Gunsmoke at Powder River (The Long-Knives #4)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  The elk was long gone. Due to the necessity of speed, the animal had been inefficiently butchered. Hunks of the red meat were passed out and the men given a few moments to roast the food over a fire and eat it before the march resumed. The portions not consumed were put in haversacks, making the bottoms of the packs greasy.

  That had been two days before, and now stomachs were once again empty and fatigue was taking its toll.

  Another problem, which they now faced for the first time, was thirst. Before moving cross-country, the column had followed the Powder River, staying within sight of its banks on the northward movement from Wyoming into Montana. Even on the patrol, they had followed the waterway down to where it met the Crazy Woman River. The proximity of water made it no problem to keep their canteens filled. In the growing heat of early summer, the men perspired heavily with the hard physical exertion. Functioning with parched throats made the job much more difficult.

  Unfortunately, when Riker decided to cut cross-country to the Tongue, the company moved away from all water sources. The captain, not knowing the country, had hoped they would find some source of water in unknown creeks or even some unmarked lake or pond. But there had been none—not even a buffalo wallow filled with brackish, muddy water. Now the final drops were left in the canteens, and it took every ounce of bullying that Sergeant Robertson could muster to keep them from guzzling it down all at once. Some of the men were on the verge of dry canteens with the next swallow or two. The old soldiers, as usual, proved to have conserved more of the life-giving liquid. Their eternal pessimism kept them always prepared for the worst.

  The only relief in the grueling routine had been the presence of the recovered cavalry horse. A travois of two saplings was constructed by a couple of the experienced campaigners and attached to the animal with bits of rawhide and rope donated by various individuals in the company. Now the animal pulled the load of ammunition, sparing Mack Baker and Mike Mulligan from the burden. Even blanket rolls had been piled on the device, but more than a month of hard, relentless marching—first with the main column and now on their own—was taking its toll.

  The men were not reacting to exhaustion all at once, however. It hit individuals at different times. Most showed the effects by becoming morose or irritable. Some, almost giving up, sank to their knees in dejection and were encouraged to continue by sympathetic bunkies who helped them up. If that didn’t work, the poor wretches were kicked back into action by one of the noncommissioned officers. Others, like Tommy and Harold, stumbled about clumsily from time to time.

  On that second afternoon after the elk had been killed, the horse unexpectedly raised its head and whinnied. The old campaigners knew what that meant.

  “Sure, and the darlin’ Tongue River’s nearby, boys!” Paddy Donegan cried out.

  “That’s right,” Charlie O’Malley shouted. “He can smell that sweet, cool water.”

  The good news bolstered their sagging spirits. As if given a tonic, the men’s step increased and there was even some friendly bantering between a couple of the good-natured Irishmen.

  “Now, Cawpril O’Rourke,” ex-sergeant George Callan called out to his squad leader, “if it’s a trade yer wantin’, I’ll give ye all the whiskey I can buy on me next month’s pay fer yer canteen full o’ fresh cold water to have as me very own. How does that bargain sound to ye, then?”

  “Ye’re bluddy daft, ye Kilcullen bastard!” O’Rourke retorted. “Even a stout Irishman like meself can’t make it to the next payday wit’out sweet water to soothe me t’roat while trompin’ about in this devil’s wilderness.”

  “Quiet in the ranks!” Robertson barked. “And keep the column moving!”

  The men continued onward and finally topped a rise that had cut off their forward view. Spread out before them was the beautiful view of the Tongue River, its lush banks sporting thick stands of tall trees and brush.

  “Water, boys! We got water!” somebody shouted.

  Cries of happiness in several languages followed, as happy emotions caused several riflemen to fall back to their native tongues.

  “Hurrah!”

  “Evviva!”

  "Hurra!”

  “Hurry, fellers!”

  “Shut your yaps!” Robertson bellowed. “And stay in formation!” He had glanced back from his position on the point and noted the men were losing their squad integrities.

