Chapter 15 #2
Yet, while politics demanded grave attention in print, so did the coming Fourth of July celebrations; it was the centennial year.
The United States was nearly a hundred years old—a very young nation compared to those in Europe, but for a nation that had so recently gone through such a desperate test as the Civil War, the centennial was an exceptionally special occasion.
Sabrina read avidly about the exposition planned for Philadelphia, the fireworks in Washington, and much more.
Everyone everywhere would be celebrating this Fourth of July.
July was still a long way off.
Colonel John Gibbon marched out of Fort Lewis with his prong of the attack in early April; the column leaving Fort Abraham Lincoln should have done so approximately two weeks later.
Custer remained in Washington, in very serious trouble with President Grant. The soldiers continued to drill and prepare for the expeditions.
They all waited.
“When they leave, the men will probably be gone a very long time,” Norah said one day as they worked on a quilt.
Sabrina, who had just received a letter from her sister, paid her little heed. Not that Skylar had any earth-shattering news, but it was always wonderful just to hear from her.
“A very long time!” Norah sighed.
Sabrina glanced her way, offering a wan smile, and read the letter over again.
“Maybe not. Maybe they will find the Indians quickly, and there will be a swift, very heroic campaign!” Libbie suggested.
“And maybe not,” Louella agreed glumly with Norah.
“My point,” Norah insisted, “is that we should have an outing.”
“With everyone so busy?” Sabrina demanded.
Libbie Custer, extremely anxious about her husband’s situation, smiled with sudden amusement and told her, “No matter how busy men are, they are often little boys. The general can be like a child, even on campaign, riding off to hunt and shoot—and sometimes…” She added softly, “irritate his superior officers nearly to death! My poor Autie! Everyone knows that he must lead his men on this expedition, and Generals Sheridan and Sherman both know that he is the man to get in there and get the job done! If only…” She glanced up again, realizing that her speech had turned passionate.
She shook her head unhappily. “Grant has ordered that Autie is not to lead the campaign, that he is not even to go on the campaign!”
“Oh, come now, Libbie! Things will work out, you’ll see,” Louella assured her.
“We need to have a picnic,” Norah insisted. “I just know that we can get the men to go along with the idea. We can take a day’s ride out and back. The officers are on hold, growing bored and restless. A few of the captains, perhaps…”
“We did promise to show Sabrina the countryside,” Louella said. “Sabrina, didn’t we?”
Sabrina looked up from her letter. “Of course.”
“Then we must do it,” Norah said.
Sabrina smiled, thinking that it was just talk, and nothing would come of it. “I’m sure it’s lovely countryside.”
Despite the brutal weather that continued to occur well into April, Sloan, traveling alone, was able to move quickly westward.
He followed the trail of Crook’s men and saw what had not been emphasized to any of the leaders in Washington; there were any number of travois trails leading southward, toward the agencies.
Many Indians had apparently tried to comply with the government mandate that they return to their reservations.
No one had allowed them the benefit of any extra time.
The number of “hostiles” would surely be soaring.
Two weeks out, he found the remains of the camp that had been attacked by Reynolds’s men. Sifting through the rubble, he discovered that rumors were true; this hadn’t been Crazy Horse’s camp. It had definitely been a Cheyenne camp.
He was bent over a half-burned child’s doll when he sensed movement behind him. He flattened, rolling behind a rise of thicket and rock. He quietly drew his gun. He still saw nothing, but he knew that someone was out there, watching him.
He waited.
Time passed, and he heard a flutter of movement. Far in front of him, through a cove of trees, someone was running, bare feet against the earth.
He carefully followed the sound and still discovered nothing.
Then he felt the faintest trembling of the earth beneath his own feet.
Spinning around, he went dead still, surprised to see not just an acquaintance, but a friend.
Hawk’s cousin, Ice Raven, had apparently been stalking him for some time and was now resting on his haunches just ten feet away.
“Ice Raven.” Sloan lowered his gun.
Ice Raven recognized him but paused, then lowered his knife slowly.
“You’re riding with the soldiers who came here?” Ice Raven asked him.
Sloan shook his head. “No, I am riding alone.”
“That’s good,” Ice Raven told him. “I wouldn’t want to have to kill you, Cougar-in-the-Night. But the time is coming when old friendships, even blood, may not matter.”
