“General,” Tom said. “Shouldn’t we leave Colonel MacCallister with Reno?”
“Why?” Custer asked.
“Reno has never fought the Indians before. I have a feeling MacCallister has.”
Custer looked at Falcon for a moment; then he nodded. “Tom’s right,” he said. “You’ll probably be more helpful with Reno. Do you mind?”
“You are in command, General,” Falcon said. “I go where you send me.”
Falcon started to turn away, but Tom called out to him.
“Wait a moment, will you?”
Falcon stopped until Tom caught up with him.
“Tell Lorena,” Tom started. “Tell her I think it would have worked.”
“Tom, if you don’t want this situation to get any more serious, shouldn’t you tell her that yourself?”
Tom’s response was a rather melancholy smile. He stuck his hand out in offer of a handshake. Falcon took it.
“When you see me at Fiddler’s Green, the first drink is on me,” Tom said.
Chapter Twenty-two
June 25, 1876
Little Bighorn River
Reno’s total force consisted of 134 officers and men and sixteen scouts. His battalion was just crossing the river when Falcon rejoined him. As the horses crossed, they stuck their muzzles down into the water, drinking briefly. Seeing the horses drink this water with obvious enjoyment, after having refused to drink the water back at Ash Creek, Falcon poured his brackish water out and refilled his canteen, dragging it through the water as he came across.
Once Reno reached the other side, he formed his troops in a battalion-front formation, then sat there for a long, silent moment.
“Custer did say he would support me, didn’t he?” Reno asked Falcon.
“Yes,” Falcon replied.
Reno looked down the long line of his soldiers. Not more than one in three had ever heard a shot fired in anger. And though Reno had a sterling Civil War record, this would be his first engagement against the Indians.
The expressions on the faces of the men ranged from eagerness to determined to apprehensive to the verge of panic, but all sat their saddles, waiting for the order to be given.
Reno raised his right hand high, held it for a moment, then brought it down sharply.
“Charge!” he yelled.
They galloped, in battalion-front, galloping down the valley at a pace that was faster than many of the younger soldiers had ever ridden a horse. Ahead of each company, within the battalion front, rode the commanding officer of that company, along with the trumpeter and guidon bearer.
The trumpeters had been forced to be quiet for the last two days. But now they blared out the clarion call of charge, each call louder than the other as they competed, not only against each other, but also against the drumming sound of the hoofbeats of well over one hundred galloping horses.
Ahead of them, Falcon saw warriors coming out of the village, afoot and on horseback, preparing to meet the charge. But instead of closing the distance toward the charging soldiers, they began riding back and forth, raising a great cloud of dust. As Falcon saw this, he realized the dust wasn’t incidental. They were raising the dust cloud on purpose. They were trying to mask something.
Squinting his eyes, Falcon peered through the dust and as he did so, he saw a small ravine in which hundreds of warriors were waiting for them.
“Reno!” Falcon shouted, pointing. “Look there!”
“Battalion, halt!” Reno shouted, holding his hand up.
“Major, no, we can’t halt here!” Falcon said. “We have to carry through the attack!”
One soldier, unable to control his horse, shouted in fear as his mount dashed ahead of the others, heading straight for the Indians.
“George! George, get back here!” some of the other soldiers called, but try though he did, the cavalryman couldn’t bring his horse around.
As he came even with the Indians, several leaped out of the ravine and ran toward him. He was knocked off the horse. Then the Indians gathered around him, then began clubbing him. His panicked cries ended instantly.
“Dismount!” Reno said. “Horse holders, retire to the timber over there. The rest of you, form a skirmish line!” By doing that, Reno had immediately reduced the strength of his force by one fourth. And the soldiers remaining, no more than about eighty, could stand no closer than about ten feet apart.
Falcon dismounted with the others, and stood alongside Dorman as they waited.
“I don’t think we should’a stopped,” Dorman said.
