Cavalry Scout: A Novel

By Dee Brown

A western saga of honor amid the nineteenth-century Indian wars from the #1 New York Times–bestselling author of Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee.
 
“I wished I was back in Texas and had never left there to end up scouting in such godforsaken country for an army dressed in blue.” Such are the sentiments of John Singleterry as this gripping tale begins in the snowy wilderness. Singleterry and his partner, Peter Dunreath, are sent to scout ahead of their battalion when they’re taken captive by two fighters from the Cheyenne, a tribe not known for taking prisoners.
 
One fighter is an old medicine woman, suspicious and eager to kill, while the other, a beautiful mixed-race girl named Marisa, wants to wait. The women tell the scouts about their tribe’s decimation during its forced relocation, and of multiple promises that have been broken—stories that force Singleterry to face difficult questions of love and desertion.
 
Written by an acclaimed chronicler of the drama of the American West and the conflicts between white men and Indians, this is a moving novel of torn loyalties set during one of the most tumultuous eras in Native American history. Cavalry Scout gives full-blooded reality to its time, and to both the settlers and natives at the heart of its story.
 This ebook features an illustrated biography of Dee Brown including rare photos from the author’s personal collection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Oct 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781453274255

Dee Brown

Dorris Alexander “Dee” Brown (1908–2002) was a celebrated author of both fiction and nonfiction, whose classic study Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee is widely credited with exposing the systematic destruction of American Indian tribes to a world audience. Brown was born in Louisiana and grew up in Arkansas. He worked as a reporter and a printer before enrolling at Arkansas State Teachers College, where he met his future wife, Sally Stroud. He later earned two degrees in library science, and worked as a librarian while beginning his career as a writer. He went on to research and write more than thirty books, often centered on frontier history or overlooked moments of the Civil War. Brown continued writing until his death in 2002.      

Book preview

Cavalry Scout

A Novel

Dee Brown

Contents

Foreword

Prelude

One

Two

1

2

Three

1

2

Four

1

2

Five

1

2

3

Six

Seven

Eight

Finale

A Biography of Dee Brown

FOREWORD

DEE BROWN GREW UP in the Southwest. His first childhood friend was a young Indian boy. When they went to the movies on Saturday afternoon—cowboy and Indian pictures—his friend joined the rest of the audience in cheering the settlers, soldiers and land-grabbers when they were victorious over the Indians. "I once asked him why he did that, and he said ‘cause they’re not real Indians.’ To him they were just actors. All the books about Indians at that time were caricatures and after that I realized they weren’t real Indians either," the author said recently.

Times have changed, and Dee Brown has done as much as anyone to change attitudes toward the American Indian, and to bring about a re-evaluation of American history. His recent best-selling book, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, is telling millions of Americans for the first time the Indian point of view for the crucial thirty-year period between 1860 and 1890. During those few years, the white men managed to destroy the last vestige of Indian hope and pride. Their land was taken and although the Indians warned us that we would ruin the natural resources, a long process of destruction and pollution began which we are only now beginning to regret.

The conquest of this land has always been glorified for the education of young Americans; Indians have been traditionally depicted as hostile savages who refused to live in peace with the civilized white men. This fiction is no longer palatable to the American people. Sickened daily by the accounts of our own capacity for atrocity and massacre on the other side of the world; sophisticated enough to realize that history is a matter of many truths, variously told; wary of the racist or fascist tendencies in every man; modern Americans are beginning now to look beyond the simplistic textbooks and to seek the true history of our country. We are tough enough to take it; we are concerned enough to want to understand; we are big enough and sure enough to admit our mistakes. Perhaps someday we will be strong enough to try to make amends … if it isn’t too late.