  Suddenly Nathaniel Jones of the first squad broke ranks and raced toward the river. His canteen had been bone-dry for three hours and his throat was parched and dry. He didn’t give a damn what Robertson would do to him later; all he wanted was to slake his thirst and cool the hot torment in his mouth.

  Zlato from the third squad quickly followed suit, as did his messmate John Holihan. The two ran after Jones as fast as they could, ignoring the enraged shouts of their noncommissioned officers. Bounding down the gentle slope in long strides, the three soldiers ran crazily toward the cool, wet comfort offered by the river.

  Ragged shooting abruptly broke out from the trees ahead of them. Jones went down in an undignified, tumbling heap. Zlato looked as if he’d run into a wire when the head shot hit him solid. His upper torso went back while his legs kept running, and he slammed down flat on his back.

  By then Holihan had caught sight of the Sioux in the trees. He came to a shuddering halt and turned to go back to the column. A shot hit him in the shoulder, twisting him sideways, but he kept his balance and continued forward. A second and third shot slammed into his back simultaneously, and he performed his next three running steps as a dead man before going down.

  “Enemy to the rear!”

  Riker, with his pistol in hand, whirled around and saw a large group of mounted warriors coming at them from the opposite side. Angry regret swelled up like bitter bile as he instantly realized the Sioux had correctly guessed the company’s destination. Having horses, the Indians had beaten them there. Consequently, Riker had marched his men into a position where they were caught between the Sioux horsemen and their comrades in the trees by the river. There was no choice in the matter.

  “To the bayonets!” Riker shouted. “Charge!”

  The men obeyed blindly, putting their faith in the captain’s quick reaction as they headed for the trees. Trumpeter Melech, excited for a change, trotted along sounding the Charge on his bugle. The insistent staccato of the notes blared above the sound of Indian shooting.

  Lars Snekker in the first squad went down with a bullet in the forehead. He was quickly followed by Harry Brown of the third squad.

  “Fire at will!” Riker ordered, knowing it would have been impossible to set up a controlled volley under the wild circumstances in which the battle had erupted.

  Every man had a round in his rifle, and all made quick hip shots as they bounded forward in their ragged assault. It was highly inaccurate, but concentrated. The close-packed swarm of bullets was enough to make the Sioux inside the trees duck for cover as two of their number were cut down by the heavy slugs from the army rifles.

  Tommy Saxon was unaware of anything but a wild rage, as he raced toward the riverbank. As thirsty as he was, the young soldier was willing to kill anybody who seriously considered keeping him from water. He’d found the brutal kick of the Springfield satisfying when he’d let loose a round on the captain’s order. Now he leaped across a stand of bushes and charged into the tree line. A young Sioux warrior faced him. The Indian, caught loading, thought fast and swung his carbine like a club.

  Tommy, screaming insanely, instinctively ducked under the blows while rushing forward. Filled with battle lust, he jabbed with a forward thrust of his bayoneted rifle. The blade went into the Sioux’s neck, instantly causing blood to gush from the warrior’s ears, nose, and mouth. The dying Indian grabbed at the rifle as he fell, almost dragging it from Tommy’s strong grip. The Ohio farm boy violently shook the weapon to free it, making his opponent’s final moments of life a brief but agonizing hell.

  Less than ten feet away, Harold Devli
n had clubbed down another warrior as his intellect evaporated under the heat of battle ardor and rage.

  More ragged shooting exploded, and within a matter of fifteen seconds the ten Indians who had lain in wait in the woods were all dead. Badly outnumbered, they had needed their horse-mounted brethren for support, but the unexpected infantry assault had caught them in a bad way.

  “Turn about!” Riker ordered. “Load!”

  The men, with a fresh round in each weapon, faced outward toward the mounted warriors charging in on them.

  “Aim! Fire!”

  This volley was regulated and simultaneous, hitting the Sioux hard as their first ragged rank was wiped out. The others pulled back, making a wide circle as they rode out of range of the deadly Springfields.

