It occurred to O’Hara that at least three fights were going on at the same time: Royall on the west, Van Vliet across the Rosebud on the south, and Crook in the center. O’Hara didn’t say anything to Crook, but the general’s view was blotted out by ridges and huge boulders, and O’Hara wondered how he could plan a battle from his position.
Suddenly, or so it seemed to O’Hara, Crook decided the battle was going well. He wanted Crazy Horse’s village. The village had been his objective from the beginning. So he ordered Captain Mills to march down the Rosebud, forcing the horses to as hard a pace as they could stand. Mills was to capture the village and hold it, and later Crook would come with the entire command.
O’Hara joined Mills, because this was the kind of movement Crook should have ordered in the first place. The scout, Gruard, led the cavalry down the stream that made a sharp bend to the north. A band of Sioux occupied the bluff overlooking the west side of the cañon, but they were driven off by Troop E. After that Mills moved on downstream at a good pace.
Suddenly O’Hara felt better. The battle was moving as it should. If the village really was down here, and if they could capture and hold it, the fight would likely be over. The lodges would be destroyed, ponies captured, the hostiles’ supplies lost. They probably wouldn’t be wiped out, but Crook would win a victory, and Gibbon and Terry somewhere to the north could move in and finish the job. In a matter of days, the hostiles would be caught in a pincer movement. Then they would be disarmed and herded back onto the reservation.
The column halted about three miles below the bend where the Rosebud made a sharp turn to the north. Mills gave the order to dismount. Pine trees and large boulders made a thick cover on both sides of the stream. There was a narrow opening to the west, but suddenly O’Hara could see death waiting for all of them if they moved on down the creek into the confines of the cañon.
Major Noyes with five troops of the Second Cavalry had caught up with Mills’ three troops. O’Hara listened to the conversation between Captain Hanson and some of the other officers, and he gathered that nobody was anxious to enter the narrow defile that lay ahead. The men rested their horses and tightened their cinches, tense and uneasy at the prospect of riding into an ambush.
O’Hara noticed that Gruard had moved away from the group of officers. He cocked his head as if listening to something that no one else heard. Then he nodded to the west and said: “There’s firing yonder somewhere.”
A moment later a trooper back along the line said: “Somebody’s coming.”
O’Hara heard it then, and he saw that Mills had, too. They waited, and presently Major Nickerson and an orderly rode along the column, Nickerson’s magnificent black beard gray with dust.
“The general orders that you defile by your left flank,” Nickerson said. “You are to fall on the rear of the Indians. Royall is hard pressed. Vroom’s troop is cut up and Henry is badly wounded.”
This accounted for the firing Gruard had heard. O’Hara knew that Mills had no choice. He would have to follow Crook’s orders, of course. Glancing again at the mouth of the cañon, O’Hara was filled with mixed emotions.
If they had gone on as planned, they could march squarely into a deathtrap. Once caught in a crossfire—and they would be if Sioux marksmen lay hidden along the sides of the cañon—the column might be wiped out. Still, there was a chance that the troopers could get through, a chance the village was just below the mouth of the cañon, a chance that an important victory could be won within the next few minutes.
Here again, O’Hara thought, Crook was illustrating his timidity by calling Mills’ column back before it had a chance to do what it had set out to do. But neither Mills nor any of the other officers voiced this criticism.
Mills led the way up the cliff, weaving back and forth among the boulders and fallen timber to the top. The climb was steep, and by the time the men reached the top, they were all blowing. They moved on through a scattering of boulders and wind-twisted trees, then came into the open, a grass-covered plateau that seemed to run on ahead of them for miles.
They had been leading their horses, but now Mills gave the order: “Prepare to mount. Mount.”
O’Hara swung into the saddle and rode beside Mills. They swept out across the plateau—and, suddenly, there were the hostiles, surprised by an attack from the rear.
