But now Carr had his entire force together, ready to move in concert.
The rejoined command moved out in a clatter of hardware and squeak of dry leather, staying for the most part behind the low ridges and hills leading down to the South Platte, keeping to the ravines as much as possible, refraining at all costs from breaking the skyline.
Cody and his scouts were waiting ahead when Carr came up and halted the long columns.
“You’ve got less than fifteen hundred yards to the outlying lodges, General.”
“They still have no idea, Cody?”
“You’ve caught them napping. Warm day like this—most of the ponies are out grazing in the herd. Young bucks aren’t out watching their back trail. Men back in the shade of the lodges. Children playing at the springs. It’s total surprise.”
They could see a few lazy spirals of smoke caught on the hot summer breezes in the distance.
“A fairly open plain separates us from the village?”
“Good enough for a cavalry charge, General.”
Carr drove one big fist down into the palm of the other hand. Then returned to his cavalry to detail the attack squadrons.
Long before marching orders were passed down through the cavalry command, the Pawnee scouts were already at their toilet, preparing for battle. First they stripped the saddles from their horses, throwing the saddles in the freight wagons. The tails of their ponies were tied up in anticipation of action. The scouts bound their long hair back and mixed earth-paint ceremonially. Weapons were polished and small knots of men smoked a bowl of tobacco together before mounting up. Many then put on a blue army blouse so that they would be easily recognizable to the young, untried soldiers in the dust and fearful confusion of battle.
Carr assigned H Company under Captain Leicester Walker to hold the left flank while Lieutenant George Price and A Company took the right.
“You are to turn the hostiles’ flanks if they attempt escape,” the senior major instructed his men. Carr watched them nod. “Their backs will be to the river. Let’s keep it their only path of escape. Once you have secured the flanks, dash to the rear of the village and gain control of the pony herd.”
As one, they turned and glanced at the herd grazing on a long, narrow bench of superb grass less than two miles on the other side of the village.
“Captain Sumner, with D Company, and Captain Maley with C Company—both of you are charged with the front of the charge. Major Crittenden will ride in command of this center squadron. Major Royall, your squadron of companies E and G will serve as a reserve immediately in my rear. Prepare for the attack.”
Carr waited as the company commanders passed orders down the line and the soldiers made their final preparations for the charge. Major Frank North placed his Pawnee battalion on the far left flank, well within sight of the village, awaiting the charge. When Lieutenant Price with A Company had moved off about five hundred yards to the right and signaled that he was ready, the major rose in the stirrups. Since Price’s company had the farthest to travel in reaching the village, the charge would be guided on it.
“Sergeant Major: move out at a trot.”
Joseph H. Maynard turned in the saddle to give the order. “Center-guide! Column of fours—at a trot. Forward!”
The dry, hot wind picked up almost immediately, coming from the west, born out of the front range of the Rockies far, far away. Enough of a breeze that the noise of those hooves and leather and bit-chains went unheard in that unsuspecting village of Dog Soldiers. They had closed to a thousand yards, and still no sign of discovery from the Cheyenne.
Suddenly a horseman on a white pony appeared among the far herd grazing on the grassy bench, dashing off the slope into the valley, racing for the village.
“That one’s seen us!” Donegan shouted into the wind.
Cody nodded. “Don’t matter, Irishman—it’s too late for ’em to do a goddamned thing now.”
Looking over his shoulder, Seamus found Carr signaling among his immediate command. They would attempt to reach the village before the lone herder alerted the camp.
Order the bleeming charge, goddammit! he thought, the great scar across his back going cold as January ice water.
“Bugler Uhlman—sound the charge!”
It was as if Carr had perceived Donegan’s plea across that distance between them.
John Uhlman put the scuffed and scratched bugle to his trembling lips as they trotted across that grassy plain toward the village. No sound came forth.
“By Jupiter—sound the charge!” Carr ordered a second time.
Uhlman gulped, pressed the bugle to his lips even harder. Still no sound came out.
