Monday-Monday Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Our patrol was under the command of First Lieutenant Steven Campbell since he was the senior officer and Commander of Company A.

Everyone could tell that Lieutenant Johnson did not like this arrangement because he knew, and everyone else knew, that Major Wintworth would not trust him with a command of his own. With a sullen pout, he would have the men of E Company trail so far behind A Company that Lieutenant Campbell finally had to give him a direct order to tighten the column up.

As we dismounted to walk our horses around noon on April 16, two of our Arapaho scouts quickly rode past the column in a cloud of dust. Lt. Campbell ordered the column to halt and he could be seen in heated conversation with the scouts. Shortly afterwards, Sergeant Major McGinnis rode back to where I was standing with my patrol members.

"Private Steel, the Leftenant would be liking a word with you lad," McGinnis said. "Providing of course ‘er wee commander doesn’t mind," he finished, glancing down the column to where Lieutenant Johnson still sat on his mount. Unlike his men, Johnson refused to walk and rest his horse and had brought an extra mount to switch to.

I mounted up and rode towards the head of the column with the Sergeant Major, noticing that Lt. Johnson quickly followed us.

"I can't understand what these damn scouts are trying to tell me," Lieutenant Campbell said, as I dismounted and saluted him. "Their English is horrible and my native is even worse. You know injun talk, ask them to repeat what it was they're so all fired up about."

I had met many Arapaho and Cheyenne warriors while out hunting and did have a working knowledge of their language and customs. Despite what most white Americans believed, the Native American tribes did not speak the same languages. In fact, the four major tribes in our area alone; the Arapaho, Cheyenne, Kiowa and Comanche, spoke at least five different languages, but many of them were multilingual. Nearly every leader or chief spoke at least two languages, usually more. In addition, they had the sign language with which all the Plains tribes were proficient, including myself. With a few hundred signs, many varying in meaning according to their context, a Plains Indian could express thousands of thoughts and ideas.

"They say we're being followed by three large Kiowa war parties sir," I told the Lieutenant after talking with the scouts.

"We have no bones to pick with the Kiowa," Lieutenant Campbell replied. "Ask them why they're trailing us?"

One of the scouts, a fat dumpling of a man with long greasy hair gave me a strange look before he answered my inquiry.

"They searching for a white dog soldier," he grunted in his guttural language. "One who killed the brother of one of their chiefs. They demand to talk with chief of the white dog soldiers."

"Seems as if one of our dog soldiers, or cavalryman, killed one of their warriors Lieutenant. They want to come in and speak with our chief, which would be you. I'd recommend you talk with them since they have well over two hundred warriors with them."

The large number of potentially hostile warriors got the Lieutenant's attention. "Make camp," he commanded, then turned to the scouts. "Tell them we will wait here for their chiefs. Tell them we wait in peace and mean them no harm. Get back and bring your company up pronto, Lieutenant," he ordered Lieutenant Johnson. "Steel you stay here to talk with these devils."

Within minutes, seemingly from nowhere, a vast host of warriors rode in towards our patrol. They were painted for war and most carried modern rifles or muskets. At their head rode three men easily recognized as leaders. While the United States Army had few encounters with these fierce Plains Indians, the Mexicans and more recently the Texians to the south considered them to be mortal enemies. While most of them were Kiowa, I spotted the markings of scores of Comanche warriors among them.

The three chiefs dismounted and walked over to the Lieutenant. The lead chief, the one who appeared the boldest, was a slender man with long hair and a long drooping greasy mustache. Despite common belief, many Native Americans sported short scraggly beards and occasionally mustaches. To his right was a mountain of a man and trailing at the end was a man covered in brutal battle scars. The slender chief signaled for one of the Arapaho scouts to translate, but the scout quickly pointed to me. The chief looked surprised at first but then began a torrent of words. I signaled for him to slow down.

"He says that he is Sitting Bear, a chief of the Kiowa," I told Lieutenant Campbell. "The big man to his right is the Kiowa chief Little Mountain and the other one is Eagle Feather, also a Kiowa chief."

"Tell him who I am and that we want only peace." Lieutenant Campbell looked nervously at the hoard of warriors.

"Several moons ago a white dog soldier killed the brother of Little Mountain," Chief Sitting Bear said, his eye suspiciously on Lieutenant Campbell. "We have been searching for this soldier for a long time. Our informants at Bents trading place tell us that this soldier is among your warriors."

"How would I know this?" Lieutenant Campbell asked Monday to reply.

"The brother was with two other warriors on a raid into Cheyenne country," Sitting Bull replied. "He killed a white man and was killed as he tried to take the white woman. A young white dog soldier killed him and the other two warriors in a fair fight."

