The braves wore shirts made of buckskin or flannel, breechclouts, and blanket leggings. Their moccasins were of elk, deer, or buffalo hide, and most of them carried bright-colored blankets. Their headdresses varied a great deal, and Allison grinned when he saw what they could do with an old Army campaign hat. They usually cut out the top and bound the sides with furs and feathers and sometimes bits of scarlet cloth.
The previous night the Indians had stayed up until a late hour making so much racket that Allison had not been able to sleep. Some of the noise was hard to identify, but it seemed to be a variety of groans and howls and shrieks that, along with the incessant pounding of their drums, was enough to keep anyone awake.
Allison wondered if they would be as anxious to fight today as they had been willing to express themselves the night before. But the Crows and Shoshones had suffered much at the hands of the Sioux. Probably they would be anxious to exact a savage and bloody revenge.
The command reached and crossed a divide, and at dusk made camp on the Rosebud. Allison took care of his mule, then helped Morgan and Risdon with theirs.
“I sure know what you mean about being better off in the infantry,” Morgan groaned. “Maybe we couldn’t have come as far as we done today if we’d been on foot, but I sure would feel a hell of a lot better.” He stared sadly at his mule. “Dave, I swear he hates me.”
As if to prove the point, Morgan’s mule laid back its ears and glared heartily.
“How do you feel about him?” Allison asked. “Do you hate him?”
“Yeah,” Morgan said in a low voice. “Do you reckon he knows it?”
“Sure he does. You can’t fool a mule, Morgan.”
“Then I’ll hate the son-of-a-bitch out loud,” Morgan said happily, and began to swear.
Risdon was unusually silent at supper. He complained once about the hardtack being moldy, and then he disappeared. Shortly afterward, O’Hara stopped by.
“Dave,” he said, “where’s this man you call Pete Risdon?”
“I don’t know,” Allison said, “and what do you mean, the man I call Pete Risdon?”
“His real name is Rice Peters,” O’Hara said. “Changing names to conceal your identity is nothing new in the Army. You can tell him he doesn’t need to take off every time I show up. I know who he is.”
“Well, who is he?”
“I said his name was Rice Peters,” O’Hara said. “I knew him when he was a bouncer in a Chicago saloon. I mean, I knew his name and what he looked like, although I didn’t know him to talk to. He’s wanted for murdering his wife.”
Allison didn’t doubt O’Hara’s identification, or that the man was capable of murder. Still, the news shocked him. He would never be Risdon’s friend in the way he was Morgan’s friend, but he had gradually learned to like the man. Pete Risdon had been a good soldier since Company A left Fort Laramie, and he would do his share of fighting when the command finally caught up with Crazy Horse.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” Allison asked.
“Not a damned thing,” O’Hara said angrily. “I told the general who he was and all Crook would say was that he’d look into it … after the campaign.”
“He’s got other things on his mind, Pat.”
“Like surprising the Sioux,” O’Hara said derisively. “I was talking to Frank Gruard a while ago. He knows more about the Sioux than anybody else in the command. He lived with them for six years or so. According to him we won’t surprise the Sioux. A hunting party spotted us today and by now Crazy Horse knows where we are. Why Crook ever thought we could sneak up on them is more than I know. Sometimes I think his reputation as an Indian fighter is all on paper.”
“Does Gruard think they’ll take a whack at us tonight?” Morgan asked.
O’Hara shook his head. “Not before dawn anyhow. We’ll have pickets out. They won’t surprise us.”
Allison studied the reporter’s freckled face in the thinning twilight. It seemed to him that O’Hara actually enjoyed the prospect of a fight. He had wanted to be with Custer’s command, not Crook’s. He had wanted to see action, fast. O’Hara might be one of those rare men who didn’t know the meaning of fear. Or perhaps he was a fatalist, believing that a man should do what he could to protect himself, but if death came, that was his destiny and he must accept it calmly.
After O’Hara returned to Captain Hanson’s tent, Allison sat up for a time, thinking about Christine, and his father, and his future, if he had a future.
