There was a stutter of shots. Now the Indians must know for sure. Why weren’t they moving? Why did none of them appear from the lodges?
The frozen creek lay in front of him. His horse balked and danced.
Suddenly, Indians seemed to erupt from everywhere.
There were many more Indians than he thought possible. Dark figures darting from the tents, running, hesitating, startled.
From behind him, he heard the strident cry of ‘Attack! Attack! Attack!’
Riders were starting to pour over the rim of the ridge. He could see White Bull now, standing and shouting to his people. At once some figures started to run back between the lodges, heading for the timbered slope behind the village. Other figures began to detach themselves and run forward to meet the soldiers. One here and another there dropped to one knee and raised a rifle to shoulder. The blossom of dark smoke came.
He got his horse on to the frozen surface of the creek and the animal slid and slipped across it. It reached the far bank and started up it, floundering a little in the drift of snow there.
As he topped the bank, something violent beyond all possibility snatched the horse from under him as if the animal weighed no more than a handful of paper. McAllister landed on top of the bank and started rolling and sliding back towards the creek.
When he looked up, the soldiers were on top of him, negotiating the creek and heaving up on to the flat on the far side. One man lashed at him with a saber, another fired almost point-blank at him and missed. Then they were past him and pounding on towards the village.
There came a ragged burst of firing and when he crawled to the top of the bank, he saw that the cavalrymen had been stopped and were turning away on either hand. Then he heard a cheer and looked to the right and saw the other company of men coming slowly across the snow from the northeast. Brevington’s men were turning back, unable to face the withering fire of the Indians. He looked further up the timbered slope and saw women and children struggling to reach the cover of the trees. Then he looked to his left and saw the third company of troops coming in a slow charge. They had seen the refugees and were making for them. There was a white boy sitting in the snow near him, looking ghastly and holding his belly with both hands. He said: ‘Oh, Jesus,’ and slowly lay down.
The Indians had spotted the charge from the southeast and to counter its approach they drew back among the tipis. No more than a half-dozen Indian rifles were turned on the newcomers. Just the same, their fire was fierce and broke up the charge.
McAllister’s legs gave way and he sat down in the snow. He had never felt more frustrated and ineffectual in his life. Now he raised his eyes and saw the Stars and Strips rippling in the breeze above the tents.
He could hear Brevington’s voice somewhere, rallying the men. Slowly, the horsemen began to rally. The Indians fired into the mass of riders and two saddles were emptied. Now the Indians drew back again and the bulk of them started to withdraw up the slope beyond, firing and running, firing and running. Firing came from a spot to the right of the camp and, looking that way, McAllister saw that there were Indians there in the mouth of a gully. They seemed cut off by the charge of the second company. The soldiers turned towards this gully, dismounted and lay down to shoot into it. McAllister guessed that some women had taken refuge there and warriors had been forced to make their stand there. They, he decided, were as good as dead. One or two soldiers were riding wide of the gully mouth and were climbing their horses on the ground above from which they could shoot down on to the Indians below.
The soldiers immediately in front of him were riding forward and getting among the tipis. Some dismounted there and began setting fire to them. They found an Indian in one and dragged him out by his hair. McAllister could see that he was wounded and limped badly on one leg. He broke away from his captors and made a feeble run of it. They shot him with several bullets before he had covered a half-dozen paces.
The company from the south was now among the trees. He thought he heard the screams of the women.
There was a man wandering his way through the snow. As he came close, McAllister saw that he was little more than a boy. He wove as he walked, clutching at one arm.
McAllister said: ‘What happened, son?’
The boy stopped and stared. He was in deep shock. He walked a few more paces and sat down beside McAllister.
‘It’s my arm,’ he said. ‘It’s broken, I guess.’
The boy’s name was Seth Roberts. He was the son of a dry goods merchant. While the sounds of the battle came across the snow, McAllister tended the wounded boy, talking him back into the ordinary world. While the boy watched him in a kind of dazed bewilderment, McAllister pulled his coats off and examined the arm. Roberts had had the ill-luck to be hit by two bullets with the result that the arm was horribly shattered. There was no setting this one. The rapidity with which the boy was losing blood was dangerous. By the time the doctor arrived on the scene, McAllister had staunched the blood and covered the wounds.
The doctor, a youngish man with a peppery manner, said: ‘He couldn’t save your arm, son. But he saved your life.’
When the boy realized that the arm would have to come off, he started to weep. This, McAllister had to remind himself, was one of the kids who had rushed forward in the charge to kill Indians.
He wandered off towards the fight. Now he saw that the warriors had retired up the slope into the trees and there could be seen digging in. The cavalry were hovering among the trees, but all of them had now given up the idea that the Indians could be finished in another charge. On the slope itself, Brevington, saber in one hand and revolver in the other, was urging his men on towards the enemy. Most of them were laid down in the snow shooting up at the people above them.
There were several dead bodies among the burning tipis. One, McAllister found, belonged to a man of mixed Cheyenne and white descent, a noted trader. He had three bullets in him. On the southern edge of the village, he found a lodge which had not yet been damaged by fire. Inside, he found two people, one dead and one no more than half-alive. The dead man looked to be a halfbreed. With a shock, McAllister recognized him as Sammy Samson, the interpreter. The other man was Captain William Steiner, the Indian agent.