  “They got Sergeant McCarey!” an excited rifleman shouted.

  McCarey was being held by a couple of Sioux as he struggled to get free. Somehow he’d lagged too far behind the charge and had been caught. Other Indians rode up and dismounted. They gestured toward the soldiers to make sure they could see the prisoner. One of the Indians took an arrow and began jabbing the sergeant hard with the point. Bits of blood began showing on his blue blouse.

  “They’re gonna drag the poor bastard away,” Mack Baker said. “God! They’ll take the rest o’ the day and all night in killing him!”

  Tommy was barely aware of anyone beside him until he noted Captain Riker speaking to him.

  “Sir?”

  “I said give me your rifle,” Riker said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Riker took the Springfield and brought it to his shoulder. Aiming carefully, he gently squeezed the trigger. It belched the .45 slug that hit McCarey in the head.

  Blood and brains splattered over the enraged Indians. Angry and disgusted, they could be seen trying to get a decent scalp, but the split skull made it impossible.

  “The captain just did a great kindness to Sergeant McCarey,” Robertson said loudly. “Them Indians would’ve drug him away to a long, cruel death. Remember that, boys, and always save a last bullet for yourselves. If they’re gonna cut you up and roast you, let ’em do it to you after you’ve gone to your Maker.”

  Tommy took his rifle back from Captain Riker. He remembered hearing that sort of talk in the barracks, as tales of Indian torture and torment to captives were told and retold by the veterans. He’d wondered if they did it to throw a scare into the rookies. Now he knew it was all true.

  “Corporal Schreiner!” Robertson barked. “You’re acting sergeant and section leader of the first section.” The loss of a noncommissioned officer meant a quick reorganization if discipline and order were to be maintained. The first sergeant looked at the survivors of the second squad. He carefully but quickly noted each one, finally saying, “O’Malley, you’re acting corporal. Take over the second squad.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” O’Malley said. “Let’s go, Second squad.” He realigned them in the trees as they waited for the next Indian attack.

  After spending a bit more time violently chopping up McCarey’s body, the Sioux remounted and pulled farther back until they were completely out of sight. Robertson, meanwhile, took some leadership pressure off Riker by personally assigning the squads to protect certain areas of the new position. When he was satisfied with their placement, he hurried across the position to make an official report to the company commander.

  “Sir, L Comp’ny has one officer; one first sergeant, one sergeant, one acting sergeant, three corp’rals, one acting corp’ral, one trumpeter, and twenty-five privates present ’n’ accounted for.” He added up the numbers in the impromptu strength report he’d written in his notebook. That gives us a strength o’ thirty-four. We’ve had a total o’ twelve men killed.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Robertson,” Riker said. His hand trembled from what he’d just done to McCarey. But he fought down the horrible rush of emotions. To add to his distress, the captain was more than slightly irritated by this parade-ground mentality that Robertson could display at the most outrageous moments. “Now all I must do is figure out some way to get us thirty-four survivors through all those Indians and back to Fort Keogh.”

  “It’s a big order, sir,” Robertson stated, missing the sarcasm.

  “Then, of course, I’m going to have to make a full report on the circumstances surrounding Sergeant McCarey’s death,” Riker said. “I’ve just shot and killed one of my own noncommissioned officers.”

  “The circumstances will stand in a hearing, sir,” Robertson assured him. He didn’t want the captain to start going to pieces on him. The best thing to do was turn his mind to the present circumstances. “Any plans for right now, sir?”

  “I’m not going to plan any last stands unless the situation has become completely hopeless,” Riker said. “By God, we’ll fight hard ’til they’ve beaten us down so hard we can’t get up again.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, sir,” Robertson said, trying to put a show of spirit in his voice. “I think the men will—”

  “Enemy front!”

  The cry was given several times along the short perimeter line. Both Riker and Robertson went forward to take a look at the situation. A group of Sioux, yelling and gesturing, rode across the open country toward the trees. Riker noted they didn’t seem as numerous as before. Then an alarming thought occurred to him.

