When the company stepped out on the other side, there was a noticeable gasp from all the men—veteran, and recruit alike.
A strange sight greeted them. Mounds of pale globs were scattered around the area. These looked as if dozens of thin sticks were sticking out of them. As the company moved closer, the new soldiers could see what the old troops already knew—these were dead men, sprawled naked on the ground.
After another dozen yards, they also realized that what they looked at were not whole bodies, but hunks and pieces of corpses shot full of arrows.
The cadavers had been horribly mutilated. Blood that had gushed from deep gashes slashed in legs and torsos had now dried into brown blotches. Arms and legs were severed in many cases, and a few heads had also been chopped from the bodies and allowed to roll a few feet. The genitalia had also been sliced away and skulls bashed in with the brains spilled out in the grass.
Riker cursed. “Goddamn it to hell! The column!”
“All dead,” Worthington said grimly.
A soldier vomited, and this seemed to be an example for several others to follow. Gagging and spitting grew more noticeable, and several younger soldiers wept with their hands pressed close to their faces.
One recruit stared in horrified silence at the awful carnage. Then he suddenly cried out and turned around. He started to run away back into the woods. A corporal, catching sight of him, gave chase and grabbed the horrified boy, dragging him back.
Now Tommy realized the full implication of what had happened. “Oh my Lord save us! This is our old camp, Harold!” he gasped, grabbing onto his friend’s arm.
Harold, unable to speak, stared with a horrid fascination at the scene. He wanted more than anything to close his eyes, but it was if he had no control over them. Finally, he turned around and faced the other way. He fought the sobs, then gave in as his emotions took over.
“They were all killed!” he gasped.
“It’s ever’body that stayed back,” Tommy added. Robertson, walking past the two shocked soldiers, joined the two officers. “We’ll need to do something, sir,” he said. “The men can’t just stand there and look at all this shit.”
Worthington, visibly pale, licked his lips with a dry tongue. “Are we going to be able to bury them?” Riker shook his head. “Under the circumstances—no. We can’t stay here that long.” He looked at Robertson. “You know what to do, Sergeant. Carry on.”
“Yes, sir,” Robertson said. He turned around and walked over to the edge of the camp. “L Comp’ny! Fall in!”
The first men came over, relieved that there was something to do. They tried to form up on the near side of the first sergeant.
“Over there!” Robertson barked. He wanted them to look past him at the scene. When both sections were aligned, he asked for a report, to give some sort of normalcy to the situation.
“First Section all present ’n’ accounted for,” Sergeant McCarey said.
Sergeant Donahue echoed with, “Second Section all present ’n’ accounted for.”
“Stand at ease,” Robertson commanded. He glared at the men, seeing the horror and revulsion in their eyes. Someone vomited again. “Well?” the first sergeant bellowed. “What the hell did you think soldiering was about, anyhow?” He paced up and down in front of the company. “This is the regular army in a real war against Indians. Not a fancy-pants rich man’s militia out parading around the town square of a Sunday back in some dreamy eastern town!”
Now someone finally fainted, his body thudding to the ground. His squad mates left him alone, envying him his unconsciousness.
“This is real!” Robertson continued. “Men die! When they die because they was massacred by Indians, they get cut up and butchered. If we hadn’t been out on that scout, it would have happened to us.” He let the last bit of enlightenment sink in for a couple of minutes. “And it could still happen if things go bad for the comp’ny. So you’re all gonna have to stay on the alert and obey orders proper and quick.”
Mike Mulligan, the thief, had shown no emotional reaction whatsoever. Even now, he looked on the scene with a detached calmness. He’d seen dead men before. Corpses that had been stabbed, shot, and beaten to death were common in the Bowery. Although none had been mutilated, he didn’t find the situation that much different. But he didn’t like the smell that seemed to grow denser and more obnoxious with the increase in the day’s warmth.
