit at any moment.

Then, suddenly, the long raft gave a shuddering twist, its end dipping into the river as three of the men were left swinging helplessly from the rope, their legs dangling in air; the huge chunk of ice the size of a freight wagon groaned against the timbers, sliding off the raft.

As quickly the raft righted itself; the men on board lunged this way and that, slipping and falling in their struggles to bring it back under the shore-to-shore rope while others lunged out with their arms to grab hold of their comrades dangling from the line. Upstream more ice appeared, and the warnings were given from most every throat on shore. Then Baldwin himself was in the river up to his knees at the north bank, waving for all he could, signaling the raftsmen to turn about and return before lives were lost.

The dozen need no special urging. They pulled and groaned, struggling to haul themselves back to the north bank, where cheers erupted. But in the midst of the celebration Miles immediately went to Baldwin's shoulder, giving suggestions about how he would accomplish the crossing if it were up to him, offering advice on making changes in the raft's design, becoming the sort of nuisance that made William and
Robert chuckle as they continued to watch the comic opera for the rest of that afternoon.

In the end no further attempts were made to reach the south bank that Monday, but by twilight Miles turned away from Baldwin in frustration and ended up the day by calling together his own crew to begin construction on a raft of his own design.

At dawn on Tuesday the men continued their raft building as more snow began to fall. The surgeon reported that the thermometer had dipped to three below through the night, but the heavy layer of snow clouds helped the air rise above freezing by late afternoon.

Near midmorning the impatient colonel sent one of his staff with Robert Jackson and instructions to ride up the snowy road toward Carroll City to make contact with Captain Bennett's command. Later, despite the rising river and the increasing danger of large ice floes, Miles launched his raft. After a supreme test of muscle, might, and courage, the soldiers reached the south bank and deposited four of their number with orders to scout up Squaw Creek for sign of the hostiles.

On the twenty-ninth the combined efforts of Miles and Baldwin succeeded in getting no more than two loads of soldiers across the river with their rations and ammunition. After all that time and all that effort, fewer than fifty men built their fires, boiled their coffee, and prepared for the long winter night on the south side of the Missouri.

That evening beneath a cold, frigid sky twinkling with a million points of light, a courier arrived with word from Lieutenant Russell H. Day, garrisoned at Fort Peck with a contingent of messengers from the Sixth Infantry. From the way the general stomped and fumed there around his roaring fire, it was clear to William that the news was not good.

“Damn it all!” Miles bellowed to his officers and those gathered within hearing. “Appears that Sitting Bull's pulled a fast one on us!”

“Is he south of the river, where Snyder can get to him?” Baldwin inquired.

“No. This report says the Hunkpapa never moved west at all!” Miles fairly shrieked in fury and dismay. “The Yanktonais
told Lieutenant Day that the Sitting Bull camp is some thirty miles
below
Fort Peck.”

“Downriver?” asked Second Lieutenant Charles E. Hargous.

“Damn right. Somewhere on the Redwater. About halfway between Peck and Buford!”

First Lieutenant George W. Baird stated, “Then that means Snyder won't get a chance at them either.”

“Exactly,” Miles fumed, crumpling the foolscap message in his hand. “There's reports that Sitting Bull's at least a hundred seventy lodges strong now, expecting to hunt buffalo between the Missouri and the Yellowstone all winter. But what's worse than Sitting Bull pulling a fast one on us is that the Fort Peck Indians say the Hunkpapa village is moving south from our country toward the Powder.”

“That's where they say Crazy Horse is wintering!” Baldwin cried.

“Exactly, Lieutenant. And if those two ever get together again, we'll have hell to pay,” the colonel growled, flinging the crumpled dispatch into the fire. “Even if they don't rejoin … the fact that Sitting Bull is moving south, perhaps seeking to cross the Yellowstone, can bode no good for the Fifth.”

“Why, General?” asked Hargous. “Shouldn't we be happy that we've made sure that Sitting Bull hasn't started north for Canada?”

Miles's eyes narrowed into slits. “No, Lieutenant. Because if Sitting Bull slips south of the Yellowstone, whether he joins Crazy Horse or not … it means that neither of them will be my prize. Instead—they'll likely fall right into the lap of George Crook!”

The following day the soldiers cheered one another at their breakfast fires with something William Jackson knew nothing of, banging their cups together and otherwise making merry beneath clearing skies.

“Happy National Thanksgiving Day!” they shouted to one another in celebration around the flames.

“A day to give thanks!” others would cry.

William looked at the Lakota half-breed named Bruguier and shrugged. “I'll give thanks they ain't asked me to go across that river.”

“Not yet, they haven't,” Big Leggings said.

Just after breakfast Miles called for scout George Johnson to carry another dispatch to Bennett at Carroll City while the rest of the command waited for the ice build up in the Missouri. Then around noon Robert Jackson and Lieutenant Bailey returned from Carroll City, having met Johnson on the road. Captain Bennett informed Miles that he had been successful in securing the trader's ammunition and would start back the following day, a Friday.

