Action at Beecher Island: A Novel

by Brown, Dee

  McCall started to call off names, but Forsyth stopped him. “We have not yet considered our most serious problem. I purposely left it until the last.” He paused for a moment to regain his breath. “You’re all good plainsmen and you know the hostiles out there will try either to starve us out or wait until we run out of ammunition. Sharp, what are the chances of two men getting through to Fort Wallace for reinforcements?”

  “Not good, Major. The Indians know we’ll try to do that, and you can be sure they’ve drawn a close cordon around this island.”

  Without waiting for further comments, Forsyth asked quietly: “Any volunteers to try?”

  Jack answered immediately, standing up as he did so. “Yes, sir, if you’ll let me choose the man who goes with me.”

  Before the major could reply, other scouts were offering to go, and in a moment every man who was able to stand was on his feet volunteering for the journey.

  “Being as I’m the chief scout,” Grover said then in his slow drawl, “I’m the man should go to Fort Wallace.”

  “Out of the question, Sharp. You’re second in command and are needed here.” Forsyth turned toward Jack. “Stilwell spoke first.”

  “For what my opinion’s worth,” Grover insisted, “the boy’s too young and inexperienced.”

  “Fred Beecher didn’t think so,” the major replied curtly. “Choose your partner, Stilwell.”

  “Pete Trudeau, sir, if he’ll go.”

  Trudeau growled: “Of course I go with you, Jack. Why, you and me never fell into a scrape yet we could not get out of and I allow we can get out of this one.”

  “French Pete,” someone said out of the darkness, “you’re too old to make it. Let me take his place, Major.”

  “If the boy go, John Donovan,” Trudeau retorted, “I go.”

  Forsyth interrupted: “We’d all like to go if we but could. In this case I think we can put our faith in Stilwell’s youth and Trudeau’s experienced maturity.” He shifted his position in the sand pit, and was unable to suppress a groan. “Just before dark, Sharp and I tried to fix our location on my map. We believe Fort Wallace to be the closest point for relief, perhaps a little more than a hundred miles. A relief column, with wagons and ambulances, will have to return by way of Custer’s Trail to the Republican, following the river to our position. At best we can expect no help for six or seven days—a full week’s siege ahead of us. So—McCall, assign your details now. Get cooking fires going in the pits first. Stilwell and Trudeau will need a supply of horsemeat, and we want them started on their way as soon as possible.”

  In a few moments, the defense circle became a beehive of activity as details began carrying out Major Forsyth’s orders. While some men dug in the sand to extend entrenchments, others butchered horses, cutting the meat into strips and laying them across small fires in the deeper pits. Trudeau took a pair of boots from one of his dead comrades, and cut off the tops to fashion them into moccasins. Jack found a ragged blanket, tore it apart, and wrapped his feet Indian style.

  Their fires gave no direct light to the enemy, but the scouts carefully avoided the glow, and Jack found himself listening to every sound outside the circle. On the bluff, the Cheyennes’ fires gleamed brightly, and death chants came in a monotonous rhythm broken by an occasional lamentation from a squaw.

  When Jack completed his preparations for departure, Major Forsyth asked him to light a dry stick and hold it down into his pit so that he might see to write a message. By the flickering flame of the improvised torch, the major scribbled a note to Colonel Bankhead, explaining the predicament of the scouts and giving an approximate location of the besieged island.

  Schlesinger appeared out of the darkness, carrying a tin plate heaped high with roasted horsemeat. “Is this enough to last you three or four days, Jack?”

  “I could live for a week on that, Slinger.” An aroma of broiled meat filled his nostrils, reminding him that he had not tasted food for twenty-four hours. He dropped the charred strips into his pack, then took out a piece and began chewing. It was covered with ashes on the outside and was raw on the inside, but he had no trouble swallowing it.

  While he and Trudeau wrapped themselves in blankets so that in silhouette they would appear to be Indians, the others stopped their duties long enough to assemble for a farewell. “I have only this one map, Stilwell,” the major said, “but you can make better use of it than we.” He lifted himself on his elbows, and handed the map and message to Jack. “Boys, this is our last chance. If you can get to the fort and send us help, we can hold out a while.”