Suddenly Monday knew who they were looking for, him. A knot formed in his throat as he told the Lieutenant what the chief had said.

"Only one man fits that description that I know of," Lieutenant Campbell stated, looking fearfully at me. "There's an awful lot of warriors surrounding us. Do we tell them it was you or pretend not to know who it was?"

"I am the one you are searching for," I told Chief Sitting Bear, hopefully with a defiant look on my face. "But, as you stated, I killed the men in a fair fight. It was them or me."

Chief Sitting Bear turned and said something to the huge chief to his left. The mountain of a man took one step forward and stared me in the face. I stood my ground. After what seemed like an eternity the Chief stated, "I am called Little Mountain. The man you killed, my brother, was wrong in attacking the white settlers. We have no fight with the white men to the East. I have been told that you sent them to the after life in accordance with our customs?"

"That is true," I replied, all the time keeping Lieutenant Campbell informed of what was being said. "They were brave warriors despite the crime they committed. They deserved to walk with pride among the ancestors. I would see no brave man denied a chance for eternal hunting."

The mountainous chief again looked me in the eyes. I could not read the thoughts running through the man's mind but I did not flinch from the steady penetrating gaze.

Suddenly, the man reached out and grabbed me in a fierce bear hug, crushing the air from my lungs. Lieutenant Campbell stumbled backwards, his face a mask of fear, his hand reaching for his pistol.

Chief Sitting Bear motioned for the Lieutenant to stay his hand then said in passable Engish, "Chief Little Mountain would honor this brave young white dog soldier. We come to do him no harm but to offer our thanks. Little Mountain knew his brother, Spotted Pony, was wrong in the raid he undertook and it cost him his life. Your dog soldier took pity on him and the warriors with him and said the required prayers so that the spirit of these three warriors would not wander the earth as ghosts for all eternity."

"They want to join us in a feast this evening," I told the Lieutenant. "It would be very discourteous to refuse and there could be an element of danger involved."

Later on that evening, as the news spread around the camp, just about every cavalryman in the patrol wandered over to pat me on the back and to offer congratulations. They were eager to feast on the fresh game hanging behind the warriors on their horse's rumps. Naturally, Lieutenant Johnson and his pet cronies wanted no part of this ritual. Before the evening was over and to the envy of all my friends, I was presented with twenty horses, an incredible amount of wealth in Native Indian eyes; dozens of blankets, cookware, food, weapons of all kinds, and carried around the camp on a platform built by the warriors.

"I am on patrol with my fellow dog soldiers," I told Chief Little Mountain. "I cannot accept these fine gifts as I cannot take them with me."

The heavy chief looked me in the eye again and replied, "They will be waiting for you at Bents place when you return." He was interrupted by the scarred Chief Eagle Feather, who whispered in his ear.

"Eagle Feather also says that you will have three Comanche and two Arapaho squaw slaves waiting for you at Bents. We know it is not the way of the white man to keep native squaws in captivity, but you may free them if you wish and we will honor your decision and they will be taken back to their tribes and given wealth."

"Twenty horses and five wives," Lieutenant Johnson said with a smirk, lighting a cigar from a branch in the fire. He knew enough of the native language to grasp what was being said. "Almost enough to by yourself a commission kid, which is about the only way you'll ever get one."

I didn't reply to the Lieutenant’s jab but I could tell from the harsh look on Sitting Bear's face that he had taken a quick dislike to the arrogant officer.

"He will one day be a powerful man among your people," Sitting Bear prophesized. "But he will never be half the man that you will become. As Spirit Chief, I declare that from this time on you are marked as a friend to the Kiowa and the Comanche and none will lay a hand to harm you. The People will know you as, "Dances with Death," and your totem is the Eagle."

"I am grateful to the chiefs of the Kiowa and Comanche," I choked out, not knowing what to say. It was a great honor to be so honored by potential enemies. "I will strive to maintain the honor of the Eagle and pride of the People," I finally stated, meaning the people of the plains, all of them.

"Your band of white warriors may travel among us in peace so long as you are with them," Sitting Bear continued. "Walks Too Tall will go with you to make sure this is so."

Lieutenant Campbell let out a sigh of relief when I told him this bit of good news. Although this was a good size band of warriors, where we were headed was Comanche country and they were not exactly friendly with the white settlers, Mexicans and Texians.

The feast lasted well into the evening. Luckily, Bents Fort and trading post had a rule against selling whiskey to the native people so none of the warriors had firewater with them. Whiskey to an Indian was like throwing rot-gut whiskey on a fire. They quickly forgot all manners and sense of fair play.

