He left the saddle and blanket behind, dragging it beneath a clump of swamp willow to hide it as best he could—deciding to come back for it later. He drag-footed it back to the mare, his grazed leg tender and burning with every gust of hot breeze. Seamus looked down at the crease in the meat of his thigh, just above the knee wounded by Confederate steel.
“I won’t ride you no more, girl,” he whispered to her, an arm slung over her neck. “Don’t have the heart to. You been a good animal—”
Seamus turned away from the mare, unable to go on. He headed for the village and the diminishing gunfire. But the mare was beside him, her chest heaving, the bullet hole spitting froth with every breath. She shuddered and her rear quarters almost collapsed, her head weaving.
With a wag of his head and his throat burning with shame and sadness, the Irishman pulled up the flap of his holster and freed the pistol.
The mare sank with the one shot behind her ear.
Chapter 26
July 11, 1869
Not wanting to tarry long beside the mare’s carcass, he headed into the village more quickly now. Dogs snarling and barking at the intruders. A few dead Cheyenne scattered on the outskirts of the lodge circle.
One of the bodies caught his attention. In a way it looked—but then it didn’t. The torn dress … perhaps stolen from some settler during the Cheyenne raids in Kansas.
At first he could not tell—the hair looked dark, the body sprawled in the shadows near a lodge raised back against the trees. Both legs and arms lay akimbo as if struggling in death.
Was it a Cheyenne squaw, killed by one of the Pawnee? He saw what he realized was the handle of a camp axe. Perhaps one of North’s battalion exacting revenge on their ancient tribal enemies. With all the blood already attracting swarms of green-backed horseflies, growing bloated and lazy as they crawled about, blackening the horrible wound that had split the woman’s head from crown to bridge of the nose, exposing the crusted iron blade deeply imbedded in the pink and purplish brain.
He fought down the sharp sting of bile at the back of his throat, turning away quickly as his belly came up. He cursed himself, then cursed the killer—now noticing some blond hair strung out from the dark pool of blood. He glanced at her bloodied hands, the pale skin beneath torn wool stockings lumped around her ankles.
He was sure it was the second white woman.
In utter rage he ripped the antelope hide door from the lodge with a savage grunt and laid it over the woman’s face and torso. Seamus prayed the corpse would prove to be the German woman. For now he refused to consider her the wife of Forsyth scout Tom Alderdice.
From the woman’s side he had to struggle back to his feet on the tender leg. The tormenting whine of a bullet split the air beside his arm. A second whispered beside the wounded ear, causing him to duck frantically.
Renewed gunfire was crackling from a grassy ravine less than a hundred yards off. The warriors still hidden there maintained a good field of fire. They were making the most of their cover, although the great number of their shots were missing the mark, either going wild or hitting soldier horses.
“Sergeant!” yelled Donegan, wheeling, finding the soldiers charging up on horseback. The bold chevrons stood out in the yellow haze of dust and shimmering midsummer heat.
“I see the buggers!” the old file hollered back. He waved an arm at a dozen men. “Dismount! Follow me and prepare to fight!”
Unthinking of his wounds and the flagging strength in his leg, Seamus was among them in a heartbeat, shoulder to shoulder with the blue tunics as the old sergeant led them sprinting on foot into the withering fire from the ravine. The old noncom was the first to holler, as loud as any Irish banshee, as he bore down on the enemy. Building his courage. Young soldiers and old alike came on, yelling out a common cheer. For a moment it raised the hackles on Donegan’s neck as he was reminded of the courageous, mindless charge Reverend White made on the ravine beside the Crazy Woman Crossing three summers gone.*
To their surprise, up the far side of the ravine clawed most of the warriors, eager to escape. A few stalwart Dog Soldiers remained to meet the onslaught of soldiers. They only slowed the foot charge, however, one by one going down quickly under a steady, sustained barrage of carbine fire.
A handful of soldiers sank to their knees at the lip of the ravine beside the naked copper bodies, and aimed for the fleeing warriors, dropping most as the Dog Soldiers tried to escape the long-reaching riflefire.
