Tag Archives: Scalps

The Rear Guard

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Any good war chief knows you don’t commit all your troops to a battle. Some of the younger members are held back to hold the ponies while the more experienced warriors are off conducting the raid, or perhaps they are too young to be in the thick of things just yet but need the experience of being part of the action. To learn how to handle the fear and excitement, to learn how to be responsible enough to handle the smaller tasks of the war party before being entrusted with the larger duties.

Learning to be men is a difficult and frustrating task for these young warriors. After all if they’re old enough to be along on a raid they should be able to take part in it rather than just be pony holders. They’re brave enough, they know how to shoot and fight. Don’t they practice every single day? They tell each other they would count many coups against the enemy, and take many scalps. All they need is a chance to prove themselves, instead of being left to wait on the sidelines.

There is more to being a man and going to war than fighting hand to hand. The lessons learned by being a part of the group, of being thought of as mature enough to be equal company with the older men, learning to be patient and take orders and stand their ground, to be trusted. These are all lessons being taught while being the rear guard, even if they don’t realize yet they’re being taught. Their time will come all too soon.

Shadows On The Ridgeline

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Earlier that week a small band of Sioux led by Bloody Otter and five of his braves jumped the reservation and headed out onto the plains. Raging with battle lust, anxious to be tested, they wanted a fight and the honor and valor they could earn. To a man they were ready and looking for scalps. They found some and after a short and bitter fight removed them from a group of buffalo hunters that had the poor fortune of being too engrossed in skinning and stacking the hides of their recently harvested animals instead of setting a watch. It was a short battle for the braves but an eternity for the buffalo hunters. Flushed with their victory and the Sharps rifles and other spoils they had acquired they set off again for more easy pickings.

The scout had cut their trail several times over the week and followed them until he found what was left of the buffalo hunters. Seeing that they had picked up and armed themselves with the new .50 caliber Sharps that the buffalo hunters carried, some of which even had the new Creedmore Tang sights, he was wary of getting too close. Those guns could take down a buffalo at well over 800 yards. A man wouldn’t stand a chance if he got hit with that slug that weighed a little over and ounce and a half. Although the Indians weren’t really known for being expert marksman, one hit from the Sharps would end the day for him even if it was just a flesh wound.

 It was up to him to get word back to the troops that were several miles behind him. They would be in for a rough go of it if they walked into a trap facing those Sharps. The trick was to see and not be seen. It was fast approaching dusk and the sun was behind him, its light spinning the grasses into gold and highlighting everything in its warm glow. The war party was just cresting the second hill back a quarter-mile or so making their outlines crisp and sharp on the ridgeline, the sun in their eyes, when Dotter barked once and faced towards the hills. That was all the warning the scout needed. He pulled up short, checked once to make sure they hadn’t seen him and rode like all the devils in hell were after him, which had they seen him they would have been, and headed back to where the main party of troops would be camped.

This deadly game of hide and seek was played out many times as the battles and skirmishes took place during the middle to late 1800’s. Sometimes the Indians won sometimes not. Toward the end of the century, outnumbered, outgunned, it was mostly not.

Misses His Friends

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Young men and war. How glorious it is. Sitting around the campfire, hearing the elders talk about battles they had when they were young warriors. Riding out across the prairie with a comrade and speaking of brave deeds you would do if given a chance. Scalps you would take, coup you would count, enemies dying on your lance or from your arrows. The excitement, the stories to bring back to the lodge of your prowess in battle, the admiring glances of the young maidens. All this and more if you can only get into the next fight. How agonizing not to have participated yet and be a respected warrior.

Then it happens. You get your opportunity to wage war with your sworn enemy. In this case it is the blue coats that have been relentlessly entering your land, running off the game, killing anyone they see. They’re coming and it will be a big battle, the biggest anyone has ever seen. The biggest in the memory of even the oldest old man in the village. Bigger even than the old mans grandfather could have remembered were you able to ask him. All the tribes are joining together to take part in this exciting, exhilarating, awful, incredible magnificent event. The medicine men have been singing of visions they have had where the Greasy grass is covered with the dead, the women going from body to body making sure no one is alive. Guns, rifles, and pistols laying about for the taking. Reputations made, brave acts to sing about for generations. And you and your friends will play a part. You will  be the relentless, merciless warrior and be victorious in this battle just as you have dreamed of since you  were a child.

 And then after a time filled with smoke and war cries, violence and death it is over. The Greasy grass is indeed covered with the dead just as foreseen by the visionaries and the spoils of war have been collected and it’s time for feasts and celebrations, and dancing and story telling, and a time to come down from that glorious battle high and look around you for your friends. That’s when you find that several of them are not at the celebration and never will be again. They’re among the dead laying in the Greasy grass. Killed by the enemy you were victorious over.

Suddenly in the aftermath of what was your greatest adventure you see that those friends that you rode with and boasted with and fought alongside of are no more. They are the same as the enemy now, lifeless and scattered across the land waiting for loved ones to come gather them for preparation to spend eternity in that other world where the dead reside. Songs will be sung about them that will live in the hearts of some for a while but the truth is they are gone forever now and will not share anything with you ever again. This death today is permanent. There will be more conquests and defeats for you to come, very likely more  of the latter than the former but those boyhood friends will not be a part of them. Now you think and mourn, the shine has gone off the day and in reflection you find that there is a high price to pay for glory. Perhaps too high but that’s something to think about later. His name tonight is Misses His Friends.

Spoils Of War

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A day or two after the battle of the Greasy grass, or as we know it the Battle of the Little Bighorn, you could walk down between the lodges among the shadows of the cottonwoods that lined the river, and hear the women crying and keening as they continued to mourn their fallen loved ones. The wailing went on for an eternity as the knowledge that their fathers, husbands, brothers and sons were lost and gone forever.

Even at this cost it had been a great victory, the greatest victory against the pony soldiers that had ever occurred. Along with the deaths of the enemy soldiers there had been many things of great value that were taken that day. Scalps of course, but much more. Coups that were taken, guns and knives, clothing, blue jackets and belts and items like canteens and bullet pouches, sabers, small leather bags to keep things in and those curious pieces of paper with the picture of the Great Father on them that the soldiers seemed to value so much. Those were left behind as they were useless, but one of the real treasures to find were the wide brim hats that sparsely littered the field.

These hats were highly prized when gathered by the warriors who had killed the soldier wearing it and given a place of honor in the teepees when not being worn. This night one of them had been set on the corner of a backrest highlighted by the firelight seen against the wall of the lodge. The gold of the crossed sabers glimmering and glistening in the subdued light adding highlights to the worn patina of what must have been this soldiers proudest possession. Before long a wife would sew some handsome delicate beading on it and the warrior would add some coup feathers tied to the hat band to display his honors. This would turn an item taken from the battle into a treasured personal possession of the victor. Proof that the victory had taken place and now this piece of the spoils of war had a new owner.

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