“No, we shouldn’t have,” Falcon agreed. “We’re on the defensive now. A cavalry unit should never be on the defensive.”
Some of the soldiers began firing, even though the Indians were too far out of range for the shooting to be effective.
“Stop shooting!” some of the sergeants yelled. “You’re just wasting ammunition!”
Hundreds of Indians started rushing toward the little thin line of defenders, the roar of their weapons interspersed with their war whoops and shouts. The soldiers were returning fire as rapidly as possible, but as they were using single-shot weapons, they had to extract the empty shell casings and replace them with new cartridges between each shot. To facilitate this, most were holding extra rounds in their hands, and sometimes as they tried to load, they would drop the shells, then have to bend over to search frantically for them on the ground. A few were clawing desperately to extract the empty shell casings from the chambers.
Reno shouted over to Falcon. “What do you think of this?”
“I suggest we get into those trees,” Falcon said, pointing to a thicket about sixty feet to their left.
“I agree,” Reno called back. He was about to give the order to mount, when a bullet hit Bloody Knife right between the eyes. Blood, and a bit of Bloody Knife’s brain detritus, flew into Reno’s face, and because his mouth was open preparatory to giving the command, some of it went into his mouth.
“Ahhh!” Reno shouted in revulsion. He began spitting. “Mount!” he shouted.
The order to mount was spread down the line, and the horse holders brought up the horses.
“Dismount!” Reno ordered, even as he was mounting his own horse.
Some of the soldiers were mounting in response to his first order; then some began to dismount in response to his second order.
“Reno is panicked,” Dorman said. “He needs to—uhnn!”
Dorman was hit in the stomach and he fell to the ground. Falcon knelt beside him.
“Get out of here, Falcon!” Dorman said.
“I’m not going to leave you here,” Falcon said.
“Retreat!” Reno shouted, spurring his horse back toward the river. The others galloped after him.
“Go!” Dorman said. “Get out of here!”
“If I get you on your horse, do you think you can hold on?” Falcon asked.
By now the bullets were whistling by as the Indians continued to advance. They were now within one hundred yards.
“I can try,” Dorman said.
There was only one horse left, but Falcon managed to grab its reins, and he lifted Dorman into the saddle, then slapped the horse on its rump. The horse started toward the river, but got no more than about ten feet when Dorman was hit a second time. Dorman stayed in the saddle for another fifty feet or so, then fell. The horse, riderless now, continued to gallop away, leaving Dorman on the ground and Falcon afoot.
As the Indians swooped down on Falcon, he pulled his pistol and shot two of them. The others swerved around him and continued on toward the retreating soldiers.
Falcon’s first thought was to run toward the river, but he knew that in order to do so, he would have to run right through the middle of the attacking Indians. That left him no choice but to run into the little thicket that had anchored the left side of Reno’s original skirmish line.
“MacCallister, over here!” someone called, and running to the sound of the voice, Falcon jumped down into a sha
llow depression. There, he saw Lieutenant DeRudio and one of the sergeants.
“Is Dorman dead?” DeRudio asked.
“I don’t know,” MacCallister admitted. “But right now it’s too hot out there to check it out.”
“Colonel MacCallister, I’ve never met you, I’m Sergeant Tom O’Neil,” the sergeant said, sticking out his hand.
Falcon chuckled as he took the sergeant’s hand.
“What’s so funny?” DeRudio asked.
“I don’t know. Here we are, the sergeant and I, shaking hands like we were just meeting on a downtown street in Denver,” Falcon replied. “It just strikes me as funny.”
O’Neil laughed as well. “Yeah,” he said. “I see what you mean.”
The sound of gunfire continued to come from the river, rolling back across the half mile or so of flat ground between Falcon and the river.
Falcon could see the Indians riding back and forth on the bank, pouring fire into the retreating soldiers. Benny Hodgson’s horse was shot from under him, and the young lieutenant leaped into the water. One of the soldiers came back and extended the stirrup of his horse to Hodgson and, by holding onto the stirrup, Hodgson was pulled quickly across the stream.
