The Red Hills

by James Marvin

  The big Cavalry horses were more than a match in size and strength for the ponies and Crow deliberately rode in among them, sending them spinning aside with the force of his charge, shooting one through the head and another in the stomach as he broke through them. The Troopers followed him successfully, none of the hostiles being in a fit state to shoot back.

  He thumbed back the hammer, firing at the warriors until the pin clicked down on a spent round, reholstering the gun in his belt, taking a moment to count the survivors.

  Of the original twenty or more attackers, there were now only about nine still up on their ponies and unwounded.

  There were at least seven of them clearly dead and only one of the men on the ground looked as if he was going to make it. Several of their ponies were also hit, one kicking out in the grass, blood gushing from a bullet hole in its neck.

  'Reform and go again!!' Crow shouted. 'This one'll do it for us!!' Drawing his saber and waving it over his head so that it flashed in the bright sunlight.

  But they had taken enough.

  The surviving Indians paused only long enough to fire off a scattered volley of bullets and arrows, none of them coming close to any of the soldiers, then turned their ponies and rode off in silence, galloping towards the east, away from the conflict.

  Stotter whooped his delight and was ready to set off after them when Crow called him back.

  'No. We have to get to Captain Menges and the column. What's left of the column.' Something gleaming among the dead caught his eye and he pointed to it. 'Cut down those wounded men. Quickly, now. And get that. There! One of them was carrying a damned bugle.'

  The three Troopers gleefully carried out his orders, hacking away at the few Indians that had survived the initial onslaught, slicing down with the heavy eighteen-sixty sabers, the brass hilts flashing. Blood jetted in the warm air, the sweet scent of sickly death filling the nostrils.

  To make sure that they were all dead, Stotter, Baxter and Cantwell dismounted and walked among the corpses, slashing off the heads of every man there.

  It was Stotter who brought the bugle to Crow who was sitting patiently on his stallion, listening to the fusillade of shooting from the further side of the ridge. The leader of the Indians would expect to hear from his men that they had wiped out the relief column, but those survivors had ridden off in virtually the opposite direction. So Crazy Horse, or whoever was in charge of the main attack, would have no way of knowing what was going on. That was the foundation of the plan that had formed in Crow's tactical mind.

  'Looks kind of old, Sir,' Stotter said, handing it to Lieutenant, while the other two Troopers busied themselves tearing off scalps, knowing that they would be able to sell them to the traders or to the miners and settlers who still flooded into the region.

  The bugle did look very old. It might have been taken by the Sioux many years back. It was so battered and dented that Crow was unable to make out any regimental markings. He raised it to his lips, first wiping off the mouthpiece. And tried a tentative blow. A low, clear note came from the brass instrument. He grinned to himself.

  The bugle still functioned. And that meant his plan might work.

  'Mount up,' he snapped. 'Let's go see if we can save the Captain's bacon for him. Quickly!'

  * * *

  It took them a little over fifteen minutes to top the next rise along, skirting a deep draw that blocked their path.

  The trail of the patrol was clear ahead of them, trampled in the dry grass of the plains, stretching in front of them like a road. The noise of shooting still came from the next valley though it seemed to Crow to be getting feebler and more infrequent. He could even make out the yelling and whooping of the Indians, above the gunfire.

  He glanced back once, seeing that the great bird that bad been circling so high overhead was now sweeping in lower, moving in lazy swirls, centering on the pile of raggled corpses lying around the dead and injured ponies.

  It would be a great feast of carrion for the scavengers if the rest of the Sioux and their allies didn't get back quickly to rescue the bodies.

  'Easy,' he said quietly, holding up his right hand, checking the three Troopers as they came to the brink of the final ridge. 'Goin' to sound this. Then we appear there. Ride back and forwards a couple of times so they thinks there's more of us. Then I'll blow the "Charge" and down we go. Yell and scream like we're a whole regiment.'

  'The bastards'll think we're a big relief column,' said Baxter, eagerly, wiping his forehead with a hand dappled with blood from the scalpings.

  'What if they don't?' asked the more cautious Stotter.