Robertson gestured to the dead behind him. “We ain’t gonna be able to bury these poor soldiers ’cause there ain’t time. But we can honor ’em and respect ’em. We owe ’em that ’cause they were our friends and comrades-in-arms.”
Every man—rookie and veteran alike—was glad he wouldn’t be required to pick up and put the hunks of humanity into graves.
“So you’ll go out there and walk among ’em. If you recognize somebody, give his name to your squad leader,” Robertson said. “We’ll make up a list for the official report. Their families can be notified that way. You’d expect the same consideration showed you. Comp’ny, atten-hut. Move out! Now!”
Tommy and Harold looked at each other in a silent invitation for company. They walked slowly among the scattered dead, not really looking at any of them.
Mack Baker and Charlie O’Malley, on the other hand, were pointing out various cadavers.
“Ain’t that Dempsey?” Baker asked.
“Kinda looks like him,” O’Malley mused. “But I ain’t sure. Didn’t Dempsey’s ears stick out?”
“Yeah. Come to think of it, he was a real jug-eared son of a bitch,” Baker said.
Devlin glanced at them. His stomach churned with horror and revulsion. “Is that the way you old soldiers honor your dead comrades? Call them jug-eared sons of bitches?”
“Only if they got big ears,” Baker said with a grin.
“Hey.” Tommy exclaimed. Although he tried to avoid looking directly at any of the corpses, he thought he recognized one. “That’s Red. Remember him, Harold? The feller from the cavalry we talked to a couple o’ times. We called him Red, didn’t we?”
Harold forced himself to look at the naked, pulverized remains. “Yes. But I don’t remember his name.” O’Malley looked. “His last name was Scott.” He called out the name to Corporal Schreiner, who dutifully recorded it in the small notebook he carried.
They approached the charred remnants of a quartermaster wagon. When they walked around it, they saw a blackened corpse that had burned with the vehicle.
O’Malley slowly shook his head. “I hope the poor devil was already dead when they throwed him on the fire.”
Harold Devlin was shocked. They wouldn’t burn a man alive, would they?” He’d read of such things in books before, but he couldn’t accept the horrible reality of it.
“Sure they would,” Mack said. “You know why they chop up dead folks, don’t you? It’s on account o’ pure hatred, boys. Them Sioux think you’ll spend eternity in the same condition your corpse is in.”
“That’s why they’re so respectful to their dead and put ’em in trees all wrapped in hides, with bows and arrows and other things they’ll need in the happy hunting grounds,” O’Malley added.
“You mean they want us to be in heaven or hell like—like that?” Tommy asked, pointing around.
“God! They must really hate us,” Harold said.
“They do, young soldier,” Baker said. “They truly do.”
“That’s why the boys sometimes do terrible things to dead Injuns,” Baker said. “On account o’ they know it really makes their friends and relatives feel bad to find ’em all cut up into hunks.”
When the company reached the other side of the former bivouac, Robertson turned them around for another walk through the area. This second trip went much faster than the first. When that was done, the entire company moved into the cover of the trees while Robertson picked up the lists of names of the identified dead from the sergeants and corporals.
After settling the men down, the first sergeant sought
out the officers. All three withdrew for a conference. Riker, though trying to keep a nonchalant expression on his face for the benefit of the men, made no attempt to hide the pessimism in his voice.
“We’re really cut off now,” the captain said. Worthington nodded his head. “Now we know why the Sioux didn’t spend the time or effort to wipe us out. They had something bigger going here.”
Robertson tried to look on what bit of brightness there was in the situation. They’ll be off celebrating a victory this big for a while. It gives us a chance to make some tracks.”
But Riker was not optimistic. There are one hundred and fifty miles of wide-open country between us and Fort Keogh,” he pointed out. “We’re short of ammunition and rations. Even if we manage twenty miles a day, that’s—” Never very good at mathematics, Riker struggled with the equation.
“That’ll take a bit more than a week,” Worthington said helpfully.
“And we’ve no maps of the country,” Riker said.
