Still, they had proved to be a valuable treasure to a people who had nothing.
As he had gathered up that third thin robe, someone downstream cried out sharply, in a language Young Two Moon did not understand. A shot was fired in the darkness—then a long rattle of gunfire was punctuated by shouting among the white men.
One of their camp guards must have thought he heard something, the young warrior brooded as he slipped away into the darkness.
Quickly he retraced his steps, dragging those three robes back up the mountainside to the first fire, where he helped wrap an old woman and two of her grandchildren within one of the robes. At the second and third fires up the slope, he watched the abandoned robes enwrap several little ones huddling together to share their mutual warmth. For the most part, the adults were too cold to utter any thanks as they crouched by the fires, rubbing bare hands together over the flames, kneading the frozen flesh of their naked feet, gazing up at the young warrior with eyes pooling with gratitude.
And at the edge of the dim light thrown out by each of those fires sat young mothers slowly rocking back and forth on their haunches as they softly keened their mournful death prayers. The first of the tiny infants had begun to die one by one—children so small and nowhere strong enough to survive the brutal cold of that long, terrible day now stretched into an endless winter night.
Other women murmured their death songs for fallen husbands and brothers and sons as they hacked off clumps of their hair, dragged knives and pieces of sharp red chert across their arms and down their legs, mutilating themselves again and again throughout that long, horrid night while the oozing blood froze until the ugly wounds were repeatedly reopened by the mourners.
Here and there in the shadows flickering on the frozen snow lay the wounded warriors, some with a peeled branch between their teeth, others grinding their pain into strands of wrapped rawhide or twisted fringe so these stoic ones would not cry out in their private agony.
Some of these would surely die this night.
The dead. Already there were three-times-ten on the battlefield, young and old warriors who had fallen too close to the soldier lines to recover their bodies. They would be scalped by the enemy’s scouts.
But among these who had been brought to the fires in the breastworks and this mountainside, even more had died after Young Two Moon and the handful of others who would remain behind had crept back into the darkness of the ravines and coulees, slipping silently toward the soldier camp.
There the young warriors had waited in the first cold streaks of day-coming as the white man and his Indians finally saddled, formed up, and began their retreat from the valley.
The ve-ho-e having stripped a once-powerful and very proud people of everything … everything but their lives.
* Pike’s Peak.
† Southern Cheyenne Indian Agency, Darlington, Indian Territory.
Chapter 39
26 November 1876
Early on the afternoon of the battle, Second Lieutenant Homer W. Wheeler had been ordered to take his men of G Troop, Fifth U.S. Cavalry, and establish a guard outpost on the heights south of camp where the Shoshone scouts had remained throughout the fight.
Some two hours later one of Mackenzie’s orderlies had ridden up the narrow game trail to those heights.
“Lieutenant Wheeler?”
“That’s me.”
“The general commanding sends his compliments—”
“Forget the formality, soldier. What is it?”
“He requests to see you at once.”
“My troop?”
“Sir, he said nothing about that. Just that he wants to see you.
Flinging himself into the saddle, Wheeler led the pink-faced private back down that winding, narrow path to the site on the south slope overlooking what that morning had been the Cheyenne village, where Colonel Ranald S. Mackenzie was overseeing the final mop-up of the enemy camp.
The young officer dismounted, handing his reins to the orderly, then stepped up, clicked his heels together, and saluted.
“General. Lieutenant Wheeler: G Troop, Fifth Cavalry. Reporting as ordered, sir.”
“Mr. Wheeler. Very good,” Mackenzie replied, returning the salute as the muscles along one side of his jaw convulsed. “I have an important duty for you.”
“Yes, sir. Anything to help.”
The colonel nodded, turning away to look across the decimated camp where scouts and soldiers were busy at that moment dragging plunder from the lodges, stripping the lodgepoles of their hide-and-canvas covers. Wheeler stepped up at the tall Mackenzie’s elbow to look down upon the scene.
“Do you see our hospital?”
“Yes, General.”
“The surgeons certainly have had a time of it today.”
“I can quite imagine, sir.”
Now Mackenzie momentarily glanced at Wheeler. “Lieutenant—I’m placing you in charge of transporting our casualties back to our wagon camp on the Powder.”
“Y-yes, General,” he said, his shoulders snapping back proudly. “It is an honor, sir!”
“What will you require?”
His mind burned with adrenaline as it raced over what he needed. “Twenty men, General.”
“Certainly.”
“And as many packers as the mule train can spare to handle the animals.”
“You have my authority.”
“With the general’s permission: can I inform you later just how many civilians I will require?”
“Yes, by all means. Now you must speak to the surgeons and see to things at the field hospital yourself.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll go there now, with your permission. Thank you.”
“Very well, then,” Mackenzie said quietly, almost too quietly to be heard above the commotion of the destruction being pursued downslope at their feet. “Do you have any further questions of your assignment?”
Wheeler turned on his heel, coming to attention, saluting smartly. “None at all, General. Thank you, sir. Thank you!”
Mackenzie saluted, murmured, “Good day, Lieutenant.” Then the colonel wheeled about on his heel, his shoulders sagging as he returned to his headquarters group—looking more like a man who had just suffered a defeat than a man who had just claimed a major victory in this long and indecisive campaign.
For a few moments more, Wheeler stood there, rigid—letting the personal triumph of it wash over him, enjoying this singular honor.
When he finally realized he must look a sight standing there by himself, staring from that outcrop of rocks at the village and the valley beyond, Wheeler quickly took his reins from the young orderly and remounted. Going to Tom Moore, he requested four packers at that time to lend a hand to the twenty troopers from his own company who could construct the travois they would need from the Cheyenne lodgepoles.
They had found it no easy task that late in the afternoon to scrounge up enough poles, rope, and robes or blankets for those travois. Most everything had been cut up and was in the process of being consigned to the leaping bonfires crackling throughout the village. Throughout the rest of that afternoon and on into the night, the two dozen men under Wheeler went through the grueling work of constructing thirty travois by firelight, using rope and strips of hide and canvas beneath those robes they had saved from destruction.
Because of the twenty-six enlisted men who had been wounded, as well as three more men so sick they could not ride in the saddle on their own, the surgeons reported to Wheeler that they would have no trouble filling those thirty travois. Dr. LaGarde and the others had decided to bury one of the six privates who had been killed there on the battlefield. Because his transport detail could not come up with material to construct more travois, Wheeler and the surgeons decided they would have to carry four of the dead unceremoniously slung over the backs of Tom Moore’s mules.