  Crow smiled at him, genuinely amused by the question.

  'Then we're goin' to be dead in about two minutes from now, Trooper.'

  Stotter grinned back, trying to hide his nerves behind the mask. 'Guess that's right, Sir. Let's go.'

  Hardened Indian fighter though Crow was, the scene that met his eyes over the brink of the last ridge shook him. There must have been well over a hundred Sioux there, with a scattering of warriors from various other tribes. They were trotting their ponies in a circle, keeping their distance from the ring of blue that was the patrol from the First Squadron, Third Cavalry, Captain Silas Menges commanding.

  There were several dead and wounded among the Indians, and Crow was relieved to see that comparatively few of them seemed to be armed with rifles or carbines.

  Most of them were carrying war-bows, suddenly breaking the ring and dashing m towards the soldiers, firing off two or three arrows and then slipping behind their pony's neck and galloping back to the safety of the circle, revolving at maximum effective range for the soldiers' Springfields.

  Crow spotted a small group of Sioux sitting quietly on their ponies, a hundred or more paces off from the outer limit of the attacking ring. Most were ornately dressed in eagle-feather bonnets and fringed shirts. But one of them he saw with a thrill of recognition, wore nothing but a single hawk's feather and was covered with light dust. As was his pony. And he was naked above the waist.

  Crazy Horse was there.

  The Cavalry had also suffered casualties. There were three men lying still and bloody outside the defensive perimeter, and a small cluster of wounded or dead inside near the pennant.

  It looked like Menges had been caught cold, in the open, by the Sioux. Probably hidden in the shoulders of a large ravine that Crow could see circling to both sides of where the soldiers were trapped. The way things were looking it would only be a matter of time before the Sioux wore them down, letting them waste ammunition until they ran out, then simply riding them into the dirt with their numbers.

  It would be the Fetterman massacre all over again. And the only person with even an outside chance of checking it was Crow.

  After retreating unseen back over the brink of the hill, he again went over his orders, making sure that the Troopers understood them.

  Raising the bugle to his mouth and wetting his lips.

  Taking a deep breath and letting go with 'Boots And Saddles'. The notes ringing out loud and clear and reasonably true. The stallion pricked up its ears and whinnied at the familiar sounds. Stotter was placed so that he could just see over the rise and he shouted back.

  'They heard it, Sir. Listen to our good old boys cheer at the sound! By God, but those sons of bitches heard it all right.'

  'Move forward to the skyline,' said Crow, reining in the stallion as soon as he could see the battle below. Knowing that they would all have seen him. There was the sound of a ragged cheer from the defenders in blue while the Sioux had stopped firing and had all pulled up their ponies, waiting for orders from their leaders.

  'Here we go,' he said, lifting the dented bugle again, and letting rip with the 'Charge'.

  'Fire your pistols!!' he yelled at the Troopers as they all began to spur on down the slope towards the crowd of Indians, heading off in a slanting run, aiming for the war-chiefs. Blasting off their pistols, regardless that the bullets would fall far short. S
creeching like dervishes and waving their guns.

  Menges had the blessed sense to see that here was his only chance and the soldiers poured out from their lines and started to run against the Sioux, though Crow noticed from the corner of his eye, through the dust of his own charge, that the sally seemed to be led by the huge figure of Sergeant McLaglen rather than by the portly officer himself.

  It was touch and go.

  Crow knew well how the minds of the Indians worked.

  A wild charge for honor against hopeless odds would be their way of fighting, but Crazy Horse had been close to the whites most of his life and would be fully aware that they would not fight this way. Therefore, he would reason, this tiny group coming at them with bugle blowing and guns firing must be the advance of a great force. His own attempts to check the relief column must have failed.

  But no Indian likes to throw away what had seemed like a certain victory.

  It was touch and go.

  There was a strange silence as Crow and his three men galloped in closer to Crazy Horse and the rest of the Sioux chiefs. When they were only fifty or so paces off the distinctive figure of the Oglala war leader and sacred shirt-wearer raised his rifle and called out a command in a loud harsh voice. At the signal, all of the warriors broke away from the soldiers and rode off in an orderly withdrawal towards the west, led by their chiefs.