My God, McAllister thought, this puts the cat among the pigeons.
The agent had been hit in the hip by a bullet and another had grazed his skull. The latter wound looked worse than it was, as head wounds always do. He had lost a lot of blood. The bullet to the head had no doubt been the one which had knocked him unconscious.
McAllister tried to pick him up, but in his weak state it was more than he could accomplish. He stopped the bleeding from the head and found some water which he forced between the man’s lips. After a while, he opened his eyes.
He recognized McAllister, then at once looked around and said: ‘Where’s Sammy?’
‘Over there, and he’s dead, Captain.’
The wounded man pursed his lips and said nothing. With McAllister’s help, he regained his feet and hobbled outside. McAllister supported him to the doctor who was working on a wounded man halfway between the camp and the creek.
While the doctor was trying to stop the hip wound from bleeding, Steiner said: ‘Who’s commanding these soldiers?’
‘Brevington,’ said the doctor.
Steiner said: ‘I’ll see the bastard hang for this.’
The doctor said: ‘If he comes out of it alive. The Indians aren’t exactly lying down for him. His officers advised him against it.’
Steiner asked: ‘Didn’t he see the flag?’
The doctor replied: ‘Couldn’t miss it. It was just another cunning Indian trick. Maybe he was right at that. You can’t deny there’s fighting men among this bunch.’
There’s some wounded from a fight, if that’s what you mean.’ Steiner turned to McAllister. ‘Did you lead Brevington here, McAllister?’
‘No, I’m a prisoner.’
‘What happened to Dick Reynolds, the tr
ader?’
‘He’s lying dead over yonder.’
‘My God,’ Steiner said.
McAllister rose, saying: ‘I’ll be back.’
He walked past the dead trader and came to a young officer lying on his back with his mouth and eyes open. His new Colt revolver lay beside his right hand. McAllister picked it up and searched the body for ammunition. When he had it, he stuffed the ammunition into a pocket and shoved the gun inside his clothing. Now he felt a little better. His recent physical efforts, though slight, had quite exhausted him, so he sat down and took a rest. From where he sat, he had a clear picture of almost the whole battlefield.
The handful of Indians in the gully were still holding out. There were soldiers above them firing down and there was a scattering of troops lying down in a semi-circle on the flat occasionally lobbing a shot into the gully. The replies from the Indians were few and far between, so McAllister assumed there were few Indians left and those who were were short of ammunition.
The Indians among the trees had brought their opposing soldiers to a standstill. They seemed to have good cover among the trees and they had also dug in well at certain points. As McAllister watched, the soldiers tried to rush them, but their shooting was too accurate and the soldiers ran back to their former positions again. The Cheyenne would hold out until dark and then would try to slip away under its cover. How far they would be able to get in this weather was anybody’s guess, but, desperately short of warm clothing and food as they must be, they surely could not last more than a few days. The soldiers would walk them down without too much trouble at all.
So what did he do now? he asked himself and he was damned if he knew the answer. But he had to do something. No commanding general in the land would be able to defend what Brevington had done here today.
Something soft and warm touched his cheek. Startled, he turned his head and found himself looking into the eye of his own horse. Now, he did not know whether to laugh or cry. He got up and closely inspected the animal, only to find that there was not a mark on it. It was as pleased as a dog to find him. McAllister patted it on the neck, then climbed into the saddle. There he had another fit of agonized coughing before he went on. The canelo took him back across the creek and up on the ridge. Here he found a handful of soldiers, most of them sick men. Major Newton lay in his litter. McAllister approached him and told him exactly what was happening on the far side of the ridge. He told Newton of the two halfbreeds shot in the shooting.
‘There’s going to be hell to pay, Major. It ought to be stopped before any more lives are uselessly thrown away. Brevington can’t avoid a court martial when he gets back. Steiner’s evidence alone will see to that.’
‘Except that Brevington probably pulls more weight than Steiner who is largely discredited. The local commander, Major Whitehouse, ignores him and says he’s an Indian-lover.’
‘There’s you and me, we count for something.’
‘That man Lawson accuses you of being a horse thief.’
‘Lawson’s own record will look after that.’
Shortly after this, the stretcher bearers started to bring the wounded in. They were laid out on the snow in two rows, more than a dozen of them. The orderlies said that there were as many out there dead. The doctor sweated in the cold.
Chapter Eighteen
Hindsight is easy enough. It is the implement of fools. At one time or another, we all employ it. We can look back on a battle, any human incident for that matter, and think that we could have done better than the man controlling it. The battle could have been tidier, the men used to greater advantage, the terrain employed better. But reality is untidy and any human incident is as complicated as the number of participants.
The battle fought at Dead Indian Creek was a mess from start to finish. But one must be just and admit that most of such battles (if they can be glorified by such a name) are the same. Men did foolish things, brave things and cowardly things. Some were cruel, some were merciful and the most unexpected men come out best. And all the time unaccountable things happen.
