The Red Hills

by James Marvin

  And hope.

  There was a little more than just hope.

  While out on patrol a couple of days earlier with Sergeant McLaglen, Crow had noticed a peculiar knob of yellow-grey rock, sticking out a hundred feet above the grasslands. He had been so interested that he had ridden his black stallion clean around it noting that there was a sheer cliff on the far side, while it sloped more gently on the west and south. Stark and bare among the grass it towered over the prairie like a natural fortress.

  It was that hill, combined with a lot of luck that featured in Crow's plans.

  But it would only work if he'd managed to use the years of knowing Indians and living with them to second-guess Crazy Horse and sit there waiting for the ambush. If it didn't come then... well, that was a bridge that could be crossed when, if, the time came.

  He'd checked the patrol, holding up his hand as a signal to top, reining in and looking all around. The hill was to the flank, about two hundred and fifty paces to their right.

  Ahead of them ran a valley and to their left was one of the clumps of trees, around a hundred paces distant. Crow rose in the stirrups, looking back along their trail, seeking a sight of Menges and the rest of the column. All he could make out was a dust-cloud, indistinct, way back on the horizon.

  There was still no sign of the Indians attacking and Crow wondered whether he had guessed wrong. The price for guessing wrong was about as high as it could be.

  'Sir?'

  'What is it, Cantwell?'

  Thought I saw something, Sir.'

  'Where?'

  'There,' pointing to the trees to their left. 'Thought I saw a glint of something.'

  Crow felt his pulse speed up a little, the palms of his hands suddenly moist with sweat. It could be. There wasn't enough room there for too many braves but they could be the bait. Or the shepherds, driving the small patrol towards the main band.

  'See it now?'

  The soldier shook his head. 'No, Sir. Maybe it was the sun off a bit of quartz. Something like that.'

  'Maybe. Keep alert. Come on, Baxter. Let's have another verse of that hymn.'

  The soldier nodded, wiping perspiration from his forehead with his yellow bandana.

  'Soon we'll reach the shining river,

  Soon our pilgrimage will cease,

  And our happy hearts will quiver,

  With the happy...

  The forty-five-seventy bullet from a captured Springfield carbine hit him in the middle of the chest, kicking him out of the saddle, leaving him dying in the grass.

  Chapter Ten

  Crow saw the white puff of smoke from the rifle. Saw the bullet as it penetrated deep in the soldier's chest. The gout of blood from the light blue shirt. Bright red arterial blood that meant Baxter would be dead within a minute or two and nothing to be done to help his quick passing.

  'Follow me!!' he yelled, digging his spurs deep into his horse's flanks, making it whinny with pain and shock as it leaped forwards, a vicious tug on the reins bringing it round towards the rocky knoll.

  Quick as Crow was, the attacking Sioux were almost too fast for him, whooping out from the cover of the trees, firing as they came. Bullets buzzing around the ears of the fleeing pony soldiers. There was time during the frantic gallop for Crow to glance back and see that every one of the dozen or so warriors was armed with a rifle. The defeat of Menges and his men was costly. Not just at the time but in the harm that those captured arms would do. He figured that Crazy Horse would have set up his best shots and best riders among the trees, in the hope of surprising the whites and catching them out in the open.

  That was the big flaw of Menges' plan. The Indians would not be worried about luring such a small party into a big ambush. Not when they could take them in a simple straight fight. It was a myth that the Indians shirked an ordinary battle like this. Custer had said they would never stand and fight. If he ever tested his idea against a large enough body of hostiles Crow knew the boy general could get the nastiest shock of his illustrious career.

  'Faster!!' he shouted, seeing that a couple of the Troopers were slow off the mark. Among the thundering of the hooves and the screams and shots of the Indians it was difficult to hear but he heard one shout something about saving Baxter. 'Leave him you stupid bastard!! He's dead as a beaver hat!'

  Courage was all very well, but Crow believed that didn't run as far as endangering his own life. Looking back over his shoulder he saw both Troopers toppled from their saddles by some good shooting from the Sioux, closing in on them and still firing at only twenty or so paces.

