by Brown, Dee
Rejoining White Bull, he led the way silently on to the top of a hill from where he could see the shining sands of the river just below the bend. Most of the Cheyenne warriors were already there, and the Sioux were arriving in small parties.
For a minute or so Roman Nose held the chestnut there, looking across the country that had been his people’s summer hunting ground for more moons than the oldest chiefs could remember. The sun was warm this day, but soon the moons of strong cold would come again, and the Cheyennes would be going back north to their winter lodges. He felt a strange sadness, knowing that he would never see the north country again, the country of high rocky hills and tall pines and clean singing rivers. His dream of a great raid to drive out the settlers was gone like the smoke of a dead campfire. But there was no other way. It was as White Contrary had said—the people felt they belonged to him and wanted him to show them how to punish the invaders who had come in search of their villages. He was the only one they would follow in the new way of fighting.
He turned his head, the feathers of his warbonnet fluttering, and said to White Bull: “If I go into this fight I shall certainly be killed.” Without waiting for a reply, he kicked his moccasins against the horse’s flanks and started down the hill.
When they reached the first stretch of level grass they met a party of Arapahos on foot. “We were few in number when we came into this fight,” their spokesman said. “We have lost many of our best warriors charging these white scouts so that now we are too few to charge again, even though Roman Nose would lead us.”
Roman Nose held himself straight, disdaining to make a reply.
“This man speaks for all of us,” the white squawman, Nibsi, said. “There is much wailing among the women of our people. They gash themselves with knives and cut off their hair for their dead warriors.”
“The Arapahos have no need to prove their bravery to me,” Roman Nose replied. “Where is the adopted one of your people who calls himself Kansas?”
“Here.” The bugler stepped forward, and Roman Nose smiled when he saw that the white man had painted his face so that it was dark like the skin of an Indian.
“I have thought of a plan,” Roman Nose declared, “in which the Arapahos can help us when we make the charge. Divide yourselves and take positions as snipers on the two banks of the river. Have all your rifles and bows ready, and when Kansas blows his bugle you begin firing at the enemy so they cannot rise from their holes and fire at us when we ride down upon them.”
“Roman Nose has spoken well,” an Arapaho leader agreed. “We will do as he has said.”
“Kansas will go to that low bluff jutting out there into the bend of the river,” he continued. “When he sees me shake my rifle over my head like this, he will blow his bugle to attract the eyes of the enemy to our coming. When they see our mighty force their hearts will turn to water. We will let them have a good look at us, riding slowly. Then when I shake my rifle again, Kansas will blow for us to charge, and then the snipers along the two banks of the river will begin firing all at one time into the island.”
“Ho-he!” the Arapahos shouted. “We will rub out our enemies before the sun goes over!” They began moving downstream toward the island, some taking the right bank, some the left.
With no further palavering, Roman Nose summoned the Cheyenne and Sioux warriors and after selecting the best marksmen for the front rank, he ordered them to form a line front of sixty horsemen, knee to knee, across the sand bed of the river. Behind these warriors he formed another solid line, and then another until he had eight lines, sixty men across. More than a hundred warriors still remained, but he assured them they would not be needed. “Go and join the Arapahos along the banks,” he told them. “The more bullets we can send into the enemy from both sides the easier it will be for those who are charging.”
After these men rode off reluctantly, he wheeled the chestnut and moved several yards in advance of the massed warriors. He looked upward to the sky which was filling with puffy white clouds against a deepening blue. “O, Great Spirit, pity me,” he said aloud, and then lifted his rifle, twirling it lightly.
The bugle sounded sharp and clear, echoing from the bluffs, and Roman Nose waved his warriors forward. He held the chestnut to a walk until they were around the bend; then he urged it into a slow dancing trot. Glancing back, he gave a sharp barking command: “Ride close together, knee to knee!”
