the soldiers there that you want to talk to Badger. You find Badger, you tell him O.C. sent you. He might help you.” O.C. paused, then, “Might not, too, but it’s worth your while to try.”
“Badger,” Clay repeated. “Is he a soldier?”
“Nah, he scouts for the army when he feels like it. He’s the only man I know that moves freely through all the Sioux camps, whether they’re at war or not. Folks might think the famous Jim Bridger is the Injuns’ friend, but the Sioux look at Badger as one of their own kind. And I reckon he is more Lakota than white. Anyway, you find Badger—tell him what you’re planning to do.”
Clay had little difficulty in finding the meeting site. There were hundreds of Indian campfires along the banks of the river. It seemed that in every direction he looked, there were groups of Sioux or Cheyenne warriors talking among themselves, and between the groups of lodges, young warriors rode back and forth on their ponies, proudly displaying the nimble-footed quickness of their mounts. Clay had never seen this many Indians gathered in one place before. They by far outnumbered the detachment of soldiers deployed near a large tent in the center of the meeting ground. The sides were rolled up on the tent to let the warm breeze through. Inside, Clay could see a small group of officers seated on camp chairs while, before them, maybe fifteen or more Indians sat on the ground. Thethought struck him that the soldiers would be helpless to defend themselves against such numbers should the treaty talks turn nasty.
Feeling as if he were riding into a boiling stew of hostility, Clay continued forward. Looking neither right nor left, he made straight toward the large tent, his body erect in the saddle, ignoring the blatant stares of the warriors he passed. Mr. Owens said these were peace talks, he thought, as one after another warrior reined up to inspect the magnificent chestnut he rode. If these savages are peaceful, I don’t want to see them when they’re on the warpath.
Once through the ring of Sioux and Cheyenne warriors that surrounded the tent area, Clay nudged Red into a trot until he reached the detachment of mounted infantry that represented the army’s strength. A group of several soldiers standing at ease before the tent watched him approach with obvious disinterest. When he pulled up before them and dismounted, one of them asked if he could help him.
“I’m looking for a man named Badger. I was told I could find him here.”
The soldier, a man of perhaps forty or forty-five, with sergeant’s stripes on his arm, scratched his chin as he searched his memory. “Badger? I don’t know anybody by that name.” He turned to his companions, and asked, “Any you boys know somebody named Badger?” When no one did, he turned back to Clay. “I’m sorry, mister,” shaking his head apologetically. “Is he one of the peace commissioners?”
“I don’t know,” Clay replied, “I don’t think so. O.C. Owens, over at the sutler’s store, said I could find him here.”
The sergeant shook his head. The name meant nothing to him. “Sorry I can’t help you.”
“Well, much obliged,” Clay said, and turnedaround, looking at the surrounding Indian camps as if hoping to discover some clue that might tell him where he should go from there. He was about to take his leave when the sergeant stopped him.
“Hold on a minute. Here’s somebody who might know.”
Clay turned to see a tall thin man with scraggly whiskers and deep-set eyes stepping out of the tent to stretch his legs for a bit. The expression on his face reflected pain from joints grown stiff with age, as he rolled his shoulders to loosen them. He seemed to pay no attention to the small group outside the tent entrance until the sergeant called to him. “Mr. Bridger, feller here’s looking for somebody called Badger.”
Bridger cocked his head to give Clay a looking over. After a long moment, during which he appeared to
“Badger,” Clay repeated. “Is he a soldier?”
“Nah, he scouts for the army when he feels like it. He’s the only man I know that moves freely through all the Sioux camps, whether they’re at war or not. Folks might think the famous Jim Bridger is the Injuns’ friend, but the Sioux look at Badger as one of their own kind. And I reckon he is more Lakota than white. Anyway, you find Badger—tell him what you’re planning to do.”
Clay had little difficulty in finding the meeting site. There were hundreds of Indian campfires along the banks of the river. It seemed that in every direction he looked, there were groups of Sioux or Cheyenne warriors talking among themselves, and between the groups of lodges, young warriors rode back and forth on their ponies, proudly displaying the nimble-footed quickness of their mounts. Clay had never seen this many Indians gathered in one place before. They by far outnumbered the detachment of soldiers deployed near a large tent in the center of the meeting ground. The sides were rolled up on the tent to let the warm breeze through. Inside, Clay could see a small group of officers seated on camp chairs while, before them, maybe fifteen or more Indians sat on the ground. Thethought struck him that the soldiers would be helpless to defend themselves against such numbers should the treaty talks turn nasty.
Feeling as if he were riding into a boiling stew of hostility, Clay continued forward. Looking neither right nor left, he made straight toward the large tent, his body erect in the saddle, ignoring the blatant stares of the warriors he passed. Mr. Owens said these were peace talks, he thought, as one after another warrior reined up to inspect the magnificent chestnut he rode. If these savages are peaceful, I don’t want to see them when they’re on the warpath.
Once through the ring of Sioux and Cheyenne warriors that surrounded the tent area, Clay nudged Red into a trot until he reached the detachment of mounted infantry that represented the army’s strength. A group of several soldiers standing at ease before the tent watched him approach with obvious disinterest. When he pulled up before them and dismounted, one of them asked if he could help him.
“I’m looking for a man named Badger. I was told I could find him here.”
The soldier, a man of perhaps forty or forty-five, with sergeant’s stripes on his arm, scratched his chin as he searched his memory. “Badger? I don’t know anybody by that name.” He turned to his companions, and asked, “Any you boys know somebody named Badger?” When no one did, he turned back to Clay. “I’m sorry, mister,” shaking his head apologetically. “Is he one of the peace commissioners?”
“I don’t know,” Clay replied, “I don’t think so. O.C. Owens, over at the sutler’s store, said I could find him here.”
The sergeant shook his head. The name meant nothing to him. “Sorry I can’t help you.”
“Well, much obliged,” Clay said, and turnedaround, looking at the surrounding Indian camps as if hoping to discover some clue that might tell him where he should go from there. He was about to take his leave when the sergeant stopped him.
“Hold on a minute. Here’s somebody who might know.”
Clay turned to see a tall thin man with scraggly whiskers and deep-set eyes stepping out of the tent to stretch his legs for a bit. The expression on his face reflected pain from joints grown stiff with age, as he rolled his shoulders to loosen them. He seemed to pay no attention to the small group outside the tent entrance until the sergeant called to him. “Mr. Bridger, feller here’s looking for somebody called Badger.”
Bridger cocked his head to give Clay a looking over. After a long moment, during which he appeared to
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