“Good man,” Falcon said, talking about the trooper who had come back for Hodgson. But when they reached the other side and Hodgson let go of the stirrup and tried to climb up out of the creek, he was shot.
“Damn,” DeRudio said. “They got Benny.”
The Indians continued to ride up and down the bank of the river, but at that precise moment, Benteen arrived with his troops and they immediately joined into the battle, providing enough additional firepower to keep the Indians from crossing the river.
The warriors, frustrated because they were unable to cross the river, rode back and forth on this side, sometimes firing across at Reno’s troops, and sometimes just galloping up and down shouting and screaming. With the Indians keeping Reno, Benteen, and their men penned down, several Indian women began streaming out of the village. As they came across their own dead, and Falcon was surprise at how many of the Indians had been killed, they knelt beside them, screaming and crying.
Then, they turned their fury toward the dead soldiers, stripping them and mutilating them. They seemed to have a particular hatred for Dorman and they stripped him, bashed in his head, carved out his heart, and cut off his privates.
“I hope he was dead when they started in on him,” O’Neil said.
“He must have been,” DeRudio said. “He didn’t make a sound.”
“He wouldn’t have anyway,” Falcon said.
Falcon lay in the little ravine with the others for the rest of the day.
“What if they come after us?” O’Neil asked. “We sure can’t hold them off.”
“No, but if they do, we will kill as many of the heathen devils as we can,” DeRudio said.
“Find a couple more positions,” Falcon suggested. “If they come toward us, fire, then move, and fire, then move, and fire again. Maybe we can make them think there are more of us here.”
“Good idea,” DeRudio said. “Let’s look around, pick out second and third positions.”
The carefully conceived plan wasn’t needed, becaise darkness moved in and the river could no longer be seen.
“If we are ever going to get out of here, now is the time,” Falcon said.
“I agree, “DeRudio said.
It was slightly overcast, and the moon was but a thin crescent, so when they moved out of the thicket, they were able to use the darkness to cover their movement. They couldn’t see the river from there, but they were able to find their way easily by following the trail left by dead bodies: Indians, soldiers, and horses.
“DeRudio, there’s a party of Indians coming toward us,” Falcon whispered.
“Get down,” DeRudio ordered.
“No, wait,” Falcon said. “There are only eight of them, and if they do come toward us, we’ll have the advantage, because I don’t think they see us. Stop moving, pull your pistols, and wait.”
Following Falcon’s suggestion, the three men held their pistols at ready, but they weren’t needed. The Indians veered away before they reached them.
Once the Indians disappeared into the night, the three men continued their approach to the river.
“O’Neil, climb into the water,” DeRudio said. “See how deep it is.”
“Give me your hand and hang on to me as you go in,” Falcon said.
O’Neil got into the water, but it was neck deep there, and the current was so swift that it nearly swept the sergeant off his feet. Falcon pulled him out.
“It wasn’t this deep where we rode across,” DeRudio said. “We can’t cross here.”
“Wait,” O’Neil said. “Lieutenant, I’ve got to have a drink of water. My throat is so dry I’m dying.”
“Good idea,” DeRudio said, and he and O’Neil lay down to drink from the water. Falcon, who had a full canteen, drank from it, and kept watch while the others slaked their own thirst.
Moving downstream, they found a place where they could cross and, plunging into the water, they worked their way to the other side. But when they came ashore, they discovered they were on an island, and, in the dim glow of moonlight, saw that the other side was a high, steep bluff that would be impossible to climb.
“Now what?” DeRudio asked in frustration.
“We’re on an island,” Falcon said. “I think that means we’ll be safe for the night. Let’s wait until it lightens up enough to see what we are doing. And to let the troops see us,” he added. “I wouldn’t want to escape the Indians, only to be shot by our own men.”