  “Guard the flanks!”

  “Fourth squad to the left!” Robertson yelled. “Second to the right!”

  “Let’s go!” Charlie O’Malley yelled at his new command. “To the right and keep a sharp lookout in them woods there!”

  Second squad quickly responded. They reached the new position in time to meet some Indians on foot coming through the trees.

  “Aim! Fire!” O’Malley commanded.

  The accurate fire was effective, cutting down a good portion of the Indians. The others, surprised at having their sneak attack broken up, returned the shots but did so hastily and without any accuracy. The Sioux were plains Indians who liked to move rapidly on horseback across wide, open country. Sneaking around in the woods was not their idea of proper warfare. They quickly abandoned their foray and pulled away.

  The story was the same on the other flank, where Corporal O’Rourke’s fourth squad met another flanking movement. A determined volley by the soldiers broke up the attack.

  The mounted Indians who had hoped to create a diversion with their antics in front of the company’s position also paid a price for the effort. The first and third squads each delivered three devastating fusillades that slapped into the mounted group with a violent impact. No less than a half dozen of the Sioux were dumped from their horses, and three of the animals also went down.

  Riker watched the hostiles melt back out of sight. “I just had a rather strange realization dawn on me, Sergeant,” he remarked to Robertson. “Those Indians are used to running battles with cavalry. I don’t think they’ve quite figured out how to deal with regulated volley fire from infantry situated in a strong defensive position.”

  Robertson found no comfort in that. “It won’t take ’em long to come up with something, sir.”

  “That also occurred to me,” Riker agreed with a tired sigh.

  The men waited for another attack, but nothing happened as the long afternoon wound down into twilight. Finally night’s dark curtain began to set in and, as always, the company went on fifty-percent alert.

  Tommy Saxon and Harold Devlin once again shared duties. They set up a position next to a ponderosa pine, arranging their gear as rifle rests. They wordlessly settled in and waited to see what would happen.

  Harold caught a last glimpse of Tommy as the sun finally sank away, making it impossible to see.

  “How’re you doing, Tommy?” Harold asked. “You’ve got a real strange expression on your face.”

  “I was just thinking,” Tommy said seriously. “When I get home and my uncles start yapping about their service in the war, I’m gonna tell ’em to shut up.” He paused and
spat. “I mean if I get home!”

  Harold, making no reply, turned away and stared out over the dark expanse of the wide countryside.

  Chapter Fifteen – A Gathering of Hostiles

  Dawn was a rustling, nervous affair as those troops who had been sleeping were awakened. None quit their slumber gradually. The fierce fighting of the previous day had left them unsettled and edgy. When shaken by their bunkies, they abruptly sat up with eyes opened wide, their nerves raw, expecting the worst.

  And a glance outside the trees showed the worst might certainly be in the offing for that day.

  The pickets on duty, rifles locked and loaded, could see numerous Indians out of rifle range but near enough to keep the area under close observation. The Sioux had the company trapped between themselves and the river. At first light, Riker had sneaked down to the water and peered across it to the other side. After a few minutes, the seasoned Indian fighter caught the sight of several Sioux concealed in the trees there. Even if the water were shallow enough to wade—and Riker was glad it was not—there would be no escape in that direction. The deep, swift water protected L Company as the moat of a medieval castle had sheltered the inhabitants centuries before.

  The captain returned to his makeshift headquarters in the middle of the position. He hadn’t slept more than an hour through the whole night. It hadn’t been the tactical situation that bothered his rest, as much as it had been thoughts filled with images of Lurene and his children. He missed his family terribly and damned the situation that showed every indication of preventing him from ever seeing them again. And for the first time he began to regret choosing a lifestyle that kept his wife from the comforts and luxuries that many American women took for granted. A woman wed to an army man on the frontier lived in stark austerity no matter what rank the husband.

  First Sergeant Robertson was waiting for him when he came back from the riverbank. “How’s it look, sir?”