  But Crazy Horse remained behind for a moment or two longer, staring at Crow and looking beyond him to the crest of the hill, watching for the first of the relief column that he thought had been heralded by the bugle and the outriders.

  But there was nobody else to come.

  His eyes locked with those of Lieutenant Crow of the Third Cavalry and there was a momentary flash of recognition.

  Perhaps when he realized how easily he had been tricked. Perhaps a gleam of amusement. It was impossible to say.

  What was certain was that he recognized the white man.

  With a grunt he tugged at the rope bridle of his pony and galloped quickly away. Leaving Crow behind on his tired stallion to rein in and wait for Captain Menges to come to him with his grateful thanks for the brilliant and timely rescue.

  When Menges came up to him he was sweating furiously, and his fat cheeks were stained with powder smoke. He marched straight to where Crow waited, saluting his superior officer.

  'What in fuckin' hell kept you so long, you yellow-bellied son of a bitch bastard?' Menges said.

  Chapter Seven

  The ride back to the camp wasn't a happy one.

  Menges rode far ahead of the men, stiff-backed with anger. In the confrontation with Crow there had been no word of thanks. No appreciation of Crow's brilliance in driving off an attacking force of a hundred hostile Sioux with just three Troopers. No recognition when Crow briefly told him about the attack that he had previously beaten off, losing only the one man.

  Just whining and moaning about the way Crow with his relief force had left him to die, only finally coming along when he had thought that it was safely done.

  The charge was so shocking and so absurd that Crow was silent for a moment, before speaking up in his own defense. The rest of the men with him had also tried to speak but Menges had angrily waved them away barely heeding the words of Sergeant McLaglen. The veteran was wounded with a bullet buried in his left arm, below the shoulder, but he insisted on coming up and reminding Menges just what his orders had been to Crow.

  'With respect, Sir,' he had said firmly, ignoring the look of blazing hatred from Menges, 'but you left the Lieutenant with just four Troopers and I heard you tell him on no account was he to come to our aid unless you sent him a galloper.'

  For one wild moment Crow had thought that the Captain was actually going to strike the tall Sergeant in the face for daring to speak up against him. But Menges regained his self-control, staring into McLaglen's eyes.

  'Not long to retirement, is it, Sergeant? I would advise you to step very carefully or you will find that pension you look for has faded away like the dew in the morning.'

  He had said nothing more to either of them, merely ordering a return to camp and the retrieval of the bodies.

  McLaglen had ridden alongside Crow on the slow walk to camp and had told him more of what had happened with the Sioux.

  It was much as Crow had guessed.

  'Ridin' along there like Jesus Christ all-goddamned mighty. Nose in the air, whisky in his canteen. No scouts out. No men ridin' flanks for us. They come up like ants boilin' from a nest. Must have been in a draw that ran both sides of the way we was goin,' I guess that they knew Menges had seen their bait and had bitten at it. Knew he'd be comin' out this way with us strung on the damned hook along of him. Jesus! It makes me want to throw up.'

  Trice of foolishness comes high in the Dakotas, Sergeant,' said Crow, glancing back along the remnants of the column.

  Apart from Clynes, whose body they'd picked up on the way back, the eyes and soft parts of the face missing to the birds, there were seven other corpses dangling over the backs of their horses, wrists and ankles roped together to stop them slipping into the dirt. Eight dead out of twenty, with one man gut-shot and sure to die within the next couple of days. And McLaglen wounded in the arm, and four or five other Troopers with minor injuries.

  As they got near to camp, Sergeant McLaglen spoke again to Lieutenant Crow. 'You any guessin' 'bout what Menges figures to do with us next, Mister Crow?'

  'Ask me about Crazy Horse's plans, Sergeant, and I'd have just about as much idea.'

  The sight of the Oglala leader had surprised Crow. To see Crazy Horse so close after so long. And he was sure that the Sioux shirt-wearer had recognized him as well.

