Crackaway's Quest Page 6

  Like Wes, Crackaway was one of those men who had lived intermittently with tribes across the continent, and although they had sometimes fought side-by-side with the wasicun, the Americans, they had always shown such empathy for the plight of the Indians that their counsel was heeded even in the darkest moments of combat. For a year, Crackaway had been riding the Black Hills, seeking out those small bands of Sioux who were either reluctant or afraid to submit to the military, to persuade them that there was no future for them other than life on a reservation. It was a bitter message for an old trapper like Crackaway to deliver, but to put an end to the hardship and suffering that the resistance of the warriors inflicted on the women and children, he undertook it with the belief that he was doing the right thing.

  He’d come east with the last of the bands, stopping at forts and soldier camps, following a route that would culminate in the rendezvous with his wife and daughter. The last leg of that journey had brought him through the territory of the Great Sioux Reservation. It was at the Indian Agency along the Cheyenne River that he had met Black Lance.

  ‘Did something happen there?’ Wes asked.

  ‘When he saw the way we lived and were treated he became angry. It was not how he had told us it would be. The clothes and blankets we were promised are worn and without warmth. The cattle we are sent are thin and make our little ones sick. As it has always been, the wasicun are false. They speak of peace but they only want the death of the Sioux, Cheyenne and all other tribes.’

  Wes didn’t want Black Lance’s words to be true. He, too, had eventually added his voice to those of the peace commissioners in urging the tribes to lay down their weapons and live on reservations. In common with Crackaway, it was the desire to put an end to the deprivations conducive with a winter of being chivvied from one entrenchment to another that swayed his argument. His heart was with the warriors who wanted to continue to exist as their fathers and forefathers had done, but his brain told him that their military fight could never be won and the incessant pursuit was having a terrible affect on the women and children. But they had been promised fair treatment; he didn’t want to believe that the words of the treaty makers had been nothing but hot air.

  ‘Take me to the Agency,’ Wes told Black Lance. ‘Let me see what is happening there.’

  The day had lost most of its light when Black Lance led the way into a settlement of a dozen tepees in a gulch through which ran water on its way to the Cheyenne River. The people were Ogallalah Sioux, Black Lance’s kinsmen, who came out to greet his return and inspect his wasicun companion. There was none of the usual chatter and curiosity that had so often marked his arrival in villages. Instead, these people were silent, unusually morose for people whose natural, primitive emotion was to find laughter in all the aspects of adversity that the elements threw at them. But these people needed more than the recent arrival of spring to bring a semblance of comfort to their lives. They were battling more than the icy chill of winter. Food and substantial clothing would fill their bellies and keep their bodies warm but the persistent harrying and slaying of their warriors had finally destroyed their will to resist. They were starving, cold, frightened by their current situation and terrified of the future.

  The leader of the group was a squat man, short in height but broad across the chest. His face, too, was squat with narrow eyes above a broad nose and mouth. Un-warrior-like, but matching Black Lance’s attire, he wore a white-man’s wool shirt above his leggings and had a grey blanket folded across his left shoulder as though it was a badge of office. He held a lance erect in his left hand, its butt rested on the ground. The feathers, ornaments and scalps attached to it fluttered in the wind. He registered no emotion as he faced Wes Gray but the men knew each other.

  Pawnee Killer had lived in the village above the South Platte where Wes had first seen his wife, Apo Hopa. A few years earlier, Pawnee Killer, together with his friend Black Raven, had sought the death of Wes Gray in retribution for the murder of their sons, and although the true killers had later been identified and killed, their acrimony for the scout had never faded.

  Wes raised his hand and uttered the greeting, ‘Hau.’

  Empty of any pleasure at the white man’s arrival, Pawnee Killer nonetheless observed the usual civility to a visitor, his right hand extending towards the mounted man then sweeping wide, an invitation to step down and share the fare that the women were preparing. It turned out to be as meagre as the appearance of the group predicted. He’d come at a bad time, Black Lance told him, because the promised rations were two weeks overdue and the rifles had been confiscated so they were unable to hunt for meat. The deprivation, Wes was assured, applied to every Sioux family registered at the Cheyenne River Agency.

