Oushata Massacre Read online

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Marcus said. “We may have left with a platoon of raw recruits, but I feel that we’re bringing back soldiers.”

  “Aye, sir, my feelin’ exactly,” Sergeant Flynn said.

  As they had when the company left three days ago, the fort’s compliment was turned out for their return. All the companies were lined up in parade formation, and the officers were again standing in review at the sally port. Marcus could see Colonel Pettibone mounted just in front of the flagpole. The band began playing as the men came through the gate.

  “Look sharp, men!” Marcus called, and he could see them sitting tall in their saddles, their chests swelled out, their faces filled with pride. True, the Indians had not engaged them in battle, but a group of untried soldiers had conducted a well-disciplined sweep through hostile land. The men had every right to hold up their heads.

  And so did he.

  He wheeled right, then made square around the quadrangle. When he approached Colonel Pettibone, he ordered, “Eyes right!” and as the left column turned their eyes toward Colonel Pettibone, and the right column stared straight ahead, Marcus and John rendered salutes with their sabers.

  - It was a magnificent moment.

  5

  In celebration of the completion of training for the new platoon, it was customary to put the rigors of drill and patrolling behind them at a party sponsored by the company that would be receiving the new men. In this case it was D Company, commanded by Captain Forsyth. All the officers of the entire regiment, as well as the non-commissioned officers and men of D Company, were in attendance.

  The recruits were dressed for the first time in their full-dress uniforms, and they stood in awkward groups on either side of the dance floor at the sutler’s store, feeling a sheepish pride over the gold buttons and braid and yellow flash that marked them at last as Cavalry troopers. The women, resplendent in fancy gowns, saucy curls, and flashing ear-bobs, whirled across the dance floor with first one partner, then another.

  It wasn’t until such moments that the disparity between the numbers of men and women was noticeable. Only six of the twenty officers and nine of the thirty sergeants had wives. There were six laundresses who were unmarried, making a total of twenty-one women. That was the total number of women on the whole post and had the entire regiment turned out for the dance, the women would have been lost in the crowd.

  According to regulations, D Company was supposed to have 78 privates, a wagoner, a saddler, 2 farriers, 2 trumpeters, 8 corporals, 5 sergeants, a second lieutenant, a first lieutenant, and a captain. Like most of the Army units out West, however, they were understrength and, even with the addition of 30 new recruits, still had but 60 enlisted men. John Culpepper filled the second lieutenant’s slot while Marcus, though only a second lieutenant, occupied the position of first lieutenant and executive officer.

  At such dances there was no jealousy evidenced by husbands as they generously allowed their wives’ dance cards to be filled. Though the women seemed to enjoy such parties, they found that every moment of their evening was taken.

  Marcus danced dutifully with Martha Pettibone and Janet Forsyth, the wives of his regimental and company commanders. Martha, as befitting a colonel’s wife, was a bit stiff and formal, but Janet seemed to genuinely enjoy the party. She was a good dancer and seemed as at ease with the enlisted men as she was with the officers.

  Ironically, Marcus found Drusilla Conklin to be the most interesting. Though he had only seen her in the shadow of her husband’s alcoholism before now, she seemed to shine at the dance. She was an excellent dancer and, during their dance, they got engaged in a conversation about the work of the Dutch artist, Jan Vermeer. Marcus was an amateur artist himself, and Vermeer was his favorite. He was delighted at how much Drusilla Conklin knew about his work, and she seemed equally delighted to have found someone who could discuss what was obviously her own secret passion.

  After a few dances, the band played a fanfare, and Colonel Pettibone stepped in front of them and held out his arms, calling for quiet. He was smiling broadly, good-naturedly, and Marcus realized that Pettibone was in his glory at such functions. Some men were meant to be bankers or lawyers or tradesmen. Pettibone’s destiny was to be a solider. Marcus felt that about himself as well.

  “Would you be givin’ us a speech now, Colonel?” one of the sergeants called.

  “Well, that’s just what I’m going to do if you’ll be quiet and allow it,” Pettibone said, and the men laughed.

