Sioux Dawn, The Fetterman Massacre, 1866 by Terry C. Johnston

chiefs among their ponies. When the old Cheyenne had mounted, his new soldier tunic replacing the buffalo robe, his new soldier shako pulled down crookedly over his gray hair, Carrington strode to his side.
    Squinting up into the sun, the colonel said, “God’s speed, my friend. May the Lord hold you in the palm of his hand.”
    Black Horse signed, rubbing his chest and extending his arm toward Carrington.
    â€œMay the Everywhere Spirit watch over you, soldier chief. May he keep you safe from all harm.”
    A sudden cold prickled the hairs at the back of Bridger’s neck. Strange, he thought. To have a chill under this sun. Then Jim realized why he felt such cold, clear down to his marrow. He had come to like this man Carrington. Really liked him. And the sad part of it was, Bridger realized, it would take Almighty God to protect the colonel from here on out. God, and God only. No amount of rifles nor mountain howitzers would keep Carrington out of harm’s way now.
    The goddamned army brass back East had sent this poor, simple … honest man out here to this bloody hunting ground—a man totally unprepared for what stared him in the face. The army sent Carrington here like a gauntlet thrown down to the Sioux. A slap across Red Cloud’s face.
    In forty-four winters of fighting to keep his scalp, Jim Bridger had never known an Indian to turn down a challenge.

Chapter 7
    At Bridger’s urging, Carrington dispatched a rider south to Fort Reno that afternoon, rather than wait until morning. If Black Horse was right that Red Cloud was already at work sealing off the Montana Road north from Crazy Woman’s Fork, then all future detachments riding up from Reno would be endangered.
    While the officers at Fort Laramie were able to communicate with the outside word by using the telegraph-key, these new posts thrown up along the Bozeman Trail had to utilize the ages-old dispatch and courier system. A system that trusted a handwritten message carried by a single rider piercing the red gauntlet the hostile Sioux had thrown up around their hunting ground. More often than not, as the army would one day grudgingly admit, these couriers mounted on the swiftest horse available would not make it to their destination. Most would simply become a small notation in the record of some post—“Courier missing.” All too often no trace of body, bone or even the courier’s pouch itself could be found. The lonely hammering of each solitary rider’s hoofbeats his only epitaph.
    That brief farewell bid him as he swung into the saddle, ready to ride, his only eulogy.
    Checking recent dispatches carried up from Laramie, Carrington found that a small detachment of new officers called up from Fort Sedgwick was scheduled to depart Fort Laramie ten days ago. If his calculations were correct, that detail would reach the Crazy Woman by Wednesday, July 18. The colonel was relieved that the army practiced one claim to foresight: as District Commander, he was kept informed of the makeup of parties coming north along the trail. Always informed, that is, if the dispatch rider himself made it up the Bozeman Road.
    â€œWho leads the detail?” Carrington asked his assistant.
    Phisterer studied his dispatches. “A Lieutenant Templeton, George. Second-in-command is Lieutenant Daniels, Napoleon H. Two replacement lieutenant’s for your staff. In addition, Alexander Wands, your new adjutant when I’m reassigned. And a James Bradley.”
    Carrington chewed on the inside of his cheek, staring off to the south, watching the Cheyenne climb across Lodge Trail Ridge. They would be marching west tomorrow. Safe. Beyond Red Cloud’s grasp.
    Henry had a reputation as a thinking man, not given to rash or impulsive acts, a trait not found among many of his fellow officers in this postwar army. Graduating from Yale Law School in 1848, he had begun practice in Columbus, Ohio, where he met Margaret