  But the rest of them, eight in all, made it to the bottom of the rock..

  Led by Crow they heeled their horses up the sloping flank of the knoll in among the scattered boulders that sprinkled the side and top. They quickly dismounted and two of them took the reins of the mounts, while the others began to fire on the attacking Indians. It was, as Crow had hoped, a perfect defensive position.

  After the first flurry of shots, that tumbled five of the Sioux from the backs of their ponies, Crow called for a ceasefire from his men.

  'We have enough ammunition here to hold them off for a long while.' he called. 'But guard it. Shoot only when we are threatened. Don't let them tempt us into wasting bullets by false charges. Fire only on my command.'

  For the time being they were safe.

  The disappointed braves knew better than to try and attack them. The soldiers had good cover and could move safely about the outcrop without exposing themselves to the fire of their enemies. And they had enough food and water to keep the Indians off for at least two or three days unless Crazy Horse appeared with massive reinforcements and simply rode over them.

  Crow climbed cautiously to the very top of the hill, wishing that he had carried glasses with him so that he could better make out what was happening with the main column. But his sight was far more sharp than most white men and he could see that Menges had checked. They must have heard the sound of shooting and seen the powder smoke. But he wasn't moving. As Crow had known he wouldn't. The Captain was going to sit out there, thinking that Crow would soon be wiped out. If he'd bothered to scout that area himself he'd have known about the hill.

  And would have known that Crow might have made it safely.

  It was a stand-off.

  The Sioux couldn't get at the trapped cavalry-men. And Menges wasn't going to come riding in to the rescue.

  Which meant the ball wasn't really in anyone's court.

  * * *

  By four that afternoon, two more of Crow's command had been killed. One by a lucky shot as he moved to try and find better cover. The bullet hitting him through the temple, blowing away most of the back of his skull, splashing blood and brains all over the grey boulder behind him. The second was killed by a warrior who appeared to be in charge of the circling war-party.

  Frustrated by the soldiers killing around eight of his men, the chief kicked his pony forwards, swinging down over its neck to try and protect himself from the hail of bullets that the cavalry-men poured at him. Crow was in the middle of reloading his own rifle when he heard a yell of panic and looked up. seeing the Sioux already halfway up the side of the hill, waving his spear and calling encouragement to the rest of the band to follow him.

  'Waste the red son of a bitch!' yelled Trooper Stotter, frantically snapping off three shots at the Indian, none of them hitting him. Then the brave was on top of him, the spear thrusting down and in.

  Stotter made a despairing effort to parry the blow with the stock of his rifle, but the Indian was too quick for him. Crow was the only white man on that part of the hill, the others scattered behind cover, shooting at the remainder of the Indian war-party, beating them back from following their leader's example.

  He was tall for an Oglala, coming close to six feet, painted for war, with a bonnet of eagle's feathers that rippled in the wind of his charge, yelping a war-cry as he rammed the point of the long spear into Stotter's body, ripping between his ribs, bursti
ng the muscular walls of the Trooper's heart. But the soldier was, in some ways, more successful in dying than he had been in living. As Stotter fell backwards, his body twisted, wrenching the shaft of the spear from the brave's hands. The point was lodged between two ribs, and it resisted the efforts of the Indian to tug it free.

  Crow saw it all happen.

  Saw the soldier falling away, with the long shaft of the spear swinging from his body like a great pendulum, blood fountaining from his heart, arms sprawling wide like a man being crucified.

  Saw the Oglala war-chief leap down from the back of his pony with an easy grace, drawing the long hunting knife from the leather belt. Running towards the officer, lips drawn back from his teeth in a snarl of feral anger and hatred.

  On an impulse Crow left the sawn-down Purdey in its holster and drew the heavy saber, whirling it from the sheath in a hissing arc of gleaming death.

  The blade clashed against the knife, sending a shower of sparks flaring from the impact. There was a loud ringing noise and the Indian dived sideways, trying to soften the impact. But the Cavalry saber was a devastating weapon. Useless for the finesse of delicate fencing, but ideal for hacking through an opponent at close quarters.