In 18 books, including Cavalry Scout and Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, Dee Brown has delved deeply into previously unpublished original sources for the truth about the Indian wars. As he explains in his introduction to the latter book, many of the Indian statements and accounts were lost to history. Under the emotional climate which prevailed in those times, even if the Indians could have written the white man’s language, no one would have published their side of the story. Their languages were never written, but were either purely oral or were inscribed in pictographs which defied translation. When they were translated, the translators were not good, and the most beautiful expressions of the Indian languages—often metaphors of nature—have been lost.

Yet the perseverance of a devoted researcher can turn up part of that lost side of history, and Dee Brown has proven his ability to give us much of the previously unknown Indian account of the loss of their country. The drama of the story brims over the bare facts; for this was the most colorful era in America. Men and women of all backgrounds were called upon to show their best or their worst natures. Bravery, treachery, loneliness or loyalty were the orders of the day. The old concept of good guys and bad guys is quite thoroughly swept away for all time in the breathless movement of real human beings of all breeds and backgrounds, struggling to survive, to preserve the past or to build a future.

Cavalry Scout is one of these accounts, telling the story of Indians who can be recognized as flesh and blood people, and their conquerors who turned out to be only human after all. Here is history in specific, personal, dramatic terms—the final confrontation between the savage and his victim. The newly-stirring question of who is the savage and who is the victim is played out before the reader’s eyes.

Stories of the old west, romanticized fiction and slanted versions of actual battles have been a staple of our literature since the days when news was relayed by pony express and printed in elaborate illustrated weeklies. In our own time, movies and western novels have continued to perpetuate the exciting myths and half-truths. The question has been raised whether we might lose an important part of our traditional literature if the historians begin demanding accuracy. What will happen if the Indian point of view is taken up by modern young readers, or if the actual heroic feats of our forebears become lost in the newly revised and clear-eyed view of history? But the truth can only enhance the fiction. The more we can know about what actually happened, the closer we can come to the true drama, the blood-pounding, heart action of the people who lived it. Cavalry Scout is such a story.

Dee Brown was born in a Louisiana lumber camp, where his father was a timberman. When he was five years old, his father died, and the young boy moved with his mother and two sisters to various oil towns in the Southwest. His father had been an ardent reader and collector of the complete works of such authors as Dickens, Thackeray, and books on the old West. This stimulated the future author’s interest in books and history; it was to become a lifelong love.

He attended Arkansas State Teachers College and then went to George Washington University in Washington, D.C. He graduated during the Depression and found a job as Librarian in the U. S. Department of Agriculture. The government was exciting in those days, says Brown. It was the New Deal and at least the government was trying to change things. In the Thirties Agriculture was like the Pentagon today. It had the largest building and the most money and was headed by interesting men like Tugwell and Wallace. His duties included many non-agricultural projects, and it was during that period that he first had access to government historical documents, and his interest in writing began to bloom. He served in World War II and began to publish his books shortly afterwards.

The author is now a librarian at the University of Illinois, travelling all over the country to research the original documents and records which tell the true story of the American past.

Prelude

ON A SUMMER DAY in the year 1880 a man from Pinkerton’s National Detective Agency came riding up a dusty road in northern Texas. He was mounted on a horse which he had rented from a livery stable at the railroad town some miles back, and both horse and rider were sweated and dusty from the long ride under the summer sun.

The ranch house just ahead was screened by oaks and a high section of barbed wire fencing covered with honeysuckle vines. When he reached the gate, the man halted beside a wooden watering trough. He dismounted and took the bit from his horse’s mouth. While the animal drank, the man—without appearing to do so—carefully studied the house, its outbuildings, and corral.

The time was early afternoon, and there was no sign of human life, no sound but the barking of a dog far down beyond the corral. After a minute or two of waiting, the Pinkerton man called out a name, repeated it, then stood patiently listening.

Something moved then beside one of the small sheds near the corral. A horseman had turned around the shed, had seen the Pinkerton man. The horseman slapped his reins and started toward the ranch house at a slow canter. He was a tall, almost gaunt man wearing a high-crowned cowman’s hat.