  Wes understood Crackaway’s anger. This was not the life that had been promised to the Sioux; it was a betrayal, a humiliation that could only give birth to resentment and future rebellion. Perhaps, he thought, it was the government’s plan to starve to death those Indians who hadn’t been killed in battle.

  Early next morning, accompanied by Black Lance, Wes shot a white-tailed deer drinking two miles upstream and returned to the small gathering with it slung over the Sioux’s horse. It was repayment for the hospitality of the village but the prospect of fresh meat didn’t generate rejoicing. As Black Lance predicted, the people were more concerned by the repercussions that might befall them if the gunshot had been heard by anyone at the Agency buildings. Pawnee Killer however, despite his personal animosity, accepted the gift, which would help to sustain his followers until the government shipment arrived.

  The carcase had barely been claimed by the women who would gut and skin it and prepare it for the pot before two men rode rapidly into the encampment. They were Santee Sioux, each wearing a black Stetson and blue calico shirt with a red rag tied around the bicep of their left arm. They were also carrying rifles.

  ‘Agency guards,’ Black Lance muttered. ‘The taller is Lame Dog and the other is Big Mouth.’

  Lame Dog had ridden to the spot where the dead deer lay and inspected it while astride his pony. ‘This animal has been shot,’ he announced, ‘who has a rifle?’

  Wes stepped forward. ‘I have.’

  It was apparent to Wes that Lame Dog wanted to demonstrate his superiority over the people of this small village by announcing that the possession of firearms was against the rules of the Agency, but Wes was an American and not subject to the restrictions placed on those Ogallalah, Hunkpapa and other war-like nations who had submitted to the white man’s terms.

  ‘Who are you?’ Lame Dog asked. ‘What are you doing here? This land belongs to the Sioux.’

  Wes chose to answer the last question first. ‘I know that. My name is Wiyaka Wakan. My wife is Apo Hopa of the Ogallalah Sioux and I was invited here by her uncle.’

  Black Lance moved so that he was standing shoulder to shoulder with Wes. ‘I am Wapaha Sapa, the uncle of Apo Hopa. What this man says is true.’

  Lame Dog wasn’t appeased. ‘You should have reported to Mr Archer,’ he told Wes. ‘It is his responsibility to know who is living within the borders of the Agency.’

  ‘I’m not living here,’ Wes told him, ‘just visiting, but I guess it would be polite to introduce myself to the Agent. I’ll drop by his office later.’

  Lame Dog and Big Mouth remained motionless for a few moments, unsure what action, if any, they should take against the American. Eventually, Lame Dog pointed at the dead animal and spoke in his native Santee tongue to two of the nearby Ogallalah warriors. When Wes asked for an interpretation Black Lance told him that the Agency guards intended to confiscate the carcase.

  ‘That meat isn’t going anywhere,’ Wes announced as he placed himself between it and the horsemen.

  ‘It was killed illegally,’ Lame Dog answered.

  ‘Even if this is part of the Sioux Reservation there is no restriction on hunting here. As a guest of Pawnee Killer I killed that animal. It is mine and it stays in this camp.’ Lame Dog s
at stoically astride his pony as though awaiting his instruction to be carried out, expecting the dead deer to be slung across his pony’s rear quarters. Wes was equally implacable. ‘If Mr Archer has a different viewpoint I’ll argue it out with him when I meet him.’

  When the guards had ridden away, the village women set to work on the carcase before it became the subject of further argument. Wes remounted the pinto and with Black Lance in attendance, rode north along the bank of the tributary towards the Cheyenne River. It took less than an hour to reach a larger village. Here, high tepees were outnumbered by timber huts. Men sat outside many of these houses, wrapped in blankets, and displaying little interest in their surroundings. The dark faces showed the same degree of uncertainty that was apparent on those among the tepees of Pawnee Killer’s village. When Wes passed by, however, more than one pair of eyes followed his progress to the centre of the encampment. News of the arrival of the famed Wiyaka Wakan had spread throughout the Agency families with inexplicable swiftness.