But the best news on that National Thanksgiving Day came from an unexpected source. Within the hearing of Nelson Miles, half-breed Robert Jackson just happened to mention to others that the Missouri was frozen solid no more than eighteen or so miles upriver.

Miles whirled on his heel, asking, “No farther than that?” Enthusiasm was back on his face.

Robert nodded.

“Must be near Fort Hawley,” William instructed.

“Right near there, brother,” Robert agreed.

“What's this Fort Hawley?” demanded the colonel.

“Old fur-trading post,” William explained.

Miles asked, “Anyone still there?”

Wagging his head, William said, “Not recent. Everyone's been gone a long time. All gone. Empty place now.”

Slapping his mittens together, Miles wheeled back to some of his staff. “Officers' call, Mr. Bailey! Lieutenant Baldwin—help Bailey get everyone in here now! We must make ready to break camp!”

“Where to, General?” Baldwin asked when he trotted up.

“Upriver to an abandoned post called Hawley,” Miles declared, smiling in that dark beard of his. “I'm told the river's solid up there and we can cross tomorrow.”

“C-cross tomorrow,” Baldwin sputtered. “What about the rafts we've built—all that work … the men we've shipped to the other side, sir?”

“Yes, well,” and a look of consternation clouded Miles's face. “Yes: see that we signal word for them to march upstream along the south bank, and we'll soon be reunited once we reach solid ice!”

Chapter 6
22 November-7 December 1876

W
asn't a lick of sense in pushing on east, Luther Kelly figured. Not with all the new snow falling to obliterate the tracks he and the other three had been following to see just where the Sioux might be scampering off to.

That Wednesday, the twenty-second, the four of them put Wolf Point at their backs and pointed their noses west, intending to do what they could to eat up that distance between them and Captain Snyder's battalion somewhere up the valley of the Big Dry.

Climbing the ridges to the south of the Missouri, the scouts kept to the high ground—the better to see over the surrounding countryside for great distances: watching not only for the soldier column, but wary for any of the Sioux sure to be in the area. But the only thing moving besides them that gray, somber day were some antelope cavorting atop the snowy heights.

Shadows were lengthening late that afternoon when Jim Woods spotted a half-dozen buffalo grazing down at the bottom of a bowl where a few cottonwood saplings promised the men would find a spring at best, some seep at worst. When Kelly's men agreed that there would be nothing finer than
buffalo meat to roast at that evening's fire, Woods loped on down and dropped a two-year-old bull.

“Can't be too wise for us to be moving on now,” John Johnston said.

Luther nodded, regarding the west. “Sun's headed to bed, and it sure wouldn't be healthy for us to show ourselves along the skyline after Jim's shot. We best camp in here.”

After pulling the saddles and blankets from their horses, the men took out their small camp axes and began chopping down the smallest and most tender of the cottonwood saplings. From them the scouts trimmed the branches, then laid the trunks in a pile before their horses. Although cattle would most times chew on cottonwood buds in the spring, they wouldn't gnaw on the bark itself the way a horse would when hungry enough.

Stepping back, Kelly crossed his arms in satisfaction as their mounts took right to nibbling on the cottonwood. “Nothing a horse likes better than this here green bark of the yellow cottonwood, boys.”

While Kelly and Billy Cross scrounged through the cottonwood grove for some squaw wood and kindling, Woods himself went to work on the butchering. Plainsman tradition dictated that the tongue and hide went to the man who had killed the animal. So with the tongue laid near the fire pit, Woods staked out the green hide near their fire, fur side up, right where he planned to make his bed for the night—then spread his blankets on that layer of thick insulation that would protect him from the cold ground.

By the time the first stars were twinkling into sight, the scouts had their peeled cottonwood wands prepared. From the ends of them hung juicy red pieces of buffalo the men suspended over the merry flames, grease dripping and sputtering into the fire. After dinner the coffee was boiled and the pipes came out as the air continued to cool, sliding past the freezing point.

The following morning the four were off at dawn without making breakfast, taking with them some of the cooked meat left over from last night's hearty feast. Upon reaching the valley of the Big Dry itself, Kelly's bunch finally discovered Snyder's trail poking its way up a northern branch. At that point the scouts decided they would rest some, giving their horses a
chance to graze on the thick bottomland grasses and themselves an opportunity to work on the cold meat in their saddlebags.

Resuming their march up the branch of the Big Dry, they entered a flat section of country, where they soon spotted a distant horseman sitting still upon a ridgetop, watching their progress. The scouts waved, hoping to receive some sign of friendliness in return, but instead the horseman disappeared over the far side of the hilltop.

“Injun or white man?” Woods asked.

“Weren't no Injun,” Johnston surmised. “No feathers. Didn't see me no shield.”

Luther said, “White man would've come on down—don't you figure, fellas?”