‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘And don’t “Sir” me, Trooper. Not now and not ever.’
‘I am the wife of Captain Hetherington, Mister… didn’t catch your name?’
‘Didn’t throw it,’ replied Crow, abruptly.
‘I said I’m the wife of…’
‘If that little guy out there was the Captain, then you’re surely not his wife,’
‘I beg to point out to you that I am indeed the wife of Captain Hetherington, in the eyes of both God and of man.’
‘Wrong word.’
‘What?’
‘Wife.’
‘I don’t…’
‘You’re his damned widow, Ma’am. Captain and all his patrol. If they ain’t dead now they won’t see another sunset after tonight.’
‘Oh.’ The shock to her dignity was worse than the news that her husband was dead. ‘You are not an officer and not a gentleman.’
‘I’d not argue with that. Now I’m sure as Hell busy so get out of my way.’
‘But you aren’t a man of authority.’
‘Mrs. Hetherington,’ began Trooper Gilbert, recognizing the mettle of the stranger.
‘No! I will not have it.’
‘I’m warning you,’ said Crow, his voice still calm and soft. Like silk draped over a bare razor.
‘I don’t even know your name,’ she protested.
‘Crow,’ he said, turning his back on her.
You could have cut the silence with a saber, then turned it around and sliced it thin the other way.
‘Crow!’ finally exploded the older woman. ‘I will not stand here and see …’
‘Then lie there, you brainless fuckin’ bitch,’ said Crow. Punching her hard in the mouth.
Chapter Six
Martha Hetherington knew very little about the first great attack by Many Knives and his war-party of forty or fifty Shoshone warriors.
She passed the next hour or more lying flat on her back in the Dougherty, a cloth soaked in melted snow draped across her forehead by the thoughtful Rachel Shannon. Occasionally sitting up to wipe blood that poured from the deep cut in her bottom lip. Once reaching gingerly into her sore mouth and removing the remnants of two teeth that Crow had snapped off at the roots with his brutal blow.
She’d come round just as the Indians launched their attack and had lain In the rig; in the grey world halfway between waking and sleeping, unable to decide whether she was having a nightmare, or whether her life had toppled in about her.
Was her husband dead?
That tall man in black had said he was. That the Shoshone had killed him somewhere out there in the wilderness of snow.
The tall man! Crow! That traitor whose name stank in the nostrils of every decent person connected with the honor of the United States Cavalry. He was here. Riding up as bold as brass and telling everyone what to do.
Her mouth was so painful. That … words trembled to the front of her mind that Martha hardly knew she knew. And most certainly never imagined she would us That Crow had struck her! A defenseless woman. Full in the face. Punched her down in the trampled slush and ice. Knocked out several of her remaining teeth so that she bad nearly choked to death on her own blood.
Alone in the semi-darkness of the wagon, Martha Hetherington wept in her misery, listening to the shooting and screams around her. Hoping only that death would come swiftly for her.
After the crack of his gloved fist against the face of the middle-aged woman, there had been a moment of silence circling around Crow. There was the click of a hammer being drawn back on a pistol from behind him.
‘You goin’ to back-shoot me, son?’ he asked quietly, knowing it must be one of the soldiers.
Gilbert stood still, unable to believe what was going on. First the attack from the rear. Then the massacre of the body of the escort. Preparing for the attack he knew would wipe them all out. Then the stranger. Who turned out to be the man called Crow. The intervention of Martha Hetherington and her brutal treatment well enough deserved, he had to admit.
‘You the senior Trooper?’ asked Crow, looking questioningly at the heavily mustached Gilbert. ‘If you are then get that man to ease off the trigger.’
‘Leave It, Jim,’ he said.
‘But the Captain’s wife said …’ began the soldier. Trooper James Muir. A pot-bellied man with thinning yellow hair.
‘Guess that don’t signify. We need every man and we got but three.’
‘Shoshone’ll wait a while to tidy up the dead and move any prisoners. I figure we got about ten minutes before they come after us.