  “Ladies, officers, men. I want to welcome our new recruits . . . and our new officers,” he added, including Marcus and John, though Marcus had already been here for three and a half months, “to the Fourth Cavalry . . . the finest fighting outfit ever to wear the uniform of the United States Army!”

  “Hurrah!” the men shouted and stamped noisily on the floor until Pettibone quieted them again.

  “And now I can tell you that what we have been waiting for has come through. This afternoon I received a dispatch from General Sheridan, authorizing the Fourth Cavalry to conduct an extended scout against Two Eagles. Enjoy yourselves tonight, men, for tomorrow we go on the hunt.”

  “Hurrah, hurrah!” The men shouted and whistled, and there was a buzz of excitement as they started talking among themselves.

  “Bandmaster resume the dance,” Pettibone said, his eyes shining brightly.

  Marcus tried to remain calm on the outside, but he was as excited as the men were over the prospect of seeing some real action.

  They had been on patrol for five days, but so far their search had been fruitless. Twice they had seen small, mounted bands of warriors, but the warriors were traveling light on fast ponies and they easily outdistanced the soldiers, then returned to laugh and mock them. It was a very frustrating expedition for the men.

  Then, on the afternoon of the fifth day, Missouri Joe found signs that they may be close to a large party. Pettibone halted his company and made camp, while a patrol of six went out looking. Marcus, to his delight, was given command of the patrol.

  “Now remember,” Captain Forsyth said as he gave Marcus his instructions. “You aren’t to engage them, you are just to find them, then report back to us.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marcus said.

  Marcus ordered the men to strip themselves and their horses of anything that might rattle, jangle, or clank.

  “I want us to be able to ride fast and silent,” he explained.

  Marcus chose Sergeant Flynn to go along as his second-in-command. William Shield was one of the other men in his patrol.

  Marcus and his men followed the river for about an hour. Finally they stopped to water their horses, and when they did, Marcus saw something, or thought he saw something, moving on the hills above them. He looked again, but there was nothing there.

  “What is it, Lieutenant?” Flynn asked. “Did you see something?”

  “I don’t know,” Marcus admitted. “I thought I did, but when I looked again, there was nothing there.”

  “Aye, sir, an’ that’s the way of it,” Flynn said. “When one of us that’s been around a wee while says we see Indians, most of the time we don’t really see ’em. We just sorta feel ’em. And I been feelin’ ’em for ’bout the last half hour or so.”

  Marcus took off his hat and brushed his hair back. “I wish we could actually see them. I’d like to have something definite to report to Colonel Pettibone when . . .”

  Suddenly there was the singing swoosh of an arrow, and it made a hollow sound as it hit Marcus’s saddle. The arrow stuck, and the shaft quivered right in front of Marcus’s leg. Marcus looked at it in surprise, struck dumb for just an instant by the shock of the near miss. His horse jumped once nervously, through it had not actually been hit.

  “There they are!” Flynn shouted, and he pointed to a hill about one hundred yards away. A band of Cheyenne came pouring over the top of the hill, swooping down at them, whooping and shouting at the top of their lungs. Marcus didn’t take time to c
ount them, but he estimated that there were about thirty braves in the band.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Marcus shouted, and he slapped his heels against the flank of his horse, urging him on. As they raced away, they stayed close along the bank of the river, occasionally slipping down into the water itself to send up sheets of spray.

  Marcus was in complete control of his animal, and he knew that he could get much more speed if he needed it. But he held his mount in check to stay back with the others. He looked back over his shoulder and saw that the Indians were gaining on them. They were so close that they couldn’t miss if they shot at them, and Marcus wondered why they weren’t firing.

  Marcus pulled his pistol and twisted around in the saddle to aim toward the Indians.

  “No, Lieutenant, don’t shoot at ’em!” Flynn shouted.

  “Why the hell shouldn’t I?” Marcus shouted back.

  “They ain’t shot us yet, ’cause they want to take coups,” Flynn explained. “But if we shoot first, they’ll shoot back, an’ with that many of ’em this close, they won’t miss.”

