Those bitterly cold days in the wake of his fight on the Red Fork of the Powder River would mark the last campaign of Ranald Slidell Mackenzie … as well as the beginning of his slow and agonizing mental disintegration.
* Trumpet on the Land, Vol. 10, The Plainsmen Series.
* What the white man today calls Clear Creek.
† Lake DeSmet.
† Present-day Prairie Dog Creek.
Chapter 43
Big Freezing Moon 1876
For many days now, more than two-times-ten by the count of notches on the stick in his belt pouch, Wooden Leg had been out hunting with a small party of other young warriors. The last they had seen of Morning Star’s village, it was moving south slowly toward the Red Canyon of the White Mountains.* There Wooden Leg and the others expected to find their people camped a few days from now as the young men began turning about, slowly working their way back to their village.
That morning as the sun rose pale and heatless in a cold blue sky, Wooden Leg’s party was moving upriver along the western bank of the Tongue River, slowly working the game trails before them as they eased along.
“Look!” one of those in front called out.
Quickly they all halted—putting hands to their brows, frost curling from their faces as they squinted into the distance.
“They are walking,” Wooden Leg declared.
“A few ride,” said Stops in a Hurry. “Why do they have only a few horses?”
“Yes. Who are these people?” Wooden Leg wondered aloud. “Why would they be so poor that they are not riding?”
“Indeed, they are very poor,” commented Fox, another of their warriors. “You see they have few robes and no blankets to speak of.”
“Let us go closer and take a good look,” Wooden Leg suggested. “Then we might know if these are friends of the Ohmeseheso or if these are our enemies.”
Quickly retreating down the slope into the long, wide ravine, the young hunters hurried their pack animals south by east in the direction of the strangers. Then, upon leaving their horses in a coulee, some of them went to the brow of a snowy hill to have themselves a closer look at the slow procession inching its way below like a dark worm wriggling against a white world.
The more he studied the people, the more confused he became. Few wore moccasins. Most had stiff, frozen pieces of raw hides lashed crudely around their feet. Some helped old women and men hobbling along between them. Small children rode in the arms of the women, or on the shoulders of the men. There were no travois. These strangers had nothing to carry from place to place!
“These …” Wooden Leg gulped in shame, feeling the burn of sadness sting his heart, “these are the poorest people I have ever known.”
“Perhaps we should take them to our village,” Fox suggested. “We are prosperous and we can share all we have with those who have nothing.”
Then both of them heard the breath catch in the throat of Stops in a Hurry. He had the far-seeing eyes. And with them he stared at the strangers in shock.
Wooden Leg demanded, “What do you see?”
Painfully, Stops in a Hurry turned, his face gone pale with horror. “These are … are our people.”
“Our p-people?”
“Tse-Tsehese?” asked Fox. “Ohmeseheso?”
To the rising despair of the young hunters, it was indeed their own people—their own families, their own relatives and friends who had been driven into this winter wilderness with little but those green horsehides frozen on their backs. The young men rushed back to the coulee, leaped atop their ponies, and kicked them into a lope.
When the hunters were still a long way off, the women started trilling their tongues in warning. At first the warriors escorting the sad procession hurried forward on cold, stiffened limbs—prepared to meet the attack. But in a few moments they realized the young horsemen had not come to attack them. The older warriors, the chiefs, began to call out.
And the young hunters answered to their names, quickly searching among the many for their loved ones and relatives. Women began to cry and old men began to weep. And it made Wooden Leg cry too, for here he looked over the three Old-Man Chiefs. And thanked Ma-heo-o that Coal Bear’s woman still carried Esevone upon her back. Too, Medicine Bear helped the feeble prophet called Box Elder hobble forward, his bony hands still clutching his Scared Wheel Lance and the Turner over their heads.
While they might have no lodges and few weapons, while they no longer owned the finest in clothing and an ample supply of winter meat—the Ohmeseheso still had what mattered most. They had protected their most sacred objects. The People could rebuild!
“The soldiers and Wolf People came to our camp in the Red Canyon,” the story was told to the young hunters in a gush of words and tears, both happy and sad.
“We were camped far up Powder River near where you left us,” said another.
“Our women and children had to run away with only a few small packs.”
Wooden Leg nodded bitterly with remembrance, then said, “Just as we did last winter far down on the Powder River.”*
“This time the soldiers and their Indian scouts made sure they burned all our lodges and most of our horses were stolen. Many of our men, women, and children have been killed in the fight. Others have died of their battle wounds or have starved or frozen on our journey here.”
And a woman shrieked, “One of my sisters and her boy were captured with two other women by the Wolf People!”
“Where are you going?” Wooden Leg asked.
Little Wolf looked away into the distance a moment, then back into the young warrior’s face. “We are going there.” He pointed north. “Down the Tongue River … to find the Hunkpatila people.”
“Here,” Wooden Leg replied as the other hunters came forward, “take our horses for those who cannot walk. We will cross the ice with you and go down the river until we find Crazy Horse. Last winter when the soldiers drove us out into the snow and cold, Crazy Horse welcomed us … welcomed us as if we were his brothers.”
Headqrs. Mil. Div. of the Mo.
Chicago, Dec. 1, 1876
Gen. W. T. Sherman
Washington:
The following telegram from General Crook, dated Crazy Woman’s Fork, Wyoming Territory, November 28th, has just been received:
(signed) P. H. Sheridan
Lieutenant General
Before reaching General Mackenzie, I learned of the Indians’ retreat, and that he was returning with his command; so I countermanded the foot troops to this place. I sent you Mackenzie’s report of his operations against the Cheyennes. I cannot commend too highly his brilliant achievements and the great gallantry of the troops of his command. This will be a terrible blow to the hostiles, as those Cheyennes were not only the bravest warriors, but have been the head and front of most all the raids and deviltry committed in this part of the country.
(signed) George Crook
Brigadier General, U.S.A.