  The women were almost unrecognizable as the spirited bodies he’d known in their normal, nomadic environment. Those busy, buckskin-clad bodies epitomized the life of the village; always working, always chattering and eager to laugh. Now they were drab and sullen, their clothes no better than shabby wool cast-offs and their faces reflecting either some horror they’d left behind or the deprivation that was to be their future. Passing one of the tepees, Wes’s attention was caught by the activity of an old woman who was kneeling at her work. She had a bowl which she was twisting from side-to-side to enable her to inspect the contents. It reminded Wes of miners he’d seen panning for gold in a river, washing the earth in a riddle hoping to find nuggets or gold dust in the bottom. He stopped and asked Black Lance what she was doing.

  ‘It is her corn ration,’ the Ogallalah told him. ‘She has been thrifty. Most families have used up their supply.’

  ‘Why is she doing that with it?’

  ‘She will grind it but must first remove the dirt.’

  It was at that point that Wes espied the sack that lay at the woman’s side and recognized the peculiar red-ink government stamp on the bottom. It was the same mark as the one on the sack that Jenny had shown him the night before and which was now tied behind his saddle with the few belongings he’d brought with him. He dismounted and, to the woman’s consternation, picked up the sack. He spent a moment assuring her that it wasn’t his intention to steal it. The scowl on her face showed she had no trust in his words but subdued by the assurances of Black Lance, she ceased her harangue while Wes inspected the contents.

  There was little in the bag. At first glance, Wes estimated there was probably enough to make another serving of the corn meal that the women prepared with whatever edible roots they could harvest. He dug into the bag but when he withdrew it, his hand wasn’t full of corn. There was as much dirt as grain in the sack, an abundance of soil, grit and dirt, like floor sweepings.

  Appalled by the discovery and by Black Lance’s testimony that about a third of the contents of every sack was dirt, Wes remounted and made a bee line for the Agency offices which were part of a compound in the centre of the settlement. Together with the long, low, log-built administration building, there were two storehouses, stables and corrals. Big Mouth was on the veranda in front of the administration building as Wes and Black Lance approached, and was joined by Lame Dog and a tall American before they reached the hitching rail.

  The American was bare-headed and jacketless, his sleeves were rolled up as though he’d been interrupted in the execution of some task but he had a lit pipe clasped in his mouth indicating he hadn’t been doing anything too strenuous. He had thick, wild hair and bushy eyebrows over bright blue eyes. He removed the pipe from his mouth, smiled and greeted his visitor.

  ‘The boys tell me you are Medicine Feather, the famous Wes Gray. I’m Horace Archer, the Agent here at Cheyenne River.’ When Wes looked at the ‘boys’ it was clear that they weren’t pleased to see him. Their expressions were grim, tight-lipped and unsmiling. The American laughed. ‘Don’t mind them,’ he told Wes, ‘they take their work seriously and are a bit put-out because they lost a bit of authority when you baulked them over the dead deer. There are rules that need to be observed in order to keep the peace. While there are still hostile groups abroad who might incite reservation Indians back to war and raids, firearms are banned. Anyone discovered with a rifle is imprisoned and any animal shot is illegal game, therefore confiscated.’

  ‘I killed the animal,’ Wes told him. ‘It was a gift to the people who gave me shelter and who wouldn’t be starving if they were allowed to hunt their own food or if the supplies they received were in keeping with the promises that were made when the treaty was signed.’

  ‘I know where your sympathies lie, Mr Gray, and believe me, we’re all trying to do our best for these people, but I don’t think the Sioux here have any cause for complaint. Perhaps there are occasions when supplies arrive later than expected but that’s due to the perils of weather and transportation. We feed them as swiftly as possible.’

  ‘But the goods are spoiled,’ Wes told him. ‘If underweight grain sacks are being topped up with grit and dirt then I have no doubt that other tricks are being used to under-supply the people here. I’ve seen the shabby and thin clothes and blankets that have been their only protection against the harsh winter and I’m told that the cattle which are their major source of meat are scrawny and infected. The people in your charge are suffering, Mr Archer. What are you doing about it?’