The men cheered as they charged. They wanted to come to grips with the Indians. But the Sioux lookouts sounded the alarm and the main body had no stomach for a fight in which the whites already held an advantage. The Sioux picked up their dead and disappeared to the northwest.
O’Hara glanced at the sun. It was about 2:00, so the battle had lasted six hours at most. What would have happened if Mills had been allowed to go on down the Rosebud? But he hadn’t, and Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull and the rest were out there somewhere to the north, the Sioux village still intact.
Crook will go after them, O’Hara thought. He’s got to, and maybe he will catch up with them again.
Chapter
Twenty-Five
The packers under Tom Moore and a group of Montana miners held a ridge in the center of the battlefield some distance north of the Rosebud. The infantry held another ridge to the southeast. Later in the day part of the infantry was ordered farther northwest to cover Royall’s retreat toward the Rosebud. The rest of the infantry, including Company A, remained on the ridge.
It was just plain boring, Dave Allison thought, lying out here on his belly among the rocks, with the sun boiling down on him and his canteen empty and his mouth as dry as dust. Now and then he or Johnny Morgan or Corporal Jones would fire a shot just to let the Sioux know they were still there.
The Indians showed no inclination to charge the infantry with its “long-shooting” rifles, so Company A was not involved in the heavy fighting that had forced Royall back and had cut Vroom’s troop to pieces.
From his vantage point on the ridge top, Allison had watched the charging and countercharging; he had observed how most of the braves carried two or three cartridge belts around their almost naked bodies. He had been interested, too, in the way each used a rope to tie around his pony directly back of the forequarters, and by taking a twist around either leg, fastened himself on the back of his mount.
The braves usually carried their rifles in their right hands, and their coup sticks on their backs in what looked like a quiver. Allison had heard Walt Staley describe the use of the coup stick. It seemed that a warrior gained virtue simply by touching his adversary with it. Staley had said that it made no difference who killed the enemy. The trick was to touch him first with the coup stick and thereby claim him. By modern white standards the custom made no sense. Without it, the Indians could have killed more whites.
The hours dragged by. Most of the time Allison listened to Morgan talk about his home and his parents and the dull life on the farm. At about 2:00 in the afternoon Allison saw Mills gallop in from the west at the head of his column. Within minutes the Indians began pulling out.
“By God,” Corporal Jones yelled, “they’ve had enough! I’ll bet the fight’s over for today.”
Some of the soldiers began to cheer. Johnny Morgan jumped up and waved his campaign hat and yelled at the top of his voice. His action was impulsive, the exuberance of youth, a victory cry as the Indians started to ride off the battlefield.
But somewhere out there a diehard brave had a long-range Sharps rifle that he had likely stolen from some white man. Allison heard the boom of the Sharps, a sound quite distinct from that of the Army rifles. He heard the thwack of lead hitting flesh and bone.
Allison kneeled beside Johnny Morgan. Blood poured from a gaping hole in Morgan’s chest. The boy felt it and lifted his hand and stared at the blood dripping from his fingers.
“Write to Ma, Dave,” he whispered. “Tell her I fought all right. I did, didn’t I, Dave?”
“You sure did,�
�� Allison said.
Johnny Morgan died under the hot sun on a ridge top a thousand miles from home.
Later in the afternoon, mules were brought up from the Rosebud to move the dead and wounded. Travoises were rigged up for the seriously wounded that could neither ride nor walk. Allison trudged beside the mule that carried Morgan’s body. He helped dig Morgan’s grave, surrounded by the fragrant blossoms of wild plums and crab apples. Morgan’s body was wrapped in a blanket. The burial service was read, three rifle volleys were fired, and Allison picked up a shovel and helped fill the grave. Then, taking advantage of the fading summer sunlight, he wrote to Morgan’s parents.
The camp came to life at 3:00 the following morning. The men hovered over cook fires, eating their breakfasts of bacon and hardtack and coffee, and in the chill, pale light of dawn, began their retreat up the Rosebud.