Looking for somebody, Mister? His question was guarded, neither friendly nor unfriendly.

The Pinkerton man stared back, his eyes sharp and searching. You’re Terrence?

The rancher swung easily out of his saddle. He had unusually long arms and long thin fingers. Yes. He took two or three steps forward, still wary.

From an inside pocket, the Pinkerton man removed a worn-looking envelope and shook out a small photograph. This yours? He held it in a shaft of sunlight streaming through the oaks.

The rancher looked suspiciously at the Pinkerton man, then gave the photograph a brief glance. No use my denying it, he said.

With a swift motion, the Pinkerton man flipped his coat lapel back, exposing his identification badge. You admit you’re John Singleterry, then?

The tall man sighed, as if with relief. I’m John Singleterry. The Army sent you to find me?

Why, no, not the Army. The detective’s eyebrows had raised slightly. A civilian client. I’m not at liberty to reveal the client’s identity.

Singleterry’s lean jaw clenched shut, his facial muscles tightened under the tough weather-burned skin. He studied his visitor for a long minute, then asked brusquely: What do you want?

My client is seeking information concerning Colonel Charles Crawford Comstock.

Singleterry’s lips twisted. Comstock’s Last Stand, he said sardonically.

Exactly. The Pinkerton man’s face brightened, almost triumphantly.

That’s a long story, Mister, Singleterry said. You might not want to hear it.

I want all the information I can get.

The rancher smiled thinly. We might as well make ourselves comfortable, then. Tie your horse in the shade and come on in.

Singleterry led the way up the veranda steps and opened the slatted door. They entered a wide hall running the length of the ranch house, then turned into a green-papered room. The room was cool-looking, more feminine than masculine. A wide bay of lace-curtained windows overlooked the corral and the stretch of yellowing pasture beyond. Singleterry waited until his visitor sat down, then he took the chair opposite.

Frankly, Mr. Singleterry, the detective said, after all the pains you took to conceal your real identity, you puzzle me by not being somewhat more provoked at me for finding you.

Singleterry leaned back in his chair, crossing his long legs. I suppose I’ve known for a long time that I’d be found some day. In a way I’m glad it’s all over.

The Pinkerton man smiled wryly. No more glad than I, sir. It wasn’t easy finding a man who was supposed to be dead. He withdrew a pair of leather-backed notebooks from his large side pocket.

Where should I begin? Singleterry asked.

At the beginning, the detective said.

One

IT ALL BEGAN (SINGLETERRY said) on a late Spring day in those godforsaken hills that lie high up the Yellowhorse Valley. Wet snow had fallen the day before, and during the night the temperature dropped sharply, freezing a hard crust over a land that was all under snow. Early that morning Colonel Comstock ordered his pursuit battalion to dig in and establish a base camp, and then he sent Peter Dunreath and me to scout the forward area.

By midafternoon we had pushed our horses in a wide semicircle around the cavalry camp and were approaching a thick wooded section along a frozen creek. The trees were mostly evergreens with snow covering the needles like thick fluffy icing on a cake. Some folks might have said that green-and-white thicket looked like a pretty picture card, but to a Texas boy a long way from home, it looked almighty cold and hostile.

When I heard a low signal whistle, I halted the little bay I was riding and waited for Dunreath to come up from the left. I pulled off the green veil I’d been wearing against snow blindness and thrust it down inside my coat, and for a minute the glitter of icy snow blinded me. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, then opened them narrowly. The veil was one of Colonel Comstock’s ideas, but I considered it a damn nuisance, impeding vision more than it helped, and the afternoon seemed late enough to be rid of it.

The crunch-crunch of Dunreath’s mount grew louder. Vapor blew from Pete’s mouth when he spoke: I think we’ve found ’em, Singleterry.

In that thicket?

I caught a sniff of wind off there just now, smelled of horse and dead smoke. Reason you don’t hear no dogs barkin’—they all been eat up long since.