“Gimme that, you fool!” growled Quartermaster Edward M. Hayes as he came alongside Uhlman, their horses bumping.
Hayes wrenched up the bugle, blowing the stirring notes.
Up and down the entire line throats burst with a raucous cheer as carbines came up and the jaded horses were urged into a gallop. Although they had been driven beyond the call of duty across the last four days, the animals answered the spurs on this last dash.
The quartermaster flung the bugle to the ground and pulled his pistol free.
That tin horn lay trampled underfoot while a dismayed, frightened John Uhlman was swept along in the final charge.
Chapter 25
Moon of Cherries Blackening
They had camped beside the upper reaches of a stream the Cheyenne called Cherry Creek, then yesterday came to this place of the springs that gurgled under the White Butte.
It was here five summers ago that Big Wolf and his family had been killed by soldiers. Through camp in a southeasterly direction ran White Butte Creek. Beside the stream stood Tall Bull’s lodge.
After receiving the blessing of the shamans on this campsite the day before, the chief had turned to his people and told them, “For two suns we will make our camp here. Then we will ford the river and march north to the rock where we starved the Pawnee.”
Years before, the Cheyenne had met the Pawnee in battle beneath what the white man called Court House Rock.
As the afternoon sun reached its zenith this day, the Cheyenne of Tall Bull had little idea the Pawnee were coming to visit destruction upon them.
“People are coming!”
Tall Bull and Two Crows heard the shouts, but did not believe in any danger at first. Buffalo hunters were out, as well as hunters looking for antelope. No soldiers could surprise the village.
“There! On the hills!”
Many came out of their lodges as the shouts grew louder and more in number. Children were pointing at the horsemen riding back and forth on the far hillside. Horsemen with long hair, waving their weapons in the air. The horsemen began firing their weapons.
“Perhaps they are messengers from Pawnee Killer’s Sioux war-party that has been out looking to take soldier scalps,” Two Crows said, standing at Tall Bull’s side.
“Yes,” Tall Bull said hopefully as horsemen numbering more than ten times both hands covered the hillside, firing. “They must have taken scalps, shooting so much—”
The bullets began to whistle into camp. Whining through the hide lodges, ricocheting from iron kettles and splintering lodgepoles. Women started shrieking and children crying at the moment two phalanxes of dust-shrouded pony soldiers broke over the top of the hills.
“Aiyeee! Pony soldiers come behind the Indians!”
There was much confusion on what it meant—though one thing alone was certain: bullets were flying into camp. A few of Tall Bull’s people already lay bleeding, calling out for help. Some lay making no sound at all.
Hooves pounded the earth. Horsemen sprinted down the hillsides from the north, east and west.
Only the south lay open to escape.
Tall Bull whirled—angry more than frightened. Not thinking of his wife and daughter. Not even thinking of the white woman. The first thing he wanted to do was kill the shamans.
In the confusion, ponies rear
ed and cried out fearfully as the bullets slapped the lodges all about them. Men and women worked to control the animals long enough to spring to their bare backs. Most had no ponies in camp. These people tore away on foot, clutching a young child beneath an arm, snatching up weapons and a blanket or two before they fled from the village. Some toward the south and safety. Others quickly turned away to places of hiding in the sandy bluffs.
No time to tear down the lodges. Escape was all that mattered now.
As the confusion grew more mad, Tall Bull stood like a battered cottonwood amid the panic, looking for the old shamans who had guaranteed him this place would be a safe haven for his people. From his hand hung the heavy-bladed tomahawk, its graceful curve like the path the sun took from midday to sunset. In his belly the Dog Soldier chief feared this was to be the sunset of his band. All because he had listened to the old men who gazed into the bloody entrails of a badger, instead of paying heed to his better instincts.
How he yearned to kill the foolish old ones.
The horsemen were nearing the village—he had to go. No time to find the shamans. He could do so later. Plenty of time for that in the hills tonight, when the soldiers drew off.