“You look a mess, son,” said the old sergeant as Seamus rose from the grass.
“It’s a wee bit tender,” he replied as the soldier came close to inspect the ear.
“You’ll be needing some sewing done, I’d say.”
Seamus gulped. “Sewing, is it? Won’t have to come off?”
A few other young soldiers had gathered now, not joining their comrades in taking the scalps of the dead Cheyenne.
“I’ve saved worse before in my time,” commented the sergeant before he whirled away. “I’ll be back with my saddle-kit and we’ll have you done in no time.” In minutes the veteran returned, and the painful stitching commenced.
“Done yet?”
“Those britches of yours have about had all they can take, Irishman,” the soldier commented as he was nearing the final stages of open-air surgery. He watched his patient’s face as much as he inspected his own handiwork.
Seamus winced and bit his lip again as the needle pierced the torn skin. “You’re willing to trade me, old man?”
The sergeant laughed. “Dickson it is to you, young fella. And no—I’ll not trade these for them you’re wearing, all patched and faded. Who’d you fight for?”
“Army of the Potomac. Then Little Phil down in the Shenandoah.”
“By smoke—that was a campaign, it was!” He yanked hard on the thread, then pulled a folding knife from his pants pocket. “All neatly done, Irishman,” he said proudly after the thread was trimmed. “You’ll play hell keeping it clean till she clots up good and crusty.”
“Here, tie this ’round me head,” Donegan said, pulling the bandanna from his neck.
“Yes. This’ll do nicely.”
“I thank you, Sergeant Dickson.”
“Don’t thank me, boy. No telling but you might be able to repay me one day.”
“Done and gladly!”
“Sergeant!”
They all turned to find a thin soldier loping up, his carbine slung at the end of his left arm, his right hand held up and cupped.
“Lookit this, will you?”
He held open the hand for inspection. In his palm lay the colorful oxblood and gold of a badge worn by a Royal Arch Mason. On the lower banner were emblazoned the words: WEST SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS.
“Where’d you come by this, Lorrett?” asked Dickson.
He threw a thumb back at the ravine. “I was looking over the body of one of the red bastards I killed. Found this.”
“Took off a white man for sure,” the sergeant replied.
“Bastards,” muttered one of the men, his sentiment immediately echoed by the rest.
“Them Pawnee every bit as bad as these Cheyenne,” said a corporal with greasy stripes on his sweat-soaked blouse.
“That’s right, Walsh,” replied Dickson. “I ain’t seen a one of them Pawnee scouts down here mixing it up with the Cheyenne bucks like us.”
“Chicken-shit Pawnee sonsabitches went after the women and children,” Walsh growled. “Yellow-backed redskins … no one ever gonna tell me they can face the music like one of us.”
As Tall Bull plunged the tomahawk down into the white woman’s head, a blood-curdling cry erupted behind him.
Turning, he found his wife and daughter watching as the blood-splattered prisoner sank to the ground. They had returned for him. In his wife’s hand was the halter of Tall Bull’s most prized possession—his war-pony.
“You must escape!” he shouted angrily above the clamor.
“I will not go without you
, husband.”
“Up!” he ordered them. “We will ride!”
Tall Bull pulled his wife up behind him, then in the next frantic moment dragged his daughter of eight summers in front of him. The pony staggered as he pounded his heels to its ribs.
“Stand with me!” he shouted at the southern edge of the village where he had slowed the pony among the confused and dazed.
Already the Pawnee and pony soldiers were among the lodges on the far side of their sprawling camp.
“We go to fight another day!” Two Crows replied above the screaming clamor.
“Too late this fight!” agreed Plenty of Bull Meat.
“You are women,” Tall Bull snarled. “The fight is here—it is now!”
“These soldiers are too strong … we are not ready!” Two Crows answered lamely.
“Go, old one! Tell the children of this day when Tall Bull stayed to fight while the rest of you ran. Tell all our people down to the lives of our grandchildren’s grandchildren of this day!”