Before he went to bed, Morgan said: “You’ve got Ma’s address, Dave. If I’m killed tomorrow, you’ll write to her, won’t you?”
“Sure I will,” Allison said. “But the odds are all in your favor, Johnny.”
“I wish I could believe that.” Morgan swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “But you know damned well somebody’s gonna get it tomorrow. It could be me.”
There was nothing Allison could say to that. But the boy had stopped running back at the hog ranch. He had finally found a source of courage in himself, and tomorrow he would fight, scared or not.
Then Risdon surprised Allison. He came close and said in a low tone: “I’ve got to talk to you, Dave. Nobody in the company has any reason to like me, but I always figured you and me could put on a fight that would be talked about for the next twenty years. Maybe you could lick me. I dunno. I aimed to find out someday.”
“I never fight unless I have reason to,” Allison said, and waited.
“I know,” Risdon said. “That was why I didn’t push you. Well, it looks like it won’t never come off. Anyhow, there’s something I’ve got to know. That red-headed reporter that hangs around you all the time. O’Hara. Has he ever asked about me?”
“He told me tonight you were wanted in Chicago for the murder of your wife,” Allison said. “I didn’t know whether to believe him or not.”
Risdon was silent for a moment. Then he said: “I came home late one night and found my wife in bed with a son-of-a-bitch who had claimed to be my friend. I guess I went crazy or something. I beat hell out of the man, and when I came out of it my wife was dead.” He drew a long, shaky breath. “What would you have done, Dave?”
“I don’t know,” Allison said. “I don’t suppose any man knows until he’s up against a thing like that.”
“I figured O’Hara recognized me,” Risdon said morosely. “What’s he going to do?”
“He went to Crook, but the general said he wasn’t going to do anything about it until the campaign was over. I guess for one thing he doesn’t want to lose a good soldier.”
“I’ll bet he doesn’t,” Risdon said bitterly, “but as soon as he don’t need me to fight, he’ll hand me over to some sheriff and they’ll send me back to Chicago and hang me.” He slammed his big fist against his knee. “I’m gonna kill that O’Hara. He …”
“Cut that out!” Allison said sharply. “You just might beat that charge they’ve got against you in Chicago, but if you kill O’Hara, you’ll hang for sure.”
Risdon’s sigh sounded like a groan. “I’m going to light out,” he said. “Maybe I’ll have a chance during the fight.”
He walked away, a tortured man. Allison wanted to call him back, but he didn’t.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
At 3:00 on the morning of June 17 the camp on the Rosebud was awakened by General Crook’s order. The men took care of horses and mules, and cooked breakfast. By 6:00 they were on the move downstream, a long line of blue that seemed to go on and on endlessly as it bent back and forth along the Rosebud, a crooked, twisting stream now swollen by melting snow.
Through those first hours a strange, expectant silence held the command in its grip, a silence that continued during the march, broken only by the rumble of the stream, the thud of thousands of hoofs against the soft ground, the rattle of carbines and sling belts, and now and then the sn
orting of a horse. The infantry on the mules led out, but soon some of the cavalry moved past them.
Allison saw General Crook ride by on his black horse, carelessly dressed as usual in his floppy hat, hunting jacket, and buckskin trousers.
Minutes later O’Hara rode by beside Captain Hanson. He carried his carbine across his saddle, his short-stemmed pipe jutted from his mouth, and his black derby, now much the worse for wear after almost three weeks of campaigning, was cocked at its usual jaunty angle on his head.
Allison couldn’t keep from smiling. Before the day ended, Patrick O’Hara would have all the excitement he wanted.
The country through which he rode was as pretty as any Allison had seen. Nobody could blame the Sioux for fighting to hold it. Pines were scattered on the bluffs on both sides of the stream, and grass spread a lush carpet on the floor of the valley. He knew now why they called this stream the Rosebud. The sides of the hill were actually pink because of the blooming buds of roses.