  Suddenly Marcus saw Captain Forsyth and the entire D Company coming over the hill just ahead of them.

  “Look!” Marcus shouted. “This way, men! Head for Captain Forsyth!”

  Marcus and the others left the riverbank and started toward Captain Forsyth. The Indians, seeing the other soldiers for the first time, drew their horses up and stopped. They wheeled about in confusion and started to retreat. Marcus saw them turning and stopped.

  “Now!” he shouted. “Let’s go get them!” Marcus now began urging the horse on faster and faster, getting everything out of the animal that he could. He closed ground rapidly, though at the same time he was pulling away from his own companions. Within a short time he had drawn even with the rear ranks of the Indians.

  Outnumbered by the Cavalry, the Indians were fleeing and fighting for their lives. Those who had rifles turned them toward Marcus and fired.

  Marcus heard and felt the angry buzz of half a dozen bullets going by him. He pulled his pistol and returned their fire, though his shooting proved equally ineffective.

  Marcus saw an Indian with a red blanket carrying a lance. At the end of the lance dangled a tuft of yellow hair, and he realized it had to be a white scalp. He thought of the wagon he had found, with the slain mother and daughter and the mutilated father. He took slow, deliberate aim, fired, and had the satisfaction of seeing the Indian tumble from his saddle. He had no time to enjoy it, though, because at that very moment he was struck and unseated by a thrown war club. He hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, rolled and tumbled painfully across the rocks, and finally came to a stop. He raised himself up to see the Indians scattering into every direction like a covey of flushed quail, just as the advance elements of the Cavalry pounded by in hot pursuit.

  “Go!” Marcus screamed loudly, forgetting the pain of his fall in the excitement of the moment. “Go! Get ’em!”

  Marcus watched the soldiers who had been behind pass him by. It was like having a box seat at a thrilling sports event. The horses were magnificent with their nostrils flared, their teeth bared, their manes flying, and their muscles working in powerful coordination. The riders were bending low over the animals’ necks, the brim of their service hats rolled back by the breeze, their eyes narrowed, their faces tautly set. It was a full-blown Cavalrv charge—and his first victory.

  With the horses secured and the guards posted, the officers gathered around the campfire that night. In addition to providing a fire for cooking and making coffee, the fires provided much-needed warmth, for the nights were beginning to get very cool. Winter wasn’t too far away . . . the leaves were changing colors, and several times over the last few days he had seen geese flying south, etching dark Vs high against the crystal blue sky.

  “Good work out there today, Cavanaugh,” Pettibone said to Marcus as he took a drink of his coffee.

  “Thank you, sir. It was a successful strategy,” Marcus said. “The only question I have is why you didn’t tell me what my real purpose was to be.”

  “I wasn’t sure how you would act if you knew what I had in mind,” Pettibone said. “Colonel, I know my duty.”

  “It isn’t that, Cavanaugh,” Conklin said. “It’s just that you were bait for the trap. And in case you haven’t noticed, most of the time when bait is used to set a trap . . . the creature being trapped gets the bait.”

  Conklin was sober tonight, one of the few times Marcus had seen him that way. He was staying sober with an effort. “I know a little about being the bait in a trap,” he said as he poured himself a fourth cup of coffee.

  “What do you mean, sir?” Marcus asked.

  “I was with the First Maine outside Petersburg,” Conklin said. “In what they called ‘ten minutes of hell.’”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve heard about the battle.”

  The First Maine was sent in advance of the real charge in order to get the Confederates to commit themselves. Nine hundred men started the attack; within ten minutes, 632 lay dead or wounded, including sixty-five percent of the officers. In one battalion, no one higher than the rank of sergeant was left alive.

  “Then you can understand when I say I know a little something about baiting a trap,” Conklin said. “Takes a toll on a man. . . .” Marcus knew that Conklin was referring to his drinking problem, but he didn’t comment on it. It was an embarrassing moment and he knew that Conklin already regretted it. A few of the officers around the fire cleared their throats nervously, then someone began reliving the day’s action, and the moment passed.