  They began shaking hands around, and John Donovan made a special point of singling out Trudeau. “I was only joking you about being an old man. You’ll make it, Avalanche.” Trudeau grunted and returned the friendly slap on the shoulders.

  “Why do you call him Avalanche?” Forsyth asked.

  “One time when we was scouting for the Army,” Donovan explained, “a mule kicked Pete and we had to put him in an ambulance. In that French talk of his it sounded to us like he was calling it an avalanche.”

  The scouts laughed, and the sound eased the tension that Jack had felt building up inside him. He tucked the map and message into an inside pocket, tied his boots over his shoulders, and tightened his blanket. “Let’s go, Pete.”

  He heard Major Forsyth’s quiet-spoken “Good luck,” and then he was in black darkness with Trudeau following soundlessly behind him. As soon as they were across the last pit, they started walking backwards to deceive any Indians who might pry into footprints at next daylight. The drizzle licked at their faces, but it thickened the darkness so that they were secure from observation in the open riverbed. When they reached the grassy bank they turned south, continuing to walk backwards in the sand for about a quarter of a mile.

  They were now at the mouth of a shallow ravine where they had planned to leave the river, but Jack stopped suddenly, dropping to his knees. He could smell Indians. Trudeau moved against him, whispering a warning. A moment later they heard a rustling noise a few yards up the ravine. Without a sound they crawled away, circling southward again. A few minutes later a small mounted party emerged abruptly from a dry run that cut out of the bank, almost riding over them.

  Jack dropped flat on the sand, straining his eyes against the blackness, not daring to breathe, fearful that his beating heart would reveal his presence. For the first time fear of capture gripped him, and he remembered all the tales he had heard of tortures and mutilations.

  Trudeau’s fingers touched his hand. In a crude sign language that long ago they had worked out for use in the dark, the old buffalo hunter urged him to leave the riverbed; the hostiles were using it for a night road. They crawled up over the bank and found themselves on a slope bare of everything except prickly pears. Jack’s hands filled with needles; the sharp points penetrated even the blanket strips on his feet. He had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out.

  Two or three times they changed directions to avoid prowling Indians. Once when they stopped, Trudeau whispered that he was certain the hostiles were searching for them; the Indians must have discovered some sign of their escape from the island.

  Gradually the drizzle died away, a strong breeze brushing the sky partially clear so they could see a few dim stars, and almost before they realized it a faint dawnlight showed in the east. Aware that they were on a bald slope and visible for miles by daylight, they searched desperately for a hiding place. Just before sunrise they found a washout, overgrown with shrubs and grass. Moving carefully over rock out-croppings to avoid leaving footprints, they entered the hollow and after concealing themselves in the thickest grass, they made a small opening in the frost-blackened leaves of sunflowers that rimmed the washout. Jack could see for miles to the north; Indian war parties were scouting in all directions, riding single file, probably searching for him and Trudeau.

  They resigned themselves to spending the day there, taking turns sleeping and standing watch. Soon after the sun rose they hea
rd distant firing, and estimated that they had traveled no more than three or four miles from the island. They had lost valuable time dodging the alert hostiles, but at least they were through their lines now, and could move faster and farther the second night.

  Around noontime a Cheyenne war party came within a hundred yards of the hollow, and Jack was certain that he recognized Two Crows among them. The Indians circled the slope, looking for tracks. “Pete, if we left any sign, they’ll be on us in a minute. We can’t stop all of them before they overrun us.”

  Trudeau grunted, and bit off a chew of tobacco. “If it comes to that, boy, you save one cartridge for me. I’ll save one for you.”

  A few minutes later the war party wheeled and trotted off to the northeast. Jack relaxed and began picking cactus needles from his hands and feet; later he ate some horsemeat and drank sparingly from his canteen.

  During the afternoon the sun was very hot, burning down upon them in the airless hollow. More firing came from the island, an occasional volley, and late in the afternoon for about half an hour there was a steady exchange of shots. At least they knew that their comrades were still holding out.