  Crow had immensely strong wrists and he heaved the saber around, cutting back at the crouching figure of the Oglala warrior, hitting him across the upper thigh. Slicing through leggings, skin, flesh and muscle, the steel jarring on the femur. Blood splattered on the boulders around them and the Indian fell backwards with a cry of agony, dropping the knife. Crow heard it tinkling among the rocks and knew that he had won, stepping in, sidling like a crab, left foot forwards, almost like a Japanese samurai swordsman. Blade high up, poised on his left shoulder, ready for another backhanded cut.

  The Indian scrabbled on his back, kicking out at Crow with his unwounded leg, head turning as he looked for some way of saving his life. But there wasn't anything that could deflect Crow, towering above him like the grimmest of reapers. As he shuffled in after the chief, he noticed that the Indian wore several bloody scalps from his belt, dangling across his groin as he moved. Scalps dark with dried blood.

  But there wasn't time to think about them. There was just the time of killing.

  The saber started to move, feinting at the brave's belly, bringing down the protecting hands. Then tearing upwards, hitting the Oglala warrior at the side of the neck, just below the right ear. The carotid artery was torn in two, blood jetting up and out, pumped out by the heart.

  The edge sharp enough and the arm strong enough behind it to sever the head from the shoulders in that one dreadful blow, the skull bouncing off to the side, mouth and eyes open. Sand and dirt clogging in the sockets of the brown eyes and the teeth splintering to white bone as the head rolled across the rocks.

  Cantwell stood up behind one of the massive grey boulders and waved his pistol, cheering the Lieutenant.

  'Teach the bastards a lesson, that. Teach them... Aaaarrrrgggghhh!!!!'

  The bullet hit him in the mouth, pulping his tongue to bloody rags of flesh, breaking through his remaining teeth like a hammer through glass, angling upwards towards his brain, lodging behind his eyes, forcing one half out of its socket, making him scream in tortured agony, hands trying to press his eye back in. Toppling on his side, legs kicking as he screamed and screamed, like a baby in a tantrum. It was an awful noise and Crow was relieved when the lead in the Trooper's brain finally took its effect and quietened him.

  Forever.

  Despite the excellence of their cover, Crow's small force had been whittled down to five. Including himself. What he didn't understand was why the rest of Crazy Horse's strength hadn't been employed in the attack.

  There was little sign of movement from Menges and the main body of the Cavalry. True they had closed in a little and were now barely a quarter mile off.

  'I suspected the presence of a hostile ambush and so decided to protect the bulk of my men. It was with the greatest regret that I was unable to do anything to aid the gallant Lieutenant Crow and his patrol, though I suspect that his own foolhardiness had doomed them all before I even appeared on the scene.'

  Yeah! That was how it would go in Captain Menges's report after the action was over and what remained of Crow and the others had been retrieved for burial.

  The circling Oglala had held off for some minutes now, contenting themselves with an occasional shot from a long and safe way off. The corpses of more than a dozen of their brothers lay rotting in the heat of the Dakota afternoon.

  'Keep watching, men!' shouted Crow to his surviving soldiers. 'They might wait until dusk and then try and sneak in on... My sweet Lord! Look at that.'

  'What is it, Sir?' shouted one of the Troopers, lower down the hill. Unable to see as far or as well as Crow right up on the top of the rocks.

  It was a nice irony.

  And though it probably spelled the end for him as well, Crow couldn't resist a laugh at what he saw.

  Far behind him. Back in the criss-crossing maze of draws and grassy valleys that lay between Menges and the safety of their camp-site. Coming up like specks of dust in a tornado.

  'Sioux!' Even the soldiers lower down could see the Indians, lining up behind Menges. And from the lack of movement among the main part of the patrol, Crow guessed that there wasn't a single man with his face turned to the rear.

  It was the Sioux. Hundreds of them. Crazy Horse had been cautious, eager to avoid a trap for himself. Not believing that one party of white men could simply stand by and watch their comrades surrounded and worn down. He must have led the war-party out of sight of the white-eyes until it was safe to bring them up from cover.