Crow paused and wiped melting snow from his cheeks, looking round at the people on the train. The sturdy figure of the oldest Trooper. Three other soldiers. Ten women he could see. One at his feet, a thread of crimson worming out of her sagging mouth, over her neck, on the ground. All of them with guns. Carbines. And five wagons pulled in real tight.
‘I’m Harry Gilbert This is Mac. John J. McLaglen. Jim Muir. Over yonder, watching the rear’s Pete Kemp. All good men, Lieutenant’
Crow shook his head. ‘No. Not Lieutenant I told you that, Gilbert, and I don’t like havin’ to say things over again. I’m Crow. Just Crow. That’s all. How many of those women can shoot? I don’t mean spots off a playin’ card at fifty feet I mean good enough to hit a man at ten paces? That good.’
The women had been listening, still shocked by the attack. Horrified by the treatment that this man Crow, that most of them had heard of as a cowardly traitor, had given Martha. Now here was this traitor, dismissed the service, taking command of all of them.
The tall man looked them over with contempt. None of them responding to his question.
‘Come on, you helpless bitches. You heard me, less’n you’re all deaf as well as gutless!’
His soft voice tore at them like a wire-braided lash.
‘You can’t …’ began one of them. Stopping dead in her tracks and putting up a hand as Crow took a single step in her direction.
‘You seen what happened to this one,’ kicking the unconscious Mrs. Hetherington in the side. Well, that ain’t nothin’ to what the next one gets that steps out of line here.’
‘I think there’s somethin’ happenin’ out yonder, called Muir.
‘They cumin’?’
‘Gettin’ ready, looks like. Snow makes it hard to see them.’
‘Also makes it hard for them to see us. And that about the highest card we got to play. You women listen to me and listen good. What we are in here is somethin’ that will see us dead or not. We got a good position. Three or four days and they’re goin’ to be looking for us. We got to hold out that long. I’ll ask you all one more time. Who figures they can shoot well enough?’
He wasn’t that surprised to see eight out of the ten hands go up. Cavalry wives in Dakota Territory likely had enough sense to learn which end of the gun was which.
‘And there’s Mary-Lou in that rig there,’ piped up. Rachel Shannon, blushing as the man in black turned to look at her.
‘Who’s she?’
‘She’s expectin’ any day now,’ the girl replied, not letting her eyes drop.
‘Fine. Thanks for lettin’ me know. Gilbert?’
‘Yeah?’
‘We got no time to talk ammunition and supplies now. If we beat them off, I’ll want to know. If we don’t, then it won’t matter that much whether we got food or not, seem’ as we’ll be old meat.’
‘Sure. Plenty of guns. Ammo. Not a lot of water and damned little food.’
The swift and simple summing-up increased Cr respect for the mustachioed Trooper. It was good know that there was at least one man there who knew what was happening and how he ought to act.
‘Fine. Let’s talk more ‘bout that side of things when the next hour’s past.’
Many Knives was in the highest of spirits.
This would show Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull and Gall and all the other war leaders of the Sioux and their thronging allies. Teach them that the S
hoshone were not to be ignored in the sacred war against the whites. Now they had a victory to compare with others. Now there would be singing around the lodges of all the Indians of the high plains country about Many Knives and the cunning way that he had lured the foolish pony-soldiers into his trap. Like a herd of sun-blinded buffalo that can be stampeded over the edge of the cliff.
By the time they had counted the hair of the dead, it totaled over twenty. With five more prisoners to give pleasure to their women. And one of them a gold-star man. An officer. Wounded but alive.
‘It is a good day, brothers,’ he shouted, drawing one of the daggers from his belt and flourishing it in the pale snowy light of the early afternoon. Grinning his triumph at the whoops of delight and victory from his young men.
‘As surely as the grasses shall grow. As surely as the eagle shall fly. And the buffalo rim for us at our spring hunting. The mountains rise and the rivers flow. So shall we defeat the white men. The snow buffalo has been seen by warriors at the dancing of the sun. Sure pledge from the great spirits to us of our victory.’