Sloan nodded. “The situation is bitter. But I wasn’t with those men. The soldiers who were here believed that they’d found Crazy Horse’s camp. I didn’t think that they had. I came to find out what had happened.”
Ice Raven stayed where he was and studied Sloan’s eyes for a long time.
“What are you doing here?” Sloan asked him. “This is a Cheyenne camp.”
“You know that we have friends among the Cheyenne. Your soldiers made a mistake. They thought that they attacked Crazy Horse’s camp because his good friend, He Dog, who fought with him so many times before, was here.
But He Dog had decided to go to the reservation.
He was a brave man, but his women and children were starving.
He was going to go the government way. And now, well, he has joined with Crazy Horse again.
It’s a Cheyenne camp, and I was riding with the Cheyenne, too.
Tell me—do you want to know if the Sioux camp is nearby, if I will lead you to it, so you can tell the soldiers? ”
“No. I asked the question because I am glad to see you, Ice Raven, and yet I am surprised, and I am asking as your friend what you’re doing here.”
Ice Raven turned, facing the wind. “There was a girl I came to see. A Cheyenne maiden. I was welcomed by her people. I was here when it happened.”
“Tell me about it,” Sloan said, squatting down.
“Scouts went out from the camp to find the soldiers, but the soldiers came before the scouts could warn the people. They split into groups—and began to quarrel with one another. The men who stole the ponies wouldn’t go to the aid of the soldiers fighting in the village.
When we rallied after the initial attack, we fired back.
Heavy fire. We aimed true. The soldiers burned the tipis—and everything in them.
The Cheyenne killed some soldiers and stole their ponies back.
The soldiers suffered, because their leaders were fools.
The Cheyenne keep suffering, because the Whites keep killing.
They were left without food, clothing, shelter.
They rode to the Crazy Horse people. Crazy Horse welcomed them, but feared he didn’t have enough food.
Sitting Bull has invited all the tribes to an annual celebration, in the sun.
A time for men to dance, to come close again to Wanka Tanka, the Great Mystery.
Crazy Horse leads people to Sitting Bull. ”
Sloan studied Ice Raven. One of Hawk’s cousins, he was no stranger to the White world.
His English was excellent; he had often worn denim breeches and cotton shirts, dined in taverns and restaurants.
At times, he had lived easily among the Whites.
No more, Sloan thought. The starvation and killing had changed Ice Raven.
And now, Reynolds and his bumbling men had come along and attacked a tribe of Cheyenne.
The Cheyenne would now join with Crazy Horse, and Crazy Horse would join with Sitting Bull.
And the White commanders who had learned that each brave was a man unto himself, and each tribe separate, might not accept the fact that the Indians had at last learned from the Whites—and would band together to safeguard themselves from annihilation.
“I’m sorry,” Sloan said. “I am sorry for what was done, and for what is happening. You said that you came here to be with a girl. Did she survive the attack?”
Ice Raven nodded gravely.
“She survived, and she will remember.”
“I’m glad that she lived.”
“She is with her people, tending to the wounded.” He looked around, shaking his head. “The White commander left many of his wounded. Some were scalped alive and brutally finished. The Whites who attacked us will condemn us. They make war, but when we fight, we are the savages.”
“I wish there were a way to change it.”
“You can’t stop the tides,” Ice Raven said disparagingly.
“Yet I greatly fear the future. They want brave men to become farmers on land that will not grow grass. I have seen the agencies where the once-great warriors drink themselves into oblivion, and the women and children cry for lack of food. I don’t see how this will change, though I know that the White men, with their numbers and their guns, will eventually flood the plains.
I have seen once-fierce warriors, who are still proud men, bow to the way of the Whites.
The wind is changing. Some will follow the white wind and survive, and some will fight the last battles.
When they are over, there will be nothing but the mercy of a people who call us savages and hate what we are—and must surely know, in their hearts, that they have stolen the land that they claim as their own. ”
Sloan thought of the eastern tribes—no longer in existence. “The culture will change, but perhaps our ways will always be remembered.”
“By drunken men farming dead ground on reservations.”
“Some White men are corrupt, but some are good. You know that. It will be a harder fight once the last blood is shed.”