  They were glad to see rain clouds gathering to bring an early twilight. As soon as darkness fell they moved out of the draw, heading southward. Twice they met bands of mounted Indians, but the sound of approaching hoofbeats warned them in time to conceal themselves. Light rain fell intermittently after midnight. At first dawnlight they reached a wide stream, but to their dismay they found they were within half a mile of one of the hostile villages. The only cover they could find was a strip of coarse grass between the river bank and a marsh. Once again they were blocked until nightfall, and with squaws and children roaming the area they were in greater danger of discovery than on the previous day.

  Throughout the morning they watched squaws gathering dry willow sticks for fuel. In the afternoon a group of old men rode within thirty feet of them, halting to water their horses in the shallows. They talked in Sioux, and Jack understood enough to know they were discussing the fighting. They had lost many warriors, but they were sure they could starve out the white scouts in a few more days.

  After the Sioux left, Jack drowsed while Trudeau kept watch. He was brought wide awake by a sudden keening that seemed to come from the very sky.

  “Squaw mourning,” Trudeau whispered. “They’ve been taking out their dead to put on scaffolds.”

  At first dark they waded the river, heading straight south for Fort Wallace. A chill wind blew at their backs, dropping the temperature rapidly. To keep warm as well as gain miles, they alternately jogged and walked, never halting longer than a minute or so to regain their breath.

  At dawn of the third day they were on a high rolling prairie, and Jack guessed from his map that they were nearing the head of Goose Creek. As there was no sign of Indians they decided to keep moving, but at midmorning they sighted a small mounted party far in the rear.

  To avoid discovery they dropped to their hands and knees and crawled into a clump of yellow weeds. The weeds had grown up around a buffalo carcass at least a year old; the bleaching ribs were still covered with bits of hide. They crawled inside the shell, and lay with rifles ready, wondering if the Indians had seen them. The wait seemed endless. A scattering of raindrops fell from the blustering sky.

  Trudeau complained of stomach cramps; he had filled his canteen from the river and suspected that the water had poisoned him. More than an hour passed before the file of mounted Indians came near them. “Cheyenne Dog Soldiers,” Trudeau said. He groaned softly from the pain in his stomach.

  The Dog Soldiers had flankers out, and one of them rode very near the buffalo carcass. He held his pony for several minutes, waiting for the party to overtake him. He turned slowly in his saddle, scanning the country in all directions. When he finally rode away, Jack gave a great sigh of relief, then froze. “Pete!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Rattlesnake.”

  “I see him. He’s cold. Wants our warmth.”

  “He’s crawling toward us.” The rattler was so close Jack could have blasted it without aiming, but the Indians were only a few hundred yards away. The snake continued crawling closer, and when Jack moved slightly it went into a coil.

  Trudeau moaned. “I think I die anyway.” With one hand, Jack searched in the side pocket of Trudeau’s jacket. “Your tobacco in there, Pete?” He found the plug of tobacco, and bit off a chew. He hated the taste, but chewed until he had a mouthful of brown juice. Taking careful aim, he spat at the rattler’s head; in the next instant the snake scurried away into the weeds.

  Trudeau laughed weakly. “Who taught you that trick, Jack?”

  “Old Trapper from up the Missouri.”

  “You miss that rattlesnake, he strike you.”

  Jack rinsed his mouth with water from his canteen, and said: “I was too scared to miss.”

  Before nightfall Trudeau became very ill, and sometimes seemed to be out of his head, groaning and muttering in French. When it was dark, Jack got him to his feet, and they followed the Indian trail to a creek. Trudeau drank thirstily, but immediately became sick again. He insisted that Jack leave him and go on to Fort Wallace.

  “Eat some horsemeat,” Jack replied. “If you can’t keep it down, I’ll go on.”

  The horsemeat stayed down, and after a few minutes Trudeau slung his pack on his back and said he was ready to go.

  During the night, flakes of wet snow fell melting against their faces, and when dawn came the plain was shrouded in fog.