The column moved slowly because of the wounded. Near noon O’Hara rode up beside Allison. The reporter’s face was a picture of concentrated fury. He said: “Where’s the man who calls himself Pete Risdon?”
“I don’t know,” Allison said, “and I don’t much care.”
“He disappeared,” Jones said, “and no matter why he did it. He’s a fool. The Sioux will lift his hair before he gets to Fort Fetterman.”
O’Hara chewed his lip. Then he said: “You know where we’re going?”
“No,” Allison said. “The general neglected to notify me.”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” O’Hara snapped. “We’re going to the base camp on Goose Creek and there we’re going to wait for reinforcements.” He cursed until he ran out of breath, paused long enough to fill his lungs, and added: “Just tell me why we aren’t chasing the Sioux. We lost ten men killed and twenty-one wounded, so we’re turning tail and running like a bunch of rabbits.”
“We’re short on ammunition,” Jones said.
“There’s plenty back here at the base camp,” O’Hara said angrily. “We could pick it up and head back after the Indians. But, no, we’re going to wait for reinforcements.”
Allison wished O’Hara would go away. If he had to gab, he could do it to someone else.
“I didn’t give the order, O’Hara,” he said wearily.
“Of course you didn’t!” O’Hara snarled. “If you were commanding this column, we’d be on the Sioux’s tail right now instead of dragging back to camp like a bunch of whipped pups. Crook has the biggest and best-equipped expedition that ever went after the Indians in the history of the United States Army. Now he’s had a little brush with them, so he’s running away to wait for reinforcements. I tell you …”
“You’ve told us enough,” Jones said. “Now I’ll tell you something. I’ve seen too damned many smart-aleck reporters who throw in with a command like this just to second-guess the commanding officer. I don’t aim to listen to no more of it. Get out of here before I pull you off your horse and kick your butt into the Rosebud.”
O’Hara bristled, and for a moment Allison thought he was going to challenge Jones to do it. But then he dug in his spurs and galloped toward the head of the column.
“He’s partly right, Corporal,” Allison said. “I’d like to find the red bastard that shot Johnny, and I won’t find him if we’re going to sit on Goose Creek and wait for reinforcements.”
“Maybe he’s right, maybe not,” Jones said. “The point is, the commanding officer makes the decision. That decision has to go whether it’s right or wrong. It’s no good telling the men it’s wrong. If I was Crook, I’d put that red-headed pest on his horse and head him for Fort Fetterman and tell him to keep going.”
“He’d lose his hair like Pete Risdon’s going to,” Allison said.
“I’d cry,” Jones said. “God, would I cry.”
Chapter
Twenty-Six
Walt Staley reached the base camp on Goose Creek with dispatches from Fort Fetterman on the afternoon of June 19. General Crook had led his command into camp only a few hours before Staley arrived. He went at once to Crook’s tent, but an aide told him he’d have to wait. Crook was having a conference with some of his officers.
The aide told Staley what had happened on the Rosebud.
“We won the battle,” he added. “The Indians chose the field and left us in possession when the fight was over.”
To Staley such a statement was ridiculous. The only way you whipped Indians was to chase them and destroy their villages and capture their ponies until they finally surrender. Then and only then could you return them to their reservation. As things stood now, the main body of warriors was intact to turn on Gibbon or Terry, if they came within striking distance.
“Of course this was not the decisive victory we hoped to win,” the aide added fretfully. “Why do you suppose they quit that way?”
“Maybe they got tired of fighting. Maybe they were hungry. But they weren’t whipped. That’s the only thing you can be sure of.”
“Well, we did win the battle,” the aide said to encourage himself. Staley shrugged. That would be the claim made in Crook’s dispatches, but Staley doubted that there was an officer in camp including Crook himself who was satisfied with the way the fight had gone.
The conference broke up a moment later. Colonel Royall, Captain Hanson, and several other officers left the tent, their faces grim. The aide said: “You may go in now, Mister Staley.”