  Sitting easily in the saddle as they rode through their sentries into the tented quarters, he wondered what would happen next.

  'We showed the Indians today that we mean business, gentlemen, and by God but we shall shortly show them again!!'

  Menges was drunk. Not just a little over the dividing line but out in the open, bear-wrestling drunk. He had brought a bottle into supper with him and emptied it before they'd finished the stew. Ignoring his wife and virtually ignoring Crow, addressing his remarks to the hapless Lieutenant Kemp. To add to his troubles at being so singled out, the Scottish officer was plagued with dysentery and kept rushing from the tent, his thighs pressed tightly together, face white and eyes staring with the pain and the sudden embarrassment.

  Menges found all that very amusing.

  'My God!! I seen men shit themselves when they seen the Indians comin' over the hill, but I'm damned if it ain't the first time I ever seen a man mess his breeches from just talkin' 'bout them!'

  Crow didn't speak. His relations with Menges had deteriorated to such an extent that he hardly dared trust himself in the man's presence. He could put up with it in the hope it might get better. Or he could apply for a transfer, with precious little chance of it being granted by the crazed Captain. Or he could go out and get himself killed. Or he could simply kill Menges.

  Only one of the ideas had any attraction at all for Crow.

  It was just a matter of when he could kill the Captain without risking his own neck.

  During that uncomfortable meal Menges made it clear to the other officers that his intentions were to try and wipe out the memory of the defeat and near-massacre by going after Crazy Horse.

  'He'll try and trick us, gentlemen, and I even include you in that term, Mister Crow, though I suspect you are more of an Indian than some of those loafers around the Forts. But I will be generous. As I have a plan that will bring us all honor and victory, and we... what was I saying? Yes. I can afford to be generous, even to someone like you, my dear Crow.'

  He didn't get any response. Kemp was too preoccupied with his own bodily failings and Crow knew that to speak at that stage would be to rise from his seat and rip the man's face off his skull.

  'The Sioux cur will hope to lead us to our deaths, but I shall trick him. Let him lead us on. Wait. Let him l
ead... I have already said that.' He shook his head, sweat running from the end of his nose, eyes puzzled. Reaching out and draining another glass of whisky. The way he was going, he would shortly collapse. With the faintest thrill of rising excitement, Crow caught the eye of Angelina Menges and realized that she was thinking the same. And that her thoughts had raced on a step ahead of his to what the two of them might be able to do while Captain Silas slumbered and snored.

  'When he has led us on, we will show our fangs. Our fangs and the rest of the men will come round and cut off Crazy Horse. We will geld that Oglala stallion, gentlemen. Geld him. Cut him off. Unless we... I mean that we will... Damnation!' Another gulp of whisky. 'That clears the head most wonderfully. The shining hero of the hour, Mister Crow, shall lead the relief again. But this time there will be no foolishness over muddled orders. No puddled waters, Crow. Croaking Crows.' He sat back with a moonish grin of contentment on his face. 'There we shall have him. Have him.'

  'We don't have enough men,' said Crow, speaking as quietly as ever. Menges didn't seem to hear him for a moment, then turned to face him, head tipped on one side, tiny eyes flaring red.

  'You are still frightened after the way we licked them? That is damned hard to credit. We have not enough men? How many men would you want to defeat these naked savages, Mister Crow?'

  For a full minute Crow sat there, considering the question, weighing up what might be the best answer. He saw now that it was futile to query the absurdity of Menges's ideas. Allowing for the dead and severely wounded, he doubted if they could call on more than forty-eight men. Barely half of what long-dead Fetterman had been able to take with him on his ride to disaster.

  'I believe, Captain Menges,' he began, picking his words with the greatest of care. 'I believe that we would need at least two hundred and fifty men. Trained men. Indian fighters. Not gutter-scrapings and brothel bullies. Soldiers who know what it is to fight and fight again with no food and damned little water. I would also want to ensure I could either take the hostiles by total surprise, which would probably involve treachery and deceit. Or let them come at me when I was in a well-prepared position. And I would also require either howitzers or perhaps Gatlings.'