When he was sure they were all in view of the enemy, Roman Nose turned his horse and signaled a halt. “My heart is glad this day!” he shouted. “For my people and for our friends of the Sioux and Arapaho peoples. Though we have become few as leaves in the cold moons we are still brave warriors!” With a fluid motion of one naked arm, he gestured toward the bluffs where the women of all the tribes had brought their children to watch the fighting. “On those hills are the seeds of our peoples,” he cried. “We must show them that no invaders can come and steal our lands or do us harm!” He turned his horse again and shook his fist at the island. A breeze fluttered the eagle feathers of his warbonnet.
With deliberate casualness he took his lance from its rawhide thongs. He pressed his knees up under his lariat surcingle so that if he was wounded or killed his horse could carry him off the field of battle. Drawing in a deep breath he uttered a war cry that rose to a taunting chant: “The men who dare follow me, come along with me!” He raised his rifle, spinning it contemptuously in his fingers.
A moment later the urgent notes of Kansas’ bugle sounded the charge. Roman Nose slapped his quirt sharply against the chestnut’s shoulder, and the horse broke first into a trot, then into a gallop. Behind him came the drumming of a thousand hooves and a high-pitched rising and falling clamor of war cries. He held his rifle in the hollow of his left arm, his fingers grasping mane and bridle, leaving his right hand free to flourish his lance to the women on the bluffs who were now chanting their war songs.
From both banks of the river, the snipers opened a rapid fire directly upon the island. After the first hail of bullets a hundred shining arrows streaked through the air, and then the firing began again.
Ahead, Roman Nose could see only grass beaten down by other attacks, dead horses, heaps of sand breastworks. There was no sign of the enemy.
Suddenly on his left a short-legged gray pony came abreast. Riding proudly as a young warrior was the medicine man, White Bull. He was stripped for battle, wearing only a breechclout and a small owl-feather cap. His naked legs were gnarled and swollen with knotty blue veins. He lifted one of his arms high, scattering yellow dust from a rawhide pouch. In his high voice he was singing earnestly to the Earthmaker.
Throwing his head back, Roman Nose sucked in his breath as though he were drinking deep of the blue sky; then he struck the palm of his hand across his mouth and screamed defiance at the bullets that were coming now from the island. Behind him he heard the cry, caught up and repeated by the warriors, and then it came back like an echo from the women on the bluffs. As it died away in the thunder of hooves, the women began singing their “strong heart” chant.
The island was very close now and its defenders were firing desperately. Roman Nose raised his lance, waved it to drive away the power of the bullets, and hurled it defiantly toward the enemy.
In screaming volleys the bullets came—one, two, three, four. Off to his left Roman Nose saw White Bull fling his arms up; then the old medicine man fell from his horse. Five volleys! He knew there would be two more volleys before the men in the pits would have to reload. He used his quirt mercilessly on the chestnut’s flanks and shoulders. Six volleys! Ahead of him over the rim of a sand breastwork he saw two enemy faces. As he squeezed his trigger he remembered a time long ago at a trading post when he had seen them before—an old buffalo hunter who called himself Pete Trudeau, and a curly-haired boy, Jack Stilwell.
14
Jack Stilwell
September 17–21
AFTER JACK STILWELL REJOINED the men on the island, he and Pete Trudeau an
d three other sharpshooters volunteered to move out to a position where they could obtain a more open field of fire upriver. Taking advantage of one of the lulls in the fighting, they crawled to the upper point of the island and there behind a thin screen of high grass began digging pits.
Within an hour the sharpshooters had dug two deep holes, piling sand breastworks around them. Stilwell and Trudeau were in the first pit, the other men occupying the second.
They made V-shaped notches in the beastworks so that when they braced themselves on their knees with carbine barrels pointing through the grass, they could command a wide angle of the riverbed.