Hanson turned when he heard the name. He said softly, “Wait,” and strode over to Staley. He said: “I assume you will be seeing your reporter friend, O’Hara.”
“I expect to, Captain.”
Hanson hesitated, glancing toward the tent flap, then said: “Don’t quote me, Staley, but O’Hara talks too much and too loud. As far as this expedition is concerned he has made himself persona non grata. It might prevent an unpleasant scene if he were to return to Chicago.”
Staley understood. No one could control O’Hara’s opinions as stated on paper, but they were just too much for the naked ear.
“He might be open to suggestion,” Staley said.
“Thank you,” Hanson said, and walked away.
Staley lifted the flap and stepped into the tent. Crook was seated on a camp chair, a packing crate in front of him serving as a desk.
“Glad to see you back, Staley. Any trouble?”
Staley shook his head as he laid the packet of dispatches on the crate. “None this time, General. I heard about the battle. I suppose you’ll be here for a while.”
Crook nodded. “I’m asking for reinforcements and ammunition. It was the lack of ammunition that prevented us from pursuing the hostiles. We can’t move until it arrives.”
“I’m resigning my job,” Staley said. “I’ve worked now longer than I intended to.” He paused, and then, seeing disapproval on Crook’s face, added: “I intend to get married and I’m concerned about my girl’s safety. She lives on a horse ranch between Fort Fetterman and Fort Laramie.”
Staley had heard Crook described as more Indian-like than the Indians, but he had never felt the general was that way. He did not sympathize with O’Hara’s criticism, either. The men in Crook’s command would probably live a good deal longer than those serving under Custer.
Crook’s blue-gray eyes softened. “You have reason to be concerned, Staley. We’ll miss you, but I can find another courier. Go get some rest and a meal. I’m anxious to get this message on the wire to General Sheridan so he will be informed about our victory on the Rosebud. When you return to Fetterman, you will probably be asked to carry the correspondents’ dispatches, also.”
“I have a request to make, General,” Staley said. “I have a notion that O’Hara will want to go back with me, and if I could have one more man, we might make it fairly easy. Three rifles can raise so much hell with a small war party that the Indians will think twice before they hit us.”
Crook’s expression did not change when O’H
ara’s name was mentioned. Apparently he wasn’t quite following Staley’s thinking. At least Staley didn’t think so, judging from his quizzical expression, so he added quickly: “I was hoping you would give Dave Allison of Company A permission to accompany us. That way we would have the extra rifle. His hitch is almost up and I understand he wants to go home.”
“Request granted,” Crook said, “although it seems to me that both O’Hara and Allison would do well to wait a day or two. I’m sending the wagon train back to Fort Fetterman for supplies. It will have an adequate guard, so it would be safer for them to travel with the wagons.”
“It sure would,” Staley agreed, “but O’Hara’s anxious to get back to his newspaper in Chicago, and Allison has a father who lives alone on his farm in Illinois. I think they would be obliged if they could travel as fast as possible.”
Crook nodded. “I understand. I suppose your friend, Allison, will want a horse.”
“He’ll need one, all right.”
“This is not according to regulations, but I’ll arrange it for him,” Crook said, smiling slightly. “Report back to me about dusk. I’ll have the dispatch ready.”
“I’ll be here,” Staley said, and left the tent.
Ten minutes later he found Allison squatting beside a fire with Corporal Jones and Al Cady and several other soldiers from Company A. Staley hunkered beside Allison and slapped him on the back.
“Glad to see you ducked when you had to, Dave.”
“Uhn-huh. Have some coffee, Walt.”
Staley took a cup from Al Cady, wondering about the tight expression on Allison’s face. Corporal Jones nodded at Allison. “Johnny Morgan caught a slug in the brisket,” he said.
“And Pete Risdon deserted,” Cady added. “He’ll probably lose his hair somewhere between here and Fort Fetterman.”
Summer Warpath Page 12