They reached the junction with the North Fork, which came in from the west, and followed the combined streams toward the east. Presently Crook gave the order to halt. Yesterday’s march had been a tough one, and both men and horses were tired.
It did not surprise Allison to find Risdon still on hand. It would have been almost impossible to steal out of the bivouac area last night. The pickets had been doubled and it probably would have taken an experienced plainsman like Walt Staley to slip past them. In any case, Risdon was still here, his ugly, scarred face sullen. He had not said a word to anyone all morning.
Johnny Morgan had not changed, either. His face was white and strained. His eyes kept sweeping the hills, and occasionally he moistened his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. He said nothing. He didn’t even act as if he wanted to look at Allison.
The veterans seemed to be taking the day in stride. At least they were disciplined enough to pretend that was what they were doing. Corporal Jones might have been on some casual patrol out of Fort Laramie, and farther downstream Captain Burt of H Company gave the impression that he was singing a solo on the stage back at the fort.
A band of Crow scouts rode in on the run and conferred with Crook. They had left camp before daylight, well ahead of the column. Now, from the way they were talking to the general, they were excited about something.
“Probably seen a shadow out there somewhere,” Corporal Jones grumbled, “so they think Crazy Horse and his whole pack are coming in on us.”
“Maybe they are,” Allison said.
“Naw.” Jones shifted his quid of tobacco to the other side of his mouth. “Hell, them Crows just play at being fighters. The Sioux and the Cheyenne, now, they’re real scrappers.”
Someone who outranked Corporal Jones apparently decided that the Crows had seen more than a shadow. Company A was ordered to fan out as pickets along the foot of the bluffs to the north. There they waited, the sun rolling higher into a clear sky. The morning grew warm, the minutes dragged, and nothing happened.
Shots sounded from beyond the ridge northeast of the command. A moment later a Shoshone scout rode into the valley in a headlong run, screaming: “Lakota! Lakota!” Other scouts behind him raced toward the soldiers, yelling: “Heap Sioux! Heap Sioux!”
Indians boiled down out of the hills. Behind them other hostiles appeared along the crest of the ridge to the north until it seemed to Allison that the earth had given birth to thousands of them. Some were armed with bows and arrows, some with rifles. A good many carried lances. The Sioux war bonnet of eagle feathers seemed to float five or six feet behind the head of each warrior.
Many of the braves wore half masks made from the heads of wild animals, ears and horns still in place. Allison felt a sharp prickle run down his spine. The Indians sweeping down upon Company A looked like devils.
The attacking party of Indians rode with the skill and precision of trained horse soldiers. They were singing a war song, more of a chant than a song, in perfect time. Every brave had painted black and red stripes from the top of his head to his waist.
The infantry line held. The men kneeled and fired and loaded and fired again, and then they were ordered back toward the stream. Dust and smoke boiled up in front of Company A. Allison could not see more than a few yards ahead, but he could hear the roar of gunfire, the snapping of bullets past his head, the whisper of arrows, and the constant, terrifying yell of the Indians.
Suddenly the Shoshones and Crows charged the incoming Sioux. Allison heard one of the hostile braves yell: “Go home! We kill white men!” But the whites’ Indian allies swept on. For a time it was savage hand-to-hand fighting, lance against lance, and tomahawk against tomahawk.
More infantry moved in. The line plodded up the slope to the plateau above the valley. The Sioux retreated, but Allison knew the cheer that rose from the soldiers was premature. The Indians would be back. That was the Indian way of fighting, to thrust and retreat, thrust and retreat, until the enemy broke and ran. After that, the massacre.
The infantry was joined by dismounted troopers from the Second Cavalry. They dropped belly flat behind a small ridge. When, later in the morning, the Sioux came at them again, the troops held their fire until the hostiles rode within a hundred and fifty yards. Then flame belched from the muzzles of hundreds of carbines and Long Toms, as the infantry rifles were called. The heavy fire broke the Sioux flood into two streams, both retreating to the north.
Allison reloaded. He took a long breath and looked at Johnny Morgan. He said: “Well?”