  “Eleven of them, by God. We got eleven of the heathen bastards,” one of the officers said.

  “I wonder if Two Eagles was with them?”

  “No, he wasn’t,” Missouri Joe said. He had been out in the dark and he now walked into the golden bubble of light that spread out from the fire. No one offered him a cup of coffee, and he didn’t ask for one. Instead, he cut off a plug from his chewing tobacco and stuck it in his mouth. “The leader of that there bunch was Standing Horse. He mostly operates up around the Bighorn Mountains.”

  “Isn’t this a little far away for someone like that to be operating?” Forsyth asked.

  “Yep,” Missouri Joe answered. “And the funny thing is, some of Two Eagles’s bucks was ridin’ with ’em. That don’t normally happen ’less there’s somethin’ up. Iffen you was to ask me, I say there’s a real gatherin’ takin’ place.”

  “Why do you think that is?” Marcus asked.

  By now, Missouri Joe had a big quid of tobacco worked up, and he squirted some juice toward the fire. It sizzled as it hit a hot coal.

  “Oh, hell, boy, I don’t have to reckon what it is. I know what it is. They’re gatherin’ up to make war.”

  “On us?” Marcus asked.

  Missouri Joe spit again, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and beard. “Well now, boy, iffen by ‘us’ you mean all the white folks that’s settlin’ this country, then I’d have to say yeah. They’re hopin’ to run ever’ last one of you out.”

  Joe squatted down Indian style next to the fire.

  “’Course I ain’t includin’ myself. I done married up with a Indian woman. The Indians is more acceptin’ than the whites. Moon Cow Woman sure ain’t looked on by other whites as one of them ’cause she’s my wife, but me bein’ the husband of Moon Cow Woman is another thing. They ain’t a Indian village between the Missouri and the Canadian border that I can’t go into.”

  “Including Two Eagles’s village?” Pettibone said.

  “Well, sir, I tell you . . .” Missouri Joe said. He took out his chewing tobacco and cut off another plug, then stuck it in his mouth before he spoke again. “The truth is, Indians is funny about that, too. I could go into his village, sure enough, and I’d be welcome around the fires. That is, long as I was to go in friendly-like. But iffen I was to come ridin’ in with a bunch of soldier boys, they’d be shootin’ at me just like they would you.
”

  “It makes me wonder,” Pettibone mused, “if in fact you would be shooting back at them?”

  “I don’t take your meaning, Colonel,” Missouri Joe said.

  “I mean, in such a case, just where would your loyalties lie?”

  Missouri Joe squinted across at Pettibone for a long, silent moment, then he stood up and sent another squirt of tobacco quid and juice into the fire. “I reckon I’ll go take a look at the horses,” he said, making no response to Pettibone’s question.

  “Colonel Pettibone, sir, you had no call to question his loyalty like that,” Forsyth said.

  “The man is an Indian lover,” Pettibone said. “You heard him talking, how when the Indians went on the warpath they wouldn’t go against him.”

  “Unless he was leading us right into their war camp,” Forsyth said. “The fact that he’s willing to do that when he would otherwise be in no danger from them is all the proof I need of his loyalty.”

  “Yes, well, perhaps some of us are more easily bamboozled than others, Captain,” Pettibone replied.

  “Did I ever tell you about the time we were down on the Republican and Captain Peters from the Fifth . . .,” one of the other officers started after the awkward silence.

  With the immediate tension eased, Marcus stood up and walked away from the fire. He wandered through the camp for a few moments, looking and listening to the men of the 4th . . . storytelling here, laughter over there, and the inevitable singing. Soon he found himself close to the remuda where the bodies of the eleven Indians who had been killed today were laid out in a line. He walked down the row of bodies until he came to the one he had killed . . . the tall one who had been carrying the lance with the blond scalp. There was a small, blue bullet hole in his chest, just over the heart. It had only taken one shot to kill him instantly.

  The Indian’s eyes were open, though one of them was half-closed. As Marcus stared down at him it gave him a disquieting feeling, as if the Indian he had killed was staring back.