“Good point,” DeRudio said.
The three men waited through the night. Then, in the lighter gray of predawn, they saw a body of men riding down the bank on the opposite side. They were in uniform and the one in front was wearing a buckskin jacket.
“That’s our men!” O’Neil shouted.
“Yes, that’s Tom Custer,” DeRudio said. “Tom!” he called. “Tom Custer! Over here!”
The riders stopped and looked toward O’Neil’s voice. Then, suddenly they all began shooting, the bullets frying the air and cutting through the bushes. They were Sioux, wearing uniforms they had stripped from dead soldiers.
Falcon knew, at that moment, that Tom Custer was dead, and the fact that some Indian was wearing his tunic probably meant that General Custer was dead as well, for he would never have abandoned his brother.
None of the bullets fired by the Indians hit either Falcon, O’Neil, or DeRudio, and fortunately, none of the Indians came into the water after them.
The three men ran to the other side of the island, stooping over so low that they were concealed by the grass. But just as they reached the other side, they ran into a party of six mounted Indians. The sudden appearance of Falcon and the other two startled the Indian ponies, and they reared and bucked, causing two of the Indians to fall off. Those Indians ran toward the river. The other Indians fired, but because their horses were milling about, their shooting was inaccurate. Falcon, DeRudio, and O’Neil opened up on them. Falcon got two, DeRudio and O’Neil got one each.
“If we’re going to go, we need to go now!” Falcon shouted, and leading the way, he plunged into the river and worked his way to the far bank with O’Neil and DeRudio behind him.
“Who goes there?” a voice called, when they reached the other side.
“Lieutenant DeRudio, Sergeant O’Neil, and Colonel MacCallister,” DeRudio called.
“MacCallister, it’s me, Varnum. This way,” another voice called.
Going toward Varnum, the three were once again reunited with the rest of the battalion.*
June 26, 1876
Reno’s redoubt
Until noon, the Sioux tried to take Reno’s position, but they were beaten back with heavy losses every time. During the fighting, Falcon and Benteen moved back and forth along the line, exposing themselves to Indian fire while inspiring the tr
oops and, when necessary, supplying a little addition firepower on their own.
Reno had taken up a position behind a breastwork constructed from some of the packs. Once, he called out to Falcon.
“I’m convinced that Custer has gone on to effect his juncture with Terry,” Reno said when Falcon joined him. “He has abandoned us to our fate.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” Falcon said. “It could be that he is like us, surrounded and unable to break out.”
Falcon didn’t share with Benteen his suspicion that, not only was Custer’s battalion surrounded, but that Custer himself might be dead.
“You saw what happened when Weir tried to go to him. He was pushed back,” Falcon said.
“Yes, I saw. But I do think Custer has joined with Terry.”
“If so, that would be a good thing,” Falcon said. “The combined troops could come to our relief.”
“Why didn’t Custer support me as he said he would?”
“Only he can answer that.”
“I think we should leave,” Reno said.
“Leave? We can’t leave. For one thing, we have too many wounded. They would slow us down.”
“We can leave our wounded,” Reno said. “I don’t want to do it, but we may have to sacrifice the few to save the many.”
“Reno, you don’t mean that,” Falcon said.
Reno took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair, then sighing, he pinched his nose.
“No,” he said. “I don’t mean that. I don’t know what got into me for saying that. I’m sorry, please forgive me.”
Falcon put his hand on Reno’s shoulder. “There is nothing to forgive,” he said. “It has been a rough twenty-four hours.”
“Major!” someone shouted. “Look!”
Looking in the direction pointed to by the trooper, Falcon saw that the Indians had set fire to the prairie grass.
“God in Heaven, they are going to burn us out!” one of the troopers shouted in fear.
“No they ain’t, Johnny,” another soldier said. “As long as that fire is on the other side of the river from us, it can’t hurt us.”
Bloodshed of Eagles Page 21