Late in the afternoon there was a long pause in the fighting, and then suddenly a bugle call shattered the quietness. Jack was astonished at the size of the hostile force appearing around the bend in the river. Trudeau muttered something in French and began fumbling extra cartridges from his jacket pocket. “That’s Roman Nose out there, boy,” he said. “We’re going to have real trouble now.”
From the ring of pits behind them they could hear the other scouts talking excitedly. Then Sergeant McCall’s voice rang out: “Hold your shots for close range, men! Wait for firing commands.”
Again the bugle sounded and the mass of mounted warriors sprang forward in a charge. They came bounding onward, their horses kicking up a screen of sunlit dust. Jack raised his head just as a withering crossfire came from the Indian snipers concealed along the river banks. He dropped flat in the pit and rolled over, grinning ruefully at Trudeau. “You do that once more, boy,” the old buffalo hunter growled, “and you won’t never leave this island.” A moment later arrows were swishing through the brush like dangerous snakes.
Jack crouched low, his knees well under him, rifle gripped in his hands. He set his sights on the warbonneted leader and awaited the command to fire. It came as Roman Nose’s chestnut was about to leap upon the island: “Now!” Forty carbines fired in unison. On came the Indians, responding to the first volley with a taunting war whoop. After the jerk of the carbine stock against his shoulder, Jack held his breath until he heard McCall yell again: “Now!” This time horses and Indians fell, but others swept forward to take their places. Roman Nose began quirting his horse.
The third volley tore great gaps in the warriors’ ranks, horses falling over each other. Roman Nose still came on at a swinging gallop, in a sort of weaving motion that so far had saved him from the fire of the forward sharpshooters. At the fourth volley his medicine man went down, but Roman Nose was so close now that Jack could see the war paint on his face. Anticipating the fifth fire command, Jack raised himself slightly, sights set on the Cheyenne leader. In that split second, the chestnut faltered in loose sand, spun slightly, and Jack fired.
He never knew whether it was his bullet, or Trudeau’s, or one of the other sharpshooters.’ All he was sure of was that Roman Nose had been hit in the side or back, and had lost his reins. The chestnut lunged away, and the long-tailed warbonnet swept the sand. Roman Nose’s legs loosened from under his lariat surcingle and he fell heavily against the grassy river bank. The sixth volley followed quickly, and the Indian charge broke apart in wild confusion.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Jack began firing his revolver at the unhorsed warriors who had reached the island. They scattered in all directions, seeking cover. He calmly began reloading both his weapons.
“Any Indian as brave as that one,” he said, glancing toward the motionless body of Roman Nose, “deserves better than being shot in the back.”
Trudeau snorted. “Another wink of an eye and he’d had your scalp, boy.”
The men in the defense circle had sprung to their feet to cheer wildly. “Down, men! Lie down!” It was Major Forsyth’s voice, weak but clear. McCall repeated the order, and a moment later the forgotten snipers hidden along the banks fired a scorching fusillade into the island.
On both sides of the river the Cheyennes and Sioux were circling their horses, gradually collecting in small bands. Their leaders evidently were exhorting them to return to the attack. After a while most of them rode slowly up the river, disappearing around the bend. The sun was near the western horizon, and the white clouds were disappearing before a thickening gray scud.
Just before sunset the hostiles made one more halfhearted charge, but two or three well-spaced volleys from the scouts quickly sent them galloping out of range. “We’ve whipped ’em!” Jack cried.
“Wait till tomorrow to do your crowing,” Trudeau replied. “They’ll ring us in tonight and likely enough keep us here till they starve us out.”
The sun was gone now. Trudeau squinted toward the right river bank, shifting his rifle slightly. Jack saw movement there; Roman Nose was still alive, pulling himself up the river bank by his arms, his legs trailing uselessly. “Don’t shoot him in the back again, Pete.”
“No, I won’t do that, boy. Like as not he’ll never fork a horse again anyhow.”
For the first time since the morning attack, Jack felt a terrible weight of weariness. The twilight air was already cool, but humid with a smell of rain on the faint breeze. Night came slowly down.