Then he heard her voice among those crying—pitiful, pleading. Whirling, Tall Bull found her where he had tied her last night.
She had stretched to the full length of her rawhide tethers. One restraint bound a foot, another an ankle. Both securely lashed to separate tent-pegs. Again and again, like a frightened animal caught in an iron trap, she yanked at the unmoving pegs. With little strength left in her body after the weeks of her captivity, she had nothing to throw against the tough rawhide shackles.
The white woman stared up at him with those wide eyes that reminded him of an animal come to the brink, ready to chew its leg off to free itself of the trap.
He liked finding that in her eyes. Much better than the lifeless void for too long in her eyes whenever he coupled with her. This was exactly like the first time beside her burning cabin as he tore aside her dress and layers of cloth beneath, ripped down the pantaloons to expose the milk-cream flesh that lashed out at his touch.
She cowered. He stood over her unmoving. The white woman watched him raise the tomahawk over his head.
She thinks I am going to kill her now, he thought as he brought the weapon down.
Her wrist was free. A look of sudden realization crossed the bruised, bloodied face. The puffy eyes glowed with some long-lost excitement. He had not seen hope as bright as this in many seasons.
Both her hands tore at the last rawhide tether binding her ankle. She pulled at the same time she gazed up at him, imploring him to help her. Tall Bull nodded and looked over his shoulder quickly. The soldiers were already entering the village. A flash of blond hair and a swirl of torn cloth in the distance told him the other white woman had escaped her captor. She was running for the soldiers.
Tall Bull brought the tomahawk savagely down. The iron head buried itself in the sand an inch from her flesh, severing the last rawhide tether. For an instant the white woman stared at the weapon, then brought her wide, imploring eyes to his face. He smiled at her.
Onto her knees she crawled, still unsure of her deliverance, clawing her way onto her feet with a struggle. Of a sudden she lunged to get away, arms churning, stretching, hands yearning.
On her like a coyote pouncing on snowshoe rabbit, he had the woman by her long, blond hair. A fistful of it. Jerking her about so savagely she came off her feet.
The look of fear in her eyes became real terror, like that first time beside her burning cabin.
Yet this time she watched him bring back the tomahawk a third time. From the blade to his face and back to the weapon suspended in the air.
He could smell it on her now that they were this close. For too long she had given herself up to him. Not like that first time when she had shown fear and fight—the animal odors he relished smelling on a victim most of all.
She screamed, opening a huge hole in her face as she fought against his hold on her.
Tall Bull brought the tomahawk down with all the passion he could muster.
Her warm blood and gore splattered over him as she fell from his grasp.
He left the tomahawk behind, buried to its wet, glistening handle in her brain.
* * *
Guidons snapped like angry, tormented flying insects in the hot breeze as the soldiers came on.
With ringing cheers bursting from the throats of his soldiers, Lieutenant Price performed the maneuver assigned him with precision. He turned the left flank of the enemy back on itself.
At the same time, Captain Walker’s men encountered a sharp-sided ravine in making their approach to the village. That and a boggy marshfield slowed Walker’s soldiers just enough from closing the gap that a few of the Cheyenne escaped into the sand hills before both Sumner and Maley raced into the center of the village.
Around the slower, blue-bloused soldiers swarmed screeching Pawnee scouts—here, then there, flitting like hawks after any target, be it man or woman. Revenge made their veins run hot.
The pools of drying blood beneath the dead and dying, like black suns.
Walker shouted to his sergeants, regrouping his men to charge after the escapees and those few ponies the fleeing Cheyenne were driving before them. Young soldiers would follow the Indians for better than three miles before their jaded mounts gave out. Four days of forced marches left little bottom in the troopers’ animals.
Other squads of soldiers tore after small groups of resolute warriors who continued to fight on foot or horseback. Retreating, suddenly stopping and turning to fire at their pursuers—the Dog Soldiers made for the grassy marsh or the sandy bluffs as pale as a white woman’s skin.