“Your words are like iron, Tall Bull!”
He turned to find Red Cherries running up through the yellow dust. Behind him came his young wife and infant. Already bullets from the far side of camp were singing around them.
“You will stay with me, Red Cherries?”
“I will fight them to my end.”
A brutal sound caught in the throat of the wife of Red Cherries. “Husband, remember your child!” she screeched, holding the infant before its father.
“I do this—stand and fight—for all Cheyenne.”
Lone Bear and Wolf Friend hurried up with a half-dozen others. “We should fight where we have a chance to kill many soldiers before we die.”
Tall Bull nodded. “Bobtailed Porcupine has gone to the deep ravine over there.”
The others shook their head in disagreement. Pretty Bear and Heavy Furred Wolf both pointed.
“Come, I know a place on the hillside,” Pretty Bear suggested.
“Yes, there is room for the women and children to hide while we make our stand.” Heavy Furred Wolf turned to lead them away.
Tall Bull followed, the last to follow as the soldiers slashed their way into the heart of the village on horseback.
“Take the pony,” he whispered to his wife. “I am coming behind you.”
One by one the tiny group entered the narrow mouth of the hillside ravine. Beneath the erosion-washed overhang of the coulee the men found places to hide each woman and child. Only then would the warriors take their places along the lip of the ravine and at its skinny entrance. Each man cut his own foot- and hand-holds in the steep sides so he could peer over the embankment in safety and fire back at his attackers.
They were discovered by a party of Pawnee nearly as soon as they reached the ravine. Cautious of the deadly fire of the Cheyenne, North’s scouts dismounted at a safe distance and found themselves some cover from which they began to shoot back at the hiding place of their enemies.
Still on the sandy floor of the ravine, Tall Bull turned to his wife to say, “This is where I will die.”
“We do not have to die here,” she answered, more frantically. “We can run—”
Clamping his hand over her mouth, he shook his head. “I brought you and our daughter here for safety. I no longer wish to live hounded and harried by the white man and his soldiers.”
“Husband—we can go far to the north with our cousins … live there—”
He rose, forcing her to break off her words, pulling the long, much-honed scalping knife from his belt. Without another look exchanged between them, he left, dragging his favorite war-pony behind him. At the mouth of the ravine, clearly exposing himself to the gunfire of the Pawnee, Tall Bull yanked the pony’s head aside. With one brutal slash of the scalping knife he opened the animal’s throat in a gush of bright blood that splattered him and the ground about them both.
The pony staggered, fighting the hold he had on it. Sinking to its rear haunches, it fought to rise, struggling to breathe. At last it sank over on its side, legs flailing for a few moments while Tall Bull raised the scalping knife high in the air. Down his arm oozed the animal’s warm blood as he called out.
“Here we will die. No more do I need my brother in war—this pony. Come take me if you can, castrated women of Pawnee wombs … for it is here that Tall Bull welcomes death!”
* * *
Cody was among the first to join the Pawnee who were driven back from the mouth of the ravine as the Cheyenne put up a deadly fire.
He had hoped the Indian scouts would continue on, charging the hiding place, so was disappointed when they pulled back under the heavy barrage from the hillside.
For the first minutes he aimed at the heads that bounced over the lip of the far embankment, shooting from behind a low hill himself. The first few rounds he fired kicked up small spouts of earth in front of his targets, until he got the range calculated.
“Like taking fat cow and leaving poor bull, Billy,” he said to himself. He licked each cartridge for luck before sending it home.
“What you got going on here?” Seamus Donegan asked as he crawled up minutes later.
Cody looked behind him and grinned. “Halloo, Irishman. C’mon, join the fun. Three shots for a dollar—just like back home where you can shoot the head off the turkey—and keep the bird!”
“How many you got out there?”
“Fourteen, maybe more,” he answered.
“Damn, if that don’t beat,” Seamus whispered, pointing far to the right.