I stared hard at the woods, my eyes aching against the glitter. No sign of anything, I said. But we won’t know for sure way out here.

And if they’re in there, mebbe they’ve seen us, mebbe they ain’t. We got to make it look like we’re ridin’ away, then sneak back. They’d kill us sure if we got in range.

The green-and-white picture-card woods looked even more hostile now. I slid out of the saddle, my boots breaking through the snow. The bay’s been favoring this leg, I said, lifting it gently. The fetlock was bloody from an ugly ice cut.

This stuff is hell on hoss legs, Dunreath replied and added: But he can still run if he has to.

I climbed back in the saddle, scraping snow off my boots against the stirrups. Dunreath’s squinty blue eyes were studying the bright landscape. The wind was rising, blowing in our faces. I smelled the dead smoke smell.

No use to turn back, Dunreath said. You ride off to your right till you’re screened by that knoll, then tie your mount and crawl up the creek for a look. If they’re in there, they’re bound to’ve moved around some today and left tracks. I’ll ride the other way till I hit that deep gully. Strike out and head for camp soon as we know for sure. What you think, Singleterry?

Good enough. No way’s going to be easy.

You can bet your boots on that, boy. If they’re desperate enough to hole up there in this snow with no day fires, they sure won’t let no cavalry scouts loose to give ’em away—if they can help it.

Let’s go, I said, and we swung away from each other, the hoofs of our horses grinding rhythmically together until at last I could hear only the sounds made by the bay.

For a few minutes I was aware of sky clouds drifting blue shadows across the frozen land, of fine snow dust flying before a rapidly rising wind. The tiny particles, sparkling and bright, stung my face.

Long before I reached the knoll on which I was setting my course, my eyes were burning. I felt around inside my coat for the green veil, but it wasn’t to be found. I halted and dismounted, but the veil was gone. It had probably slipped through my coat when I got down back there with Dunreath to inspect the bay’s fetlock.

When I started again, it was as if twilight had fallen suddenly. I couldn’t see where the knoll lay and I closed my eyes, opening them slowly, but both eyeballs seemed to roll in a kind of liquid fire with a grating feeling as if they were surrounded by fine gritty sand.

Hoping that I would be all right again if I could just reach the knoll and get into shadow, I spoke encouragement to the little bay and kept him going across that blinding field of snow.

For several minutes I listened to the crunching sound of my mount’s progress, cursing the bitter west wind that kept blowing the snow dust straight into my face. Every once in a while the bay would shift gait slightly, muscles aquiver, favoring the bad leg when the fetlock scraped against ice crust.

It happened all of a sudden, a quick furry sound that ended almost before I heard it in the sickening thump that an arrow makes when it strikes flesh. For a long moment the little bay staggered. With my boots out of the stirrups, I hit the snow, rolling away.

I had fallen in deep shadow. Maybe it was the temporary relief from blinding sun or shock, perhaps fear, that drove the blindness away. My eyes still burned painfully, but I could see the bay lying in the snow with an arrow shaft driven deep through its ribs, legs thrashing as life drained away. I lay still for a few seconds, squinting at a low embankment beyond the horse. The embankment was ten or twelve feet high, crowned with thick stunted pines sealed over with frozen snow. I heard no movement, saw no movement, but I knew from the depth of the arrow shaft that the bowman was close at hand.

My first thought was to retrieve my carbine. The weapon was caught in its boot under the bay, and I realized I would have to crawl a couple of yards to reach it, maybe spend a precious minute working it free. I waited while the wind spun showers of snow into my face. Cold began biting its way through my heavy coat.

I knew I couldn’t lie there much longer, slowly freezing. I raised up quickly on one knee, flinging myself toward the trapped carbine.

Don’t move, soldier scout! It was not so much the words but the sound of them that startled me; it was as if a bell had rung suddenly out there in the lonely wilderness. And thinking of that particular moment afterwards—as I often have—there was a bell-like quality in the voice. Stand up, away from the horse, the voice commanded.