  Late that morning they reached a hoof-marked trail that showed evidences of recent use. From his map, Jack estimated they were only twenty miles north of Fort Wallace. He wanted to break into a run, but Trudeau was too weak. He was debating silently whether he should risk leaving the old buffalo hunter alone on the road, when hoofbeats sounded from ahead. Jack had his rifle up when he saw the blue uniforms—two couriers riding like ghosts out of the fog. “Jack Stilwell, put your carbine down!” The first horseman broke into a laugh, and Jack recognized his black shiny face, broken by a big tooth-filled grin. “Rube Waller!” he yelled.

  The two Negro troopers were from the 10th Cavalry, bound from Fort Wallace with messages for Captain Louis Carpenter’s command patrolling out of Lake Station. Jack unfolded his map, and found Lake Station. He hurriedly explained what had happened to Forsyth’s Scouts, then showed Trooper Waller the X which Major Forsyth had marked on the map to indicate the besieged island. “Tell Captain Carpenter what I told you and give him this map. Tell him I said to gallop full speed toward the X. Tell him the whole country in there is boiling with hostiles.”

  Trooper Waller nodded. “I’ll sure tell him, Jack. You and old Pete look mighty stove up.”

  “We’ve been dodging Roman Nose’s hostiles for four days and nights.”

  “Then I reckon me and my bunkie here better keep our eyes peeled for Roman Nose.”

  Jack shook his head. “I think we finished Roman Nose. But watch out for Two Crows.”

  15

  Two Crows

  September 17–18

  WHEN HE SAW ROMAN Nose go down in a jumble of wounded horses and warriors, Two Crows knew that the mighty charge had failed. Roman Nose had risked everything in spite of his bad medicine, but the spirits were without pity for him that day. Pressed on both sides by lunging ponies, Two Crows was swept toward the west bank of the riverbed. His dead nephew’s mustang, which he was riding, took the bank in one leap, nostrils flaring, and Two Crows let the animal run for a few minutes to wear off its fear of the white men’s whining bullets.

  On the grassy flats he found Spotted Wolf, Cloud Chief, and some other Cheyennes riding in circles. They were waving their arms over their heads and uttering cries of grief. “Roman Nose and White Bull both are dead!” Spotted Wolf cried. “Our people have lost their mightiest warrior and his medicine man.”

  “Where are their bodies?” asked Two Crows.

  Cloud Chief pulled his
pony out of the circle. “Black Moon lifted White Bull from the sand and carried him away. I saw Weasel Bear riding bravely for Roman Nose, but the white men’s bullets killed his horse. Weasel Bear had to run to save his life. Roman Nose fell into the grass on the island and surely is dead.”

  The Cheyennes gathered their mounts around Two Crows, who said: “We must make certain that our people have Roman Nose’s body. We must not let the white men take his scalp and send his spirit wandering in darkness forever.”

  He led them back toward the river bank where they had seen Roman Nose fall, but the white men’s firing was too strong and they withdrew out of range. Some leaders of the other soldier societies arrived then, and after a consultation with Pawnee Killer of the Sioux, it was decided that all the warriors would assemble again around the bend of the river. They would pretend to make another mighty charge, but at the first firing from the enemy they would scatter in all directions to gather up their dead and wounded, including Roman Nose.

  In this charge, Two Crows and Spotted Wolf rode in the front rank, and although they chose the right moment to drop from their mounts they could not reach Roman Nose. They had to take cover in the grass only a few yards from where he lay, and there they waited for the sun to go down.

  At first dusk they heard a faint brushing noise, a long-drawn-out almost soundless sighing. Two Crows raised himself cautiously. “It’s Roman Nose!” he whispered. “He’s alive!” Disregarding the sharpshooters, he plunged through the grass and in a minute was reaching for Roman Nose’s hands, helping him over the bank. Behind him in the deepening twilight, several other Cheyennes had appeared out of their hiding places.

  There was still light enough to see that Roman Nose had been shot in the back just above the hips, a single bullet wound. He had lost much blood and was too weak to talk. Two Crows told him the Cheyenne medicine men would make him well again, but Roman Nose shook his head sadly. His eyes had lost all their fierceness.