“He ain’t dead yet, sir?”
“Not … just yet.”
It wasn’t long before McFarland’s heart finally beat its last. No breath wisping from his nostrils.
“All right,” Wheeler said with resignation as he straightened his fur cap on his head. “Let’s get the private wrapped up in a blanket and lashed with rope like the other dead men.”
“Beg pardon, Lieutenant,” grumped one of the escort, who stepped up to rest a gloved hand on the dead soldier’s body. “Alexander … Private McFarland, he was a friend of mine, sir. What you got in mind for him, you go tying him up in a blanket like the other dead, sir?”
“Why, I’m fixing to put him on one of the mules,” Wheeler explained, growing annoyed after so many days bare of sleep and warm food, filled only with bone-numbing work and spirit-robbing cold. “Like those others—”
“I beg you, Lieutenant,” a second attendant pleaded as he came up. “McFarland don’t deserve to be hunched over no goddamned mule’s back to freeze like a croquet hoop, sir! Let us leave him be on the litter till we get back to—”
“But I need that litter, Private.”
“Who you need it for?” demanded the first soldier suspiciously.
“For one of the scouts.”
The second soldier prodded, “You mean one of the civilians was wounded?”
“No,” Wheeler explained, growing more nettled as more and more of the column inched past them in the snow. “I mean one of the Shoshone.”
“Take his litter away for a goddamned Injun?” a soldier cried.
Another shrieked, “Not even no white man?”
“As you were, soldiers!” Wheeler ordered. “I’ve made my decision. While I understand your friendship for McFarland, we also owe what we can to the scouts who put their lives on the line too.”
“But you can’t put my bunkie on no god-blamed mule!”
“Why not?”
“’Cause he’s … he’s dead, sir!”
“Exactly, Private,” Wheeler answered. “Don’t take this wrong, but McFarland doesn’t know the difference any longer. And I’ll damn well do what I can to make one of our allies comfortable.”
How he hated feeling their eyes between his shoulder blades as he turned, waving one of his noncoms over. “Sergeant, go up to the Shoshone detachment and locate the one called Anzi.”
“Anzi, sir?”
“You’ll remember him,” Wheeler sighed. “He was the one drank most of the whiskey we had us the night after the battle.”
“Yes, sir. I remember that one. For sure I do.”
As the sergeant reined off into a lope, it started to snow again right overhead. Wheeler looked to the east where the sky was a patchwork of clouds and sunlight, blue and gray. But above the column it was beginning to snow again to beat the band. Big, thick, soft flakes that seemed to hiss through the brittle air as they tumbled from the lowering sky.
Behind Wheeler a voice grumbled, “That son of a bitch—”
Turning, throwing his shoulders back wearily, so tired he did not want a fight, the lieutenant declared, “I hope whoever spoke out of turn will be a man and own up to calling his superior a son of a bitch behind his back.”
The eyes shot here and there until an older private admitted, “It was me, sir.”
“You?”
“B-but I didn’t mean you, Lieutenant,” the older man apologized. “I was saying that Shoshone scout you call Anzi is the red-bellied son of a bitch. Him, sir: for taking McFarland’s—”
“I see,” Wheeler interrupted with a sigh, telling himself to be patient with these weary, half-frozen men. “Well, now—we all know that red-bellied Shoshone son of a bitch has lasted two days longer than our army surgeons said he would. So if he’s what you say he is, soldier … at least he’s one goddamned tough red-bellied son of a bitch.”
George Crook had pushed Colonel Richard I. Dodge’s doughboys to their limit, driving them some thirty-six miles in twelve hours that first day—a march of astonishing speed and endurance considering the temperature, the wind-driven snow, and the difficult terrain.
Just before ten A.M. yesterday, 27 November, five Indian couriers had reached Crook’s bivouac as the infantry was preparing to continue its march west. From the scouts the general learned that Mackenzie had departed the battlefield and was headed his way, bearing his dead and wounded out of the mountains.
“It appears General Mackenzie no longer requires your services,” Crook informed Dodge.
The glum infantry commander asked, “What now, General?”
Crook regarded the fuss-budget Dodge a moment longer, then replied, “Why, we countermarch to our wagons.”
“Do you plan on reaching the crossing tonight, sir?”
“I most certainly do, Colonel. I most certainly do.”
Late that Tuesday morning, the twenty-eighth, another trio of couriers rode into the Crazy Woman camp. They bore Mackenzie’s official written report of the engagement. Barely able to contain his excitement, George Crook read and reread the first word the outside world knew of that dramatic and tragic confrontation in the valley of the Red Fork:
Sir: I have the honor to report that at about twelve o’clock AM, on the twenty fourth (24th) inst. while marching in a south westerly direction towards the Sioux Pass of the Big Horn Mountains I was met by five (5) of the seven (7) indian scouts who had been sent out the evening before who reported that they had discovered the main camp of the Cheyennes at a point in the mountains, about fifteen or twenty miles distant. Two of the seven (7) indians remaining to watch their camp, the command was halted near sunset and then moved toward the village intending to reach it at or before daylight, owing to the nature of the country, which was very rough and in some places difficult to pass with Cavalry. The command did not reach the village until about half an hour after daylight. The surprise was, however, almost complete. The approach to the village, the only practicable one, entered the lower end and the indians taking alarm took refuge in a network of very difficult ravines, beyond the upper end of the village, leaving it on foot and taking nothing but their arms with them. A brisk fight for about an hour ensued after which shooting was kept up until night. The village consisting of one hundred and seventy three (173) lodges and their entire contents were destroyed. About five hundred (500) ponies were taken & twenty-five (25) indians killed whose bodies fell into our hands. And from reports which I have no reason to doubt, I believe a much larger number were killed. Our loss was one (1) officer and five (5) men killed & twenty five (25) soldiers & one (1) Shoshone indian wounded. Fifteen (15) cavalry horses and four horses belonging to the indian scouts were killed. The command remained in the village during the night and moved on to this point today. Lieut. McKinney, Fourth (4th) Cavalry who was killed in this affair was one of the most gallant officers and honorable men that I have ever known.
(signed) R.S. Mackenzie
Colonel, commanding
Fourth U.S. Cavalry
Immediately calling for Dodge, Crook showed the colonel Mackenzie’s report.
“He’s done all that you asked of him, General,” Dodge replied, returning the dispatch to Crook.
“Yes,” the general said. “From the sounds of things, I think the fighting is finally over.”
“I certainly hope so, General.”
Crook nodded, peering down at the maps littering his field desk. “Perhaps now Crazy Horse will either surrender, or decamp and go off to hide himself in the badlands.”
“You seem much pleased with your success.”
Crook’s eyes narrowed as he regarded the prim Dodge, as if the colonel were passing judgment on him. “I have every reason to be pleased. I have marched hundreds of miles and fired hundreds of thousands of rounds, killing and wounding soldiers as well as wasting an entire regiment of horses … to be able to stand here today—finally able to state that we have had a success!”