There was a rattling of knives against spear shafts. Bows were held aloft, feather tipped, waving in the breeze. The cold and the snow were forgotten.
‘As we have slain their men, so shall we now pluck for ourselves the squaws of the white-eyes. Their skinny yellow women shall warm our tepees and serve us as we wish. Thus shall we show them ours is the land. And all that is above the land shall be the gift to the Shoshone for this day. For the next day. And the next. And on and on, given to our hands.’
The prospect of having the women of the pony soldiers to share among them was a wonderful vision with the long cold of winter settling its claws in the land earlier than usual.
Ever since the first party rode out of the temporary fort bound for Greenbriar Canyon, the scouts of Many Knives had been watching and waiting. Carrying word back to their camp of the movements. The picture scrawled on scraps of hide. So many soldiers. So many wagons.
Then the appearance on the picture messages of the women. The move planned.
Shoshone braves shadowing the party from the moment it left for winter quarters. Taking the two scouts with their prized red hair. The O'Hanlons. Dying quickly away from their friends.
It was a good day.
‘Now there is less than a hand of men. Perhaps not one. And those girls and women.’ Many Knives made a lascivious gesture with his hands and the roar rose to drown out the sound of the wind and the Moore River pounding just beyond where the rocks shelter the large war-party.
There were thirty of them. With another fifteen guarding the rear of the trail in case the shattered survivors the attack made a run back. They had slaughtered Hetherington’s command with scarcely a casualty. One killed by a stray arrow. Another going down from a despairing saber cut as a young Trooper fell from his horse.
‘Come!’ Many Knives raised both hands above his head, the wind tugging at the strands of buckskin on shirt. ‘A good day for a fight. A good day for a victory. A good day to die on!’
The Indians appeared out of the defile like steam from a kettle, streaming out, the bright colors of their paint and clothes startling against the white of the rocks and stones. Pausing for a moment while Many Knives sorted them into a kind of order. Making sure that he was at the front of the charge.
The ring of five wagons was about a hundred and fifty paces off from them. Silent. The chief peered at the enemy, clearly visible now the snow had again chosen to ease off for a few minutes. There was even a lightening of the sky, as if there was a sun somewhere up there beyond the thick clouds.
‘I do not see a pony-soldier,’ said one of the older braves at his right.
‘Perhaps they have been killed by Thin Arm,’ said another. Naming the warrior who commanded the party that had ambushed the rear of the train. A man in his thirties who had suffered from an attack of polio as a boy. An illness that left him with the legacy of a withered left arm.
‘Perhaps it is a trap,’ replied Many Knives, his breath hanging in the air in front of him like a misty veil.
But there couldn’t have been more than four or five of them. They had counted well. Each of the canvas-topped wagons had a man in blue on the seat. That meant no more than five. As yet Many Knives had no information as to the number killed by Thin Arm. But the orders had been to go for the soldiers and spare the women. If his senior brave had been successful, then maybe all of the soldiers were dead or wounded.
‘Against us they will not stand. For we are more than the grains of sand in the hot mountain, where our brothers the Chiricahua and Mimbrenos live. Come …’
They began to canter in towards the silent circle, watching for some sign of movement.
When it came it was not what they had expected. No bursting volley of fire and death. Just two women breaking out from behind cover, wearing long dresses and hoods up over their heads against the early winter. Waving their arms towards the approaching Indians and screaming.
Many Knives held up his hand, stopping his advance half the way towards the wagons. Considering what this might mean.
‘Spare us! Let us be!’ yelled one of the two young women.
‘All our men are dead but one, and he’s sore hit by an arrow! Please let us go!!’
Another voice from within called them back, raised above the sound of the pounding river.
‘Ellen and Lily!! Come here at once and don’t let on t those heathen murderers how weak we are! Let them think we are strong and they will go away!’