A flicker of movement snagged Donegan’s attention.
She burst from a cloud of dust, emerging from behind a lodge in a swirl of shredded cloth, her greasy dress and petticoats aflutter about her unbuttoned boots. Behind her came a flurry of copper-skinned warriors. The closest stopped, drew back his bow.
“Get down, goddammit!” Seamus shouted. He aimed his big pistol on instinct.
As the white woman dove to the ground, the bowman lurched backward, a red blossom spreading on his chest.
As quickly, the others scattered among the lodges, into the madness of the noise and dust.
Soldiers came on Donegan’s heels, leaping their horses over the frantic, screaming woman. She leapt onto her feet, dashing among the horsemen, sobbing at her deliverance, touching the hands that reached down for her. Only one soldier noticed the woman’s wound, a bullet hole high in her chest. He leaped to the ground as the woman lunged for him, blubbering in happiness.
“Get her to the surgeon!” ordered an officer out of the dusty gloom.
“Yessir!”
Donegan sawed the mare’s reins. She was close to done in after the hard drive of the last four days. For the Irishman, never had there been anything like Carr’s chase since that third day at Gettysburg.
But the chase was yet undone. Less than fifty yards off, a lone warrior drove four mules before him, seeking escape into the bluffs to the south of the village.
Seamus drove spurs into the mare’s ribs. She responded with every ounce of her heart if not speed.
Repeatedly the warrior glanced over his shoulder as Donegan drew closer. Instead of making good his escape, the Cheyenne was more consumed in fleeing with his small remuda intact. As the white man came on, the warrior gradually realized how futile his break for freedom would be if he did not rid himself of the troublesome pursuer.
He turned and fired his old pistol at the Irishman.
Seamus immediately yanked hard on the mare’s rein. She cut hard to the right, nearly going down.
The bullet smashed through the stirrup fender, grazing the meat of Donegan’s left leg.
A second pull by the warrior on the trigger brought nothing but a click on an empty chamber. Tossing the pistol aside, the Dog Soldi
er pulled a bow from his quiver and fired the first of a handful of arrows.
Seamus ducked low along the mare’s neck, hearing the first heart-wrenching, wheezing, paunch-bellied sounds from deep within the horse. Too many mounts had gone down on him for the Irishman not to recognize the oozing of life from the mare.
A third arrow fttt-thunged past Donegan’s right ear, painfully splitting it clear to his scalp.
He sensed the sting of the warm breeze nudging past the open flesh, at his neck the tickling warmth of blood. Seamus slowed the mare, let her stop of her own as he brought the army carbine out, flicked up the long sight, squeezed it to his bloody cheek. He held high and pulled. Opened the receiver and ejected the brass. The familiar click of the loading tube springing another round into the breech took but a heartbeat to disappear on the hot breeze that tormented his wounds.
Seamus squeezed the trigger, this time holding on the warrior’s roached hair. The Spencer kicked him, the mare shuddered as the muzzle smoke went the way of the wind.
Fifty yards away the warrior reeled atop his pony, bow and arrows spilling as he slid from the animal’s rump into the grassy sand, kicking up a small cloud of dust.
“You got enough left in you to get us back to camp, girl?” he asked in a whisper, laying close to her ear.
The mare’s eyes rolled wild and glassy, her jaws working as if sucking for wind.
She’s shot in the lights, he thought.
But the mare came around with gentle tugs on the reins. Nosing her back to the camp where the shooting and yelling had not let up, the horse faltered, stopped and shivered, throwing her head back. Then she stood riveted to the spot.
Slowly he dropped from her back and looked ’round him. Seamus threw up the stirrup, quickly releasing the cinch. The saddle and the soaked blanket came off as he fought to stand on the one good leg. He sensed his long hair sticking and tearing through the lacerated ear. Funny how such a small wound made him feel faint at times, remembering the arrow that had punctured his leg near Fort Phil Kearny.
Black Sun, The Battle of Summit Springs, 1869 Page 23