“All we got to do is head north, right, sir?” Robertson asked.
“We could wander right past the post,” Riker said. “If that happened and we did manage to last that week, we’d eventually get caught on the other side of Keogh.” He was thoughtful for a few moments. “We’ll have to go northeast until we hit the Tongue River. We can follow that to our destination.”
“We sure been following lots o’ rivers, lately,” Robertson remarked. “But they been good to us.”
Riker was silent once more for a minute. Finally he said, “You two realize, of course, that our chances of making it are nil.”
Worthington was not bothered by the thought. “If they catch us, we’ll take ten apiece with us before we die.”
“If you’re looking for a glorious death, Fred, you’re certainly going to get it,” Riker remarked.
Robertson nodded his agreement. “Yes, sir. You’ll die, one way or the other.”
“Let’s call the troops together and get this show on the road—again,” Riker said. “It goes without saying that I want to see a display of complete confidence and optimism.”
“Of course,” Worthington said.
“I’ll talk to the NCOs, sir,” Robertson said. “Excellent, Sergeant,” Riker said. “Tell them if I catch any sergeant or corporal making discouraging remarks, I’ll break him down on the spot.”
“Yes, sir.”
Riker turned to Worthington as Robertson walked off. “Fred,” he said to his second-in-command, “this is the worst situation I’ve ever been in during the twenty years of my commissioned service.”
Worthington knew the captain had something to say to him. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m expecting you to be prudent and cool,” Riker said. “You’ve gotten away with things in the past because of blind luck. That won’t do out here now. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Charlie,” Worthington said.
“Good. Now let’s see to the men,” Riker said. Within moments the company was drawn up and Riker stood in front of them. “This has been a terrible setback, men,” he said, trying to keep his voice enthusiastic. “But we’ve still got a damned good chance. Our plan is to cut cross-country to the Tongue River and follow it straight up to Fort Keogh.”
The old soldiers listened with a numb realization of the real situation, while the Johnny Raws grasped at the straw of hope the captain cast out to them.
Riker went on. “We can make it if every man does as he is told and doesn’t waste ammunition. We cannot afford that.” He paused, then suddenly hollered, “Are you with me?”
“Yes, sir!” they answered.
“There’re my good soldiers,” Riker said. “Comp’ny, atten-hut! Fix bayonets!” He waited until the sharp instruments were locked onto the muzzles of the rifles. “Sling arms! Right, face! For’d march! Route step, march!”
As they moved out, Harold Devlin noted the glint of the sun on the bayonet blades. He was not a stupid man. He knew they had no more ammo once the cartridge belts were empty. That was why the captain had them attach the bayonets before any trouble started. Any future battles with Indians would be a primitive fight to the death. He glanced at Tommy Saxon. The young soldier’s face was strained and serious. Harold grinned sardonically.
The fun of soldiering was over.
Chapter Twelve – Riker’s Scout
Now moving northwest, L Company realized, less than a half a day’s march after leaving the scene of the massacre, that they were not the only men in that wide expanse of wilderness.
“Enemy right!” someone hollered on that side of their formation.
“Enemy front!” Lieutenant Frederick Worthington quickly echoed.
“Company, form a square!” Riker ordered, knowing there was no time to waste. He wished his command was back by the river where it would be possible to use the natural terrain features as part of a defense. Being in the open as they were, the boxlike infantry formation was the only tactic he could follow. “Load!”
A couple of small groups of Indians rode into view, approaching from the horizon, showing no inclination to rush things. When they came in closer, they began to canter almost lazily to and fro. The casual riding about caused the bands to intermix and split up several times. Finally, after several minutes, they calmed down and hovered nearby.
The men in the company could easily see the Sioux talking to one another. Now and then one would point at them and gesture in some manner, as if giving orders or suggestions to his fellow warriors. Periodic shouts were exchanged between the two bunches of Indians.