After the tribesmen had left to settle into their own bed rolls a few hundred meters from our location, Lieutenant Campbell posted sentries around our perimeter, just in case.

"This is my last patrol," he told me as I stood my sentry duty. "Next month I will be leaving the Army."

It was unusual for an officer to confide personal information with a private and I wasn't sure how to take the Lieutenant's sudden friendliness. The soldiers all liked Campbell. He was a fair man and decent leader and stood up for his troopers.

"There's a fight brewing down in Texas," he continued. "The Texians want independence from Mexico and talking with General Santa Ana doesn't seem to work. I plan on leaving the US Army after this patrol and enlisting in the Army of Texas. Most of my family from Georgia have already settled in the San Antonio area."

"I've heard that Texas is good country to live in," I answered. "Sergeant Major McGinnis mentioned something about opening an Irish Pub down there somewhere. Reckon he'd sell tequila instead of Irish whiskey though."

"The new government is matching the old Mexican land grant," Campbell continued. "All a man's gotta do is work the land and it's his. Good place for a young person like you to settle in."

I finally realized that the Lieutenant was trying to recruit me into becoming a Texian. I'd be nice to own several hundred acres of land. But, the way I figured it, no man could really own land. The natives believed the land was there for all men to hunt and live on. They may claim a territory for their own hunting needs but individual natives could not own a part of it. I guess I was more native in my way of seeing things than white.

"I still have my eyes on the mountains," I replied. "If it wasn't for my stupid bet with Lieutenant Johnson I'd be there now."

"McGinnis and I kind of figured that," Campbell said with a smile.

The thought then struck me, was my fight with Lieutenant Johnson a set up? Did Sergeant Major McGinnis and Lieutenant Campbell plan the whole thing, knowing I would lose to Johnson, just to recruit me? I had no proof of this fact but I suddenly became mighty suspicious.

"Any more troopers heading to Texas?" I asked Campbell?

"Trooper Huff, Sergeant Lofton and troopers Campbell and Bird have decided to head south as soon as their enlistment is up."

"I still have almost eight months left on my enlistment," I continued. "Plenty of time to hash it over and make a decision." Texas sounded interesting and I knew we'd be seeing part of it during this patrol, wherever we were headed. I still couldn't figure out why a contingent of the United States Dragoons, or Cavalry we'd gotten to calling ourselves, was heading into sovereign Mexican territory. If word of our little escapade got to Santa Anna, there'd be the devil to pay.

"You're apt to meet some mighty interesting people on this patrol," Lt. Campbell stated. "Keep your eyes and ears open and you may learn something." He then turned and casually strolled back towards the small cooking fire burning in the center of the perimeter.

Just what's that supposed to mean? I asked myself. What little information I had about Texas was ninety percent rumor and rumor had it that the majority of the Anglo settlers in that area were people who left the United States because of debts, criminal records, or they were just plain no-accounts. If men like the legendary knife fighter Jim Bowie was any gauge to go by, then the rumors certainly had some substance to them.

A few hours after sun up the next day, we discovered just how unfriendly the native tribes could be. Several miles past the area where the Kiowa and Comanche warriors had camped the previous evening we found the body of a Mexican soldier. He had been stripped of his clothing, scalped, his eyelids had been cut off and hundreds of small cuts covered his white bloating body.

The unfortunate man had been staked out in the sweltering sun and what appeared to be molasses had been liberally poured over his face and genital area. The natives had chosen a huge ant nest as his headrest and he was covered with thousands of hungry red ants that were steadily removing the flesh from his body. We knew he was a soldier by the high top Mexican cavalry hat lying nearby.

"Reckon there's one of Santa Anna's scouts won't make it back home," Sergeant Lofton remarked. "Figure he's been spying on us Lieutenant?"

"Like lice, where there's one there's more. Keep a sharp lookout for Mexican patrols," he ordered, spurring his horse to a canter past the dead soldier.

"We ain't gonna cut him loose and bury him?" one of the troopers remarked, watching the back of the Lieutenant recede into the distance. In reply, Sergeant Lofton spat a stream of tobacco juice into the face of the dead soldier then struck his horse with his spurs to catch up with the Lieutenant.

I realized what we had just witnessed was nothing unusual. This was a tough and vicious land inhabited by mean spirited men of all races. There were only two sides, yours and theirs, and neither side would cut the other any slack. One small mistake, like the Mexican soldier had made, and your days were over. Besides, our newly made native friends may not have appreciated it if we meddled in their business and buried the poor creature.