  Horace Archer remained diplomatic. ‘You’ve got a list of grievances there, Mr Gray, but are they genuine? Look,’ he pointed at the corrals, ‘empty. All the cattle have been taken and eaten.’

  ‘And many of the people have become sick and weakened by what they consumed.’

  ‘What proof have you of that?’

  ‘Perhaps the doctor assigned to the Agency can tell us how busy he’s been during the winter.’

  ‘I can only give the supplies that are delivered,’ Horace Archer said with diminishing friendliness.

  ‘That’s true, but it is your job to safeguard the health of the people here. Have you reported the poor quality of the goods that are being delivered? Expressed any concern?’

  ‘I have no concerns. These people grumble because they lost the war, not because they are hungry or cold. Feed them too well and they’ll be running wild again. The government wants the benefits of the land, Mr Gray, it needs to be put to its best use and we can’t let a few primitive people hold back the progress.’

  ‘Then treat them in the way proscribed by the treaty. Any future uprising will be caused by your treatment, not the persuasion of Sitting Bull if he ever comes back this side of the border.’ With that said, Wes and Black Lance turned their horses and rode away.

  Horace Archer watched them go, his brow creased with concern. He was worried. First that old man had been snooping around and protesting about the treatment of the Indians here at the Agency and now it was Wes Gray. Crackaway had been trouble enough but he’d been dealt with. However, if his reputation was to be believed, Wes Gray was a different matter. Something had to be done. ‘Lame Dog,’ he said, ‘I want you to take a message across the river to John Lord.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Wes Gray re-crossed the Missouri then demanded a sustained run from the pinto. He was anxious to meet up with the supply train which included Rafe Leeward’s wagon before they got too far from the Spearpoint cattle pens. Wes wanted to see for himself the cattle that had been earmarked for the Sioux Agency. Black Lance had told him that the previous herd had consisted of beeves unsuitable for consumption. Horace Archer, on the other hand, had denied that. Wes had no reason to doubt either man. The Indian Agent had been curt after listening to Wes’s accusations but he hadn’t changed his story, and Wes acknowledged that Horace Archer’s reaction was probably no different to what his own would have been in similar circumstances. But the poverty of the reservation people
couldn’t be denied either and that, Wes knew, was neither the right way to treat those defeated people nor the intention that had been expressed by the policy-makers. If the Indians were being cheated then their plight needed to be disclosed and the culprits discovered. This, he thought, had been Crackaway’s quest, and if it had led to his death then his murderers needed to pay for their crime.

  For an instant, as he approached the split in the trail where the left-hand fork climbed away towards Palmersville, Wes thought he saw movement in the high ground, a glimpse of blue that might have been the clothing of a distant rider. But Palmersville wasn’t his current destination. His route continued along the low, riverside road for a few more miles until he reached the east cut to Spearpoint. Although he was always cautious of other riders he had no reason to be suspicious of a traveller on another road nor the time to waste investigating. The wagons waiting at Council Bluffs were always his first concern.

  Up above, however, that other traveller had rested his pony after its climb and observed the galloping horseman below. A fleeting thought crossed his mind and he reached for the rifle that was sheathed below his leg. With one well-aimed bullet he could return to the Agency, the need to deliver the message would have been removed and Archer would surely reward him with one of the new Winchester rifles he so admired.

  Like many of his people, Lame Dog had not welcomed the refugees of the western bands when they first straggled into the region of the Cheyenne and Grand Rivers. It was generally agreed that they would bring with them their grievances and war-like ways. His people, the Santee, had been settled in this territory for twenty years, living in peace and adopting the ways of the Americans. Now they were farmers, growing crops on their own strips of land. However, contrary to his expectations, the arrival of the Ogallalah and Hunkpapa had become a good thing for Lame Dog. He didn’t like them or trust them, but since accepting the position of Agency guard, his wealth had increased and his standing within the community had grown. His authority over the newcomers was a power he enjoyed, gloating over the fact that warriors who had won glory along the Greasy Grass were now subjugated to his commands.