As I rose slowly, I saw a rifle barrel covering me from between two of the little snow-clad pines, and beyond it was the prettiest pair of blue eyes that I have ever seen from that day to this.

For a moment I thought it was the snow blindness again, transformed into a vision that would surely vanish with the next blink of my burning eyes, but I was convinced of reality when the rifle bearer pushed the frozen pines apart and came a step closer.

This was a girl, all right, with skin the color of honey, and blue eyes that glared with as much hostility as I’ve ever had directed at me. A half-breed, surely, I thought. Her dark hair was parted in the middle, and a pair of long braids were flung over her shoulders. She was wearing a squaw-red blanket for a skirt and a full-sleeved jacket. The rifle was a Winchester repeater, almost new."

Kill him, Marisa, a cracked, old-woman’s voice cried. Kill him now!

We wait, the girl replied in Cheyenne, and added coldly to me in clear English: Come here, soldier scout!

I walked or half crawled up the ice-crystaled grass slope, she backing away from me as I came closer. Icicles shattered and crackled to the ground as I moved through the dwarf pines.

Sit down, the girl ordered. We wait.

A few feet away from me an old squaw sat cross-legged at the edge of a deep hole dug out of the ground. I could almost feel the hatred in her face. Her lips worked over her teeth for a moment, then she spat at me.

The earth dugout was six or seven feet across, almost as deep as a man, with pine twigs and moss piled inside. Two forked sticks had been set upright in the snow, and across them a pole was laid. Pine brush that had formed a roof for this crude dugout had been flung to one side. With the roof in place and snow over it, a man might walk beside it and never know it was there. And with blankets for cover, the dugout would be as snug as a tight ’dobe.

For two or three minutes none of us said anything. The girl moved back to a flat-topped rock and sat down, folding her red-blanket skirt close around her ankles. She kept her rifle steady on me.

The old Woman began mumbling to herself. Kill him now, Marisa. The white men are full of tricks. I will go down and get the arrow from the dead horse and I will kill him myself. I saw her sinewed bow then, pushed down beside her in the snow. She had only one arrow, but it was all she had needed for the little bay.

No, the girl said in English, calling the old woman’s name in Cheyenne. Medicine Woman. To me she looked exactly like death, sitting there glowering malevolently at me, working her wrinkled lips over her teeth. And I thought: the Cheyennes take no prisoners.

We waited. Would Dunreath come searching for me? My guess was that already he would be high-tailing it back to the cavalry camp if he hadn’t met worse luck than I. The sun, hazy through thin clouds, was dropping behind the thicket, and the wind was dusting fine snow through the evergreens. The cold bit into me, and I began flinging my arms back and forth and stamping my boots in the snow. The girl, Marisa, sat watching me, her blue eyes alert as a stalking cat’s.

When I had tired of trying to warm myself, I turned my back on her and peered out through the pine needles toward the knoll, wondering if Dunreath might be out there somewhere looking for me or my horse. My eyes still burned, but the grittiness had gone out of them.

We waited. To make conversation I said to the girl: You speak the white man’s tongue well.

I talk it for you, soldier scout, she replied, her voice as biting as the cold. You would not understand the language of my people.

I said in Cheyenne: You are half white blood.

Her blue eyes widened a little, then her bottom lip curled down. My heart is Cheyenne, she declared scornfully.

Medicine Woman’s voice cut across her words: I warn you, Marisa, the white soldier men are full of tricks. Do not listen to what this one has to say even though he speaks in the tongue of our people.

Marisa has been to missionary school, I guessed aloud. But where did you learn the white man’s talk, old woman?

Medicine Woman rocked forward, rubbing her hands over the bow beside her. From the crooked tongue of a bluecoat soldier chief. Her cracked voice broke over a Cheyenne malediction, and again she spat into the snow.

I looked toward the girl. "And maybe this one