For example, the laws of nature being what they are, the Indians there should have been over-run and probably killed within the first hour. They were outnumbered and outgunned. The soldiers had every advantage. But the fact remains that the Indians were still holding them off when dark came.
‘One night out in the open,’ Colonel Brevington opined, ‘and they will come in begging for food and shelter.’ It gave him a kind of glowing satisfaction to think that, while he was snug and warm in his blankets, the savages were out there exposed to the elements, the kids crying, the women bewailing their fate, the bucks wishing that they had not defied the soldiers. Dawn would reveal them to be abject. The lay preacher’s prayers were rapturous that night. He knew that the Lord was smiling on him.
Little did he know that the heavens were full of divine laughter. His God mocked him. Those who were on high were being cast down. Even as he prayed and gave thanks for the great privilege of his victory, the Indians were quietly picking their way north through the winter trees, clutching their threadbare blankets about them, some of them even half-naked in the cold, and slipping out of his grasp. The children were hushed and all was silent as the remnant of a band slipped away to freedom and possible death.
While they were doing this, the soldiers ate and smoked at their blazing fires, totally surrounding the savages. No one, they thought, could slip through such a tight cordon. When dawn came, the colonel’s rage was something to be seen. He stood and gazed at the footprints in the snow, the only concrete evidence that the wretched Indians had ever been there. He raged. He would have the balls of the men who permitted this to happen, captains would be broken to the ranks, sergeants would be punished. Could he trust nobody? Must he bear the whole brunt of this campaign himself? Was he the only man in the whole miserable regiment who possessed a sense of duty?
He roared for the men to saddle their horses and follow those same footprints through the snow. Ride the dogs down. Saber them to death. Turn the snow red with their lifeblood.
The divine laugh sounded again. As the men went to their horses on the picket line and saddled them, so the soft and inoffensive flakes came fluttering down from the heavens and, as they watched, so the footprints slowly vanished before their eyes.
‘I don’t believe it,’ cried the stricken colonel. ‘I just do not believe it.’
He lost his presence of mind then and ordered small parties of riders out to search for the Indians. Old hands told him that they would lose themselves, but he would not listen to advice. He had to have those damned Indians. Not a single one of them should live. His victory must be total.
By night, of six parties which went out, four only had returned. One would never return, for they had the misfortune to be successful. They had found some Indians. Three young Sioux, all wounded, and a handful of Cheyenne women and children, huddled and hiding. The Indians, their women aiding them, had attacked the soldiers with sticks and bare hands, having lost their weapons in the surprise attack. The three soldiers had died and the Indians had gone on.
The other party came in the following day, frost bitten and sick. They had lost a horse down a ravine and two of the men were riding double. They all had the shocked and frozen look of men who were surprised to still be alive.
Captain Harry Brigg had a noisy scene with the colonel which was witnessed by practically the whole regiment. He demanded that the regiment now turn back and return to base. Rations were low and the men were at their last gasp.
The colonel shouted: ‘You have no authority here, sir. I broke you on the scene of battle.’
Brigg said: ‘I am still an officer of the Volunteers and I must warn you that if you do not from here on act reasonably, I shall be forced to place you under arrest and escort you home under an armed guard.’
Once more the colonel had howled ‘Mutiny’, but no one failed to notice that he did nothing about it. He retired in a profound sulk to his tent an
d stayed there while Brigg assumed command.
Brigg’s first anxiety was for the scouting party of four soldiers which was still missing. The pressing need was for him to get his men to some source of food supply before the rations ran out entirely, but he could not bring himself to move on without the missing men. Thinking that Dom Lawson knew the area, he asked the man if he would lead a search party, but Lawson flatly refused. However, McAllister volunteered. The doctor said that McAllister was not fit to ride. For all he knew, he said, McAllister had pneumonia on top of the pleurisy. But McAllister insisted. It was now Lawson’s turn and he vigorously opposed McAllister’s going.
The man’s a thief and a killer,’ Lawson said. ‘Can’t you see? He’s trying to get away from me.’
McAllister said: ‘I wouldn’t get away if I was offered gold. I’m staying to see that Brevington answers for his work here.’
Captain Brigg said: ‘I believe you.’ He assigned an experienced sergeant to McAllister and detailed five men to accompany them. He added: ‘And you don’t have all the time in the world. This is the last day of half-rations. Tomorrow we’re down to a quarter.’
McAllister led his party into the northwest. They wandered for two days until they rode down on the men lying dead under several inches of snow. It was a miracle that they found them at all. When they had buried them in the hard ground and said a few good words over them, they turned back. By this time, the fever had reached its height in McAllister and he was at once ordered rest and warmth by the doctor. He lay with the other sick and wounded near the fires and privately the doctor told Brigg that the man was as good as dead.
‘How he made that ride, I’ll never know,’ he said.
However, McAllister’s iron constitution had been assailed before and survived. And it survived this time. The fever broke in the night and he started to mend. He was, however, too weak to sit a horse and so was placed in a litter on the side of a mule. He slept almost solidly for three days. When he finally came to himself and felt more or less back to normal, he was informed that the regiment was once again lost. He stepped down from his litter and mounted a horse, pale and shaky.
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