  Even as Crow and his small band watched they saw a near-panic break out among the main part of the patrol There were men leaping on their horses and others falling off them. With his exceptionally keen sight Crow was able to make out the giant figure of Sergeant McLaglen trying to turn the wagon. Menges was somewhere in the middle of the milling mob of soldiers and quickly vanished into the trampled cloud of dust.

  If he had been in command of the others, Crow would have led them in a straight charge at the Indians before they had been given enough time to assemble in a proper line of battle. But Menges delayed. Fatally long, enabling Crazy Horse to draw up his braves in a more solid block and deny them the chance of spurring through to safety.

  That avenue was closed, leaving the soldiers only one other chance. To charge at the full gallop towards the small peak of rock where Crow held out. And if they made it then the survivors would be able to keep off the Sioux until they got tired and returned to their lodges.

  And that was how it happened.

  But the price of achieving that safety was awesomely high.

  Out of the total command only Menges and nine Troopers reached the safety of the rocky hill, covered by firing from Crow and his surviving soldiers. The Sioux, on their speedy little ponies, had a running start at the white-eyes soldiers, cutting in among them as if the Cavalry were a blundering herd of great plains buffalo, firing arrows into the helpless men. Picking them off like fish in a barrel. The soldiers were thrown into panic. A panic that was only worsened by Menges lighting off on his own, leaving the rest of them to follow on as best they could. For many of them, that meant never.

  McLaglen had been blasted down as he tried to get the wagon moving with the sick and wounded. Despite the clouds of sand kicked up by the hooves of the horses.

  Crow had seen the end of that small drama. The mounted Sioux and their brothers from a dozen other tribes and sub-tribes, circling the wagon, whooping their glee as first the veteran Sergeant and then the Trooper driving the rig were picked off, bristling with arrows. The horses were spared and braves leaped aboard the wagon to slaughter the wounded men.

  It was a disaster.

  Menges ignored Crow when he arrived at the hill, kicking his way off his mount and nearly falling, stumbling towards the safety of the rocks. Letting his horse go, committing one of the c
ardinal sins for a soldier in the United States Cavalry. Cowering behind a boulder, huddled down low, not even drawing his gun to give cover to the pitifully few Troopers that struggled in.

  Crow noticed that among them was Trooper Simpson, following the example of his Commanding Officer and looking only after himself, ignoring the chance of aiding a fallen comrade. Crow would have shot him down had he not been reloading at that moment.

  Once there was a final total of fifteen men on the hill, the Indians withdrew for a time, not prepared to face the withering fire that could be poured into them from the safety of the boulders. Crazy Horse himself finally appeared and rode out in clear sight with a handful of the older warriors, sitting their ponies just beyond carbine range, looking towards the hill as if they were waiting for something. Crow watched them for a minute or more, then, acting on an impulse, he stood up, showing himself to them.

  It was what they had wanted.

  First Crazy Horse and then the rest of the group raised their rifles over their heads, and the watching soldiers heard them give a cry. A guttural shout, lifting the guns and then lowering them, as if in a token of salute to Crow. Then with Crazy Horse leading, they filed away towards the draw where the main part of the Indian forces waited, vanishing out of sight. There was a long pause.

  And then they reappeared. Still moving away.

  'Jesus Christ!!' called a Trooper kneeling behind a rock close to Crow. 'They saw you, Sir, and them sons of yellow bitches are just fuckin' off away.'

  It was true. They were withdrawing, in a long straggling mass of movement, shrouded in the grey dust of the plains. Moving away towards the north and west. Leaving the grass of the Dakota Territory.

  ίWhere are they goin', Sir?' asked the soldier.

  'There's hunting grounds away west,' replied Crow. 'In Montana round the Bozeman Trail Past Powder River. Tongue River. Rosebud Creek. Out towards the Big Horn.'

  When Menges ordered them all to assemble at the foot of the hill he was white-faced and trembling. He had been vomiting and his uniform was dappled with yellow bile, threads of it dangling from the stubble on his chin.