“Trudeau! Stilwell!”
“Yea, McCall?”
“The major wants you men out there to report in.”
They crawled back to the circle, where most of the scouts were gathered around Major Forsyth’s pit. There was still light enough to distinguish faces, and Jack was glad to find that his friend Sig Schlesinger had survived without a scratch.
“I was lucky,” Schlesinger said solemnly. “You, too, Jack. Lieutenant Beecher died a few minutes ago.”
“He was one of the best, Lieutenant Beecher was.” Jack rested his hand on Schlesinger’s shoulder. “I talked you into joining this unlucky outfit, Slinger. I’m going to do my best to get you out alive.”
“I volunteered, didn’t I? Don’t you think we stand a chance, Jack?”
“We beat ’em today. If we have to, we’ll beat ’em again tomorrow.”
“Well said, lad,” Major Forsyth commented from his pit. He had been resting with his back against the sand, eyes closed, and Jack had thought he was asleep. “Gather in close,” Forsyth continued. “Grover, McCall, come here by me. We’ll try to assess our situation together.” He took a deep breath and shifted his bandaged leg, clenching his teeth against the pain. “First, the problem of rations. For the time being we have a sufficiency all around us—our dead horses and mules—but the meat must be preserved by cooking or burying. Sharp Grover assures me that the Indians will trouble us no more until next daylight, and that if we use caution we can make fires in the deeper pits and cook over coals.”
“Stay away from the fireglow,” Grover warned, “and make no shadow targets for snipers out there on the river banks.”
“Sergeant McCall, what’s our present strength?”
McCall drew a folded paper from inside his blouse, but was unable to read from it in the dusky light. “I’ll have to report as memory serves, sir. Lieutenant Beecher—God rest his soul—is no longer with us. Scouts Culver and Wilson both died bravely. Surgeon Mooers and Lewis Farley are unconscious. Scouts O’Donnell, Day, Davis, Tucker, Gantt, Clark, Armitage, Morton, and Violett suffered severe wounds. Scouts Harrington, Davenport, Haley, McLaughlin, and Hudson Farley—painful but not serious wounds. Adding the major, we have taken twenty casualties, leaving thirty-one men hale and hearty.”
“You forgot yourself, did you not, Sergeant?”
“Only a scratch, sir.”
“That neck wound of yours will be festering like a boil by morning. Make it thirty sound men, maybe ten others who can still take a hand in a hot fight. Forty Spencers can do a lot of damage, and Mr. Grover believes we’ll see no more attacks as strong as the one led by Roman Nose.”
Grover nodded agreement. “They’ve done their level best, Major. From now on it’ll be prowling and skulking we’ll have to watch out for.”
“We have enough ammunition to deal with that,” Forsyth said, “if we s
ee to it that we make every shot count. Thanks to Martin Burke, our Irisher from the Queen’s Army who first had the notion to dig deep, we have a well that supplies us with enough water to keep our canteens filled. On the debit side, our surgeon can no longer help us and we have no medical stores except what is in his bag, and most of those have been used up.” He stopped suddenly, raising his head. “Is that rain I feel?”
“Only a drizzle,” McCall answered.
Jack leaned back, letting the moisture cool his sunburned face. From the bluffs to the east, he could hear squaws beginning their wild dismal wailings for their dead warriors, and he shivered involuntarily.
Forsyth spoke again: “You can see I’m too badly disabled to stand or walk, but as your commander it is still my duty to give orders. We must strengthen and connect our rifle pits, take saddles off the dead horses and use them to help build up our parapets, dig out and fortify a place for our wounded, dress their wounds as best we can and cover them with blankets. We must deepen Burke’s well. We must cut off a large quantity of steaks from the dead animals, cook and bury all that we do not immediately need. We must search all saddlebags for any ammunition that might be in them. Sergeant McCall will assign details.”