“They want in on everything, don’t they?” Cody replied, watching Frank and Luther North gallop up, have a quick word with some of their men, then daringly race their mounts across the open plain between the Cheyenne and Pawnee positions. Bullets sang out. Puffs of rifle smoke rose over the lip of the far ravine.
“Showy bastards,” muttered the young chief of scouts.
“Watch your manners, Bill Cody. Look how them two are helping you—giving us targets.”
“Be damned, but you’re right. I’ll start on the right, Irishman. No, as a matter of fact, I want that one.”
“The one shouting to the others?”
Cody nodded, driving home another big cartridge. “Bet he’s chief?”
Donegan shrugged. “Don’t know if he’s Tall Bull or not. But he’s some big medicine—haranguing the rest of ’em like that to hold out against us. You put him down, Bill—the rest will fold like a bad hand.”
Cody smiled, bringing the big-bore needle gun to his cheek. “Just my thinking, Seamus.”
The large, imposing Cheyenne who had been waving to his warriors whirled at the hillside, screaming out his battle-cry. As he rose from the edge of the ravine, Cody squeezed the trigger.
The big gun bruised him as it kicked back brutally.
“He’s gone, Bill,” Donegan whispered with admiration, slapping him on the back.
“I hit him? You see it—I hit him?”
“Blew his head off.”
Chapter 27
July 11, 1869
Eugene Carr arrived while Cody and the Irishman were pounding each other on the back exuberantly.
By the time the major was handing his reins to one of his staff, a pair of women were signaling from the narrow mouth of the ravine. Afraid, they crouched behind the body of a fallen Indian pony, waving with a shred of cloth to get the attention of the soldiers.
“North!” Carr shouted. Frank North turned with his brother. “Get someone to talk them out of there. I want prisoners—no more corpses.”
Staying back with the others behind the hillside, Carr watched as Frank North spoke in sign to the woman across the forty or more yards of open, grassy plain. He glanced at Cody. “How many warriors in there?”
“Don’t know how many now, General. Maybe as many as fifteen when the shooting started.”
Carr looked over his shoulder at the village, listening. “You hear that?”
“Hear what?” asked one of his staff.
“The quiet,” he said, having to smile. “It’s done. The fighting is over and the village is ours.”
“The women are coming out,” Seamus announced.
The men, Pawnee and white, civilian and soldier, stood as a pair of women leaped over the neck of the fallen pony and darted across the grassy open field. Stopping in front of Frank North, one of the two put her hands to her face and bowed her head symbolically. She gestured wildly at the ravine, then put her hands over her face again.
“What’s she telling you, Major North?”
“Says she’s Tall Bull’s wife. He’s dead.”
“In the ravine?”
“Right.”
“Any more?”
“All dead now.”
“Take a squad in there, Major—be sure there are no snipers,” Carr ordered. “Captain North?”
“General?”
“Get those women back to camp with the other prisoners.”
North grinned. “They ain’t both women. One’s Tall Bull’s daughter.”
“Just get them back with the others.”
Minutes later Major North trotted back across the grass field to report his findings. “I counted thirteen back in a little wash-out of a canyon, General Carr.”
“That all there were?”
“No. Found seven more up near the mouth. I figure they were there to try to keep us out if we stormed the place. Two women are dead in there too.”
“Fighters?”
“Looks like it—died beside their men.”
Carr took a deep breath. “We’ve got twenty, perhaps twenty-five enemy dead back in the village.”
“It’s a good operation, General—even though most of the Cheyenne got away.”
“Where’ll they go … without horses, blankets and food?”
North glanced at his brother, returning from the village. “The Cheyenne will survive, General. They’ll head north, find a friendly village of Sioux or Cheyenne maybe. Over time they’ll reoutfit themselves and continue their raids.”
“You don’t sound like you think we’ve done any good here today, Major.”
North wagged his head. “Not that at all. We’ve done a damned good job here. Do you have any tally going in the village, sir?”
Black Sun, The Battle of Summit Springs, 1869 Page 24