“Maintain the square,” Riker said. “But keep moving.” He didn’t like the idea of remaining stationary. As the men renewed their march in the awkward formation, both Riker and Robertson kept anxious eyes on the horizon all around to watch out for any hostile reinforcements.
Fewer than a dozen warriors rode in each group, and they made no attempts to link up into one large war party. Remaining calm, the Sioux traveled with the soldiers. They seemed to be more curious than warlike as they observed the blue-uniformed troops for more than an hour.
Angry and nervous muttering broke out periodically in the ranks while the soldiers kept a vigil on their unwanted company. The NCOs barked short, explicit instructions to shut up as the war of nerves edged on.
Finally a quartet of young braves broke loose from one war party and mounted a small but thundering charge toward the company.
“Halt!” Riker commanded. He hollered to the unit on that side of the line. “Second squad, aim!”
The four warriors continued toward the soldiers, shouting in defiance and bravado.
“Steady, now!” Riker cautioned them.
Robertson joined the second squad, bringing the enemy into his own Springfield’s sights. “Remember to go for them horses’ chests, boys!”
Riker waited until the last minute. “Fire!”
The small line belched smoke and flame. One of the Indians twisted and tried to hang on to his rawhide bridle. But he finally fell over to the ground. His three friends, spreading out, turned and galloped away.
An abrupt outbreak of shouts sounded from the front of the column where the first squad held their part of the square. A dozen Indians, who made up the entirety of one of the groups, galloped toward them in a loose, strung-out formation.
“Fifth squad, into position!” Riker yelled.
Worthington, Robertson, and the two sergeants, with Melech, joined the squad to add their firepower to the defensive efforts. Although Worthington normally carried only a pistol, he had taken the dead George Hammer’s Springfield rifle, glad to have the long arm for its superior range and accuracy.
This time the Indians fired first. Although their shooting was uncoordinated and ragged, the fusillade proved lucky for them. Private Dulgher flipped over on his back and Private Anderson spun around and dropped to his knees before falling face-first to the ground.
“Fire!”
Eleven .45-caliber slugs exploded out of the f
ormation and flew at the Indians. Three of the Sioux were blasted from the backs of their horses, their bodies kicking up small clouds of dust as they bounced off the dry grassland.
“Second squad, Fifth squad, load!”
The surviving warriors wisely made a sharp turn, galloping away from the formation of soldiers. But ten more of the Indians charged from another side, putting Second squad under attack once again. Like the others, they also combined their running attack with firing at the soldiers. But this time the incoming bullets were more numerous because of the rapid shooting accompanying the charge.
Tim Sweeney yelled, “Oof!” He put his hands to his chest and pulled them back bloody. “Sure now, and I’m shot,” he said rather calmly. Then he staggered backward. “Oh, boys, take care o’ me,” he said, before collapsing a few paces behind his messmates.
Lars Larson stared down at Sweeney. After a few seconds he realized the man had died. Larson, his face contorted with horror and fear, looked wildly about. Suddenly he threw down his rifle and bolted out of the formation, running in a panic for the open country.
“Larson!” Corporal Schreiner shouted. “Come back! Come back!”
But the man was beyond taking orders, or even thinking clearly. The blind, unthinking instinct to get away from the scene of death and roaring noise drove him on as he ran wildly across the grassland. He sobbed and wailed to himself in his deranged flight to nowhere.
Now the Indians spotted him. Instantly and mutually abandoning the idea of their charge, all ten rode hard after the running soldier. Yelling in a happy rage, they closed in on him.
Larson glanced over his shoulder and saw the ten Sioux riders closing in fast and furiously. Now screaming insanely, he tried to run faster.
The first Indian, wanting to count a war coup, rode up beside the fleeing rifleman and slapped him hard on the shoulder with his open hand. Yelling in triumph at the honor he had garnered for himself, he turned to make sure his friends had seen the deed.
Gunsmoke at Powder River (The Long-Knives #4) Page 13