Many Knives laughed at that, as did many of his warriors familiar with the tongue of the white people. They were so proud of themselves. So contemptuous of the red man, that they never thought he might learn their words.
‘Ho, we will take much pleasure as we plough the furrows of the white-eyes,’ crowed one of the young brave to the chief’s left.
‘Aye, we shall,’ called another.
‘Warm them with the fire of the Shoshone that shall melt the ice from their bones!’ shouted a third, bringing a burst of laughter that followed the two disconsolate women as they disappeared again between the circle wagons.
‘We will walk among them, so easy will it be,’ ordered Many Knives, leading the way by clipping his heels at the flanks of his pony, moving slowly forwards in the direction of their helpless victims.
But over the last fifty paces the chief could no long control the hot blood of his younger and less experienced bucks and they pushed on to a canter, leaving Man Knives and the older warriors behind them. They whooped on towards the wagons in a pushing, jostling bunch.
Forty paces.
Thirty and they were starting to bump into each other as they all tried to make for the same two narrow gaps between wagons.
Twenty paces and there was still no sign of movement from inside the circle.
Many Knives suddenly became suspicious and reined in, shouting to them and call back his war-party, the bitter fear coming to him that somehow the whites had tricked them. It could not be this still and silent.
And easy.
Ten paces and nobody heard their chief, all yelping out in their eagerness and their lusts to come to grips with the squaws of the whites.
Ten paces.
‘Now!!!’ shouted Crow at the top of his voice.
To the Shoshone it was as though the earth had erupted beneath their feet into a bedlam of fire and smoke and pain and death.
Crow had taken the chance that they would be so confident after his trick with the two women that they would ride on up and not bother with their Common tactic of circling a defensive position to work out the strength of the opposition. He had placed himself in the nearest gap to their line of approach with Gilbert and McLaglen. Muir and Kemp were at the next space along. Backed up with a pair of the women who counted themselves better than average shots.
The one good thing about their position was that they had ample firearms and ammunition. More than enough for them to withstand a siege
of weeks. Not that it was likely to last anywhere near that long.
Crow had his Purdey and then he was relying on the Speed and power of hand-guns. Rifles might be of some Use if they beat off this attack, but for such close work the Colts were better.
As he shouted, so he leaped to his feet from behind the wheel, blasting off both barrels at the approaching Indians. The twin load of destruction cutting an immediate swathe through the Shoshone. Blasting the leading half dozen warriors clean off their ponies, dead or dyin. Knocking the animals down in ribbons of tattered flesh. The others joining him immediately and pouring a withering blast of lead into the tumbling bodies. The rest of the women were in the wagons, and they lifted the edge of the canvas and did their best to shoot into the mass of trapped and fallen men and ponies.
Crow had left two of the oldest women on the far side of the circle with the strongest orders not to look inward but to keep their eyes fixed out back to make sure there was no second wave of attackers. Not that Crow could have done much if there had been. His entire force was concentrated in striking a single devastating blow at the Shoshone.
He had cursed under his breath as he saw that the tall figure of Many Knives was not there in the lead, knowing that the Shoshone, in common with many Indian tribes, would probably have retreated if their chief had been killed early on in the battle, regarding it as an omen for the rest of them.
Many Knives had managed to pull up his pony in time to avoid the massacre near the wagons. Lips peeling back off his teeth in a snarl of rage at the simplicity the trap. So similar to the way that he had snared pony-soldiers in the first place.
The powder smoke obscured much of what was happening from his sight, but he could hear the cries of pail and the shrill screams of the animals. So many of the young men had been pressing close together that when one of them fell there was no way at all that those immediately behind could avoid following on into the maelstrom of horror.
As soon as he’d fired the scatter-gun, Crow stood four-square on with the two experienced Troopers at either shoulder, pouring out lead while the women in the wagons emptied their own pistols and immediately came jumping out into the open again to help reload for the men.
Worse Than Death Page 6