Morgan’s round, dirty, sweaty, boyish face broke into a grin. “We gave ’em hell, didn’t we, Dave?”
“That we did, Johnny. That we did.”
Chapter
Twenty-Four
O’Hara was sprawled on the grass beside his horse when Company A fanned out as pickets. He knew that the Crow scouts had told Crook they suspected the Sioux were close. Still, O’Hara noted with surprise that no one seemed concerned. Probably the officers thought Crazy Horse’s village was still a considerable distance down the Rosebud.
Crook was playing cards with his aide, Lieutenant Bourke, and several other officers. In spite of himself, O’Hara felt uneasy as he stared at the sky. Some of the officers were smoking. Captain Burt was singing. O’Hara only half listened to Captain Hanson’s stories. Now and then he caught a few words from Tom Moore, the chief packer, who was relating one of his adventures to some of his men.
O’Hara sat up and filled his pipe. He lighted it, wishing Walt Staley were here. Staley might do more than Frank Gruard and the other scouts had done, but this seemed stupid, to sit here and do nothing when the Sioux might be just over the rim of bluffs on either side of the stream. George Armstrong Custer would never let himself be caught in this situation. He’d be leading his men down the Rosebud and doing his damnedest to find Crazy Horse’s village.
O’Hara got up and started toward Captain Hanson. His mistrust of Crook had grown until he could not restrain it. He might be ordered back to Cheyenne if he spoke his piece, but that was what he wanted anyhow. If he hurried, he might get back to Chicago in time to talk that stubborn old martinet, Samuel Simpson Cunningham, into letting him join Custer.
Of course, there probably wasn’t time now. Custer would be on the move before this and, if the Sioux whipped Crook as they figured to do, Custer would have the hostiles rounded up and back on the reservation by the time O’Hara reached him. He couldn’t just sit and wait …
Then it happened. The Shoshone scout, Humpy, rode in yelling: “Lakota! Lakota!” Crow scouts not far behind him were screaming, “Heap Sioux!” and one of them was wounded.
After that everything got mixed up. The end of the column was still coming in when the shooting started. Cavalrymen saddled up and tried to get organized, with officers yelling orders and men cursing the horses and dust rising in a cloud that at times hid the rim to the north so O’Hara couldn’t see
what was going on.
General Crook mounted his big black and rode to the top of a nearby hill. Captain Mills also rode to some high ground to get a view of the attacking Sioux, and all the time it was plain enough to O’Hara that if Major Randall, the Chief of Scouts, hadn’t led the Crows and Shoshones against the Sioux and held them for a while, this would have been one hell of a bloody day.
O’Hara stayed where he was, sitting his horse beside the Rosebud. When the dust lifted enough for him to see the bluffs to the north, he watched the Sioux. They seemed to be pouring down every hill and up out of every gully. There must be ten times as many of them as Crook expected.
Staley had said that it was always a mistake to underestimate the Sioux. That was what Fetterman had done ten years ago, and he had lost his command as well as his life. Now, Crook was doing the same thing. For the first time in his adult life, O’Hara admitted that he was afraid.
He saw Captain Henry take two companies to the south bank of the Rosebud to prevent an attack from that side. Then he watched Colonel Royall lead two companies of cavalry up a side stream that flowed into the Rosebud a short distance above where the command had entered the valley. If he hadn’t, the hostiles might have outflanked the infantry and wiped them out. All this time Crook was up on that damned hill.
Someday, O’Hara thought, I’m going to write a book about this crazy campaign. And I’ll place the blame for its failure right where it belongs … on the shoulders of a military spinster named Crook.
Later—O’Hara had little notion how much later because of the shooting and smoke and dust and constant charges and countercharges all along the bluffs to the north—Crook rode down off the hill and assumed command. O’Hara stuck with Crook to see what he would do.
For all the shooting, it didn’t seem to O’Hara that many men were being killed. There was more gallop than fight to this battle, and the Sioux warriors were like a band of wraiths—they were there, and then they weren’t there.
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