Ride to Valor

by David Robbins

  The heat, the pounding of hooves, the dust and the sweat, the whoops of their pursuers, James experienced it all with acute clarity, as if his senses were somehow sharper.

  A cry drew his gaze.

  Lieutenant Myers’s horse had stopped. He was hitting it and kicking it, but it was spent, its head drooping low. He yelled for the three troopers to stop, but either they didn’t hear him or they pretended they didn’t. Myers shifted in the saddle. The hostiles would soon reach him. He did an incredible thing. He calmly dismounted and faced them. Raising his revolver, he took aim and fired, shot after methodical shot. And he scored, too. Several warriors fell headlong. Myers emptied his sixshooter and was reaching for his Spencer when a wave of red avengers crashed over him. One moment he was straight and proud; the next he was down, riddled with arrows.

  “God,” James said.

  The hostiles didn’t slow. In their fevered hatred a few let arrows fly too soon and the shafts fell short.

  James gauged the distance to the woods and the rapidly lessening distance between the Indians and his men and came to a disheartening conclusion. Shifting, he shouted, “We won’t make it! We have to make a stand!” He drew rein, unsure if any of them had heard or if they did they would stop, but when he did, they did. Swiftly, they dismounted.

  James didn’t know a lot about military tactics. But he did know that their Spencer carbines, with their rapid rate of fire, were the only hope they had. He had three men hold the horses while the rest formed into two rows, the first row on one knee, the second standing.

  The troopers who had been with Lieutenant Myers galloped up and swung down. They didn’t say a word and scrambled to obey as James ordered them to take positions.

  The hostiles were coming on fast.

  James called out for the troopers to load and aim and prepare to fire. “At my command!” he bawled, and raised his arm overhead. An odd calm came over him. He supposed he should be filled with fear, but he wasn’t. And then there was no time for thought, no time for anything save action.

  The Indians were on them.

  35

  Sergeant Heston had once mentioned that a skilled soldier could fire a Spencer twenty times in a minute. None of the troopers with James, though, was very skilled. Still, while he had never amounted to much at arithmetic, he guessed that with sixteen Spencers, in one minute his men could fire hundreds of rounds.

  “Wait for me to say!” James instructed. Every shot must tell.

  The warriors were as blind to their peril as Lieutenant Myers had been to his. Or maybe they were used to the army using single-shot rifles and didn’t consider James and his men much of a threat.

  James let them get so close he could see each dab and streak of war paint. “By rows!” he hollered, and slashing his hand down, he bellowed, “First row, fire!” Eight Spencers crashed in unison. “Reload!” he shouted. “Second row, fire!” Another crash of carbines, and more lead tore into the hostiles. “First row, fire!” He paused. “Second row, fire!”

  Indians were down. Horses were down. Others broke right and left, but still arrows streaked and their rifles boomed.

  A trooper clutched his chest and fell.

  “First row, fire! Second row, fire!”

  More hostiles reeled or pitched headlong. Their front ranks had been decimated and confusion was rampant. The blistering storm of lead was unexpected, and devastating.

  Wiser heads sought refuge or escape.

  Another soldier dropped.

  “Front row, fire! Back row, fire!”

  Between the gun smoke and the dust, it was growing impossible to see. Horses whinnied and plunged. A warrior on foot came running out of the clouds with his tomahawk raised.

  Quick as thought, James shot him.

  A painted horse flew past their lines.

  “Front row, fire! Back row, fire!”

  A cacophony of chaos and death arose, a din so clamorous it hurt the ears.

  Then, abruptly, the war whoops ended, the squeals and hoofbeats faded.

  James sent two more volleys into the smoke and dust and only then gave the order to cease fire. In the sudden quiet his ears rang. His nose stung from all the smoke and his throat was raw. He worked his Spencer’s lever.

  The men had their rifles ready to shoot. “Where’d they get to?” a trooper breathlessly asked.

  James advanced, swatting at the smoke. He couldn’t see more than a few yards. He did hear horses, moving away.

  “Do we go after them, sir?” a soldier asked.

  Despite the circumstances, James smothered a grin. It was the first time anyone had called him “sir.” “We do not, Private. We stay right where we are.” Until he was sure the hostiles were gone and they were safe.

  But not a minute later a bugle’s clarion notes pealed, and out of the woods streamed D Troop.

  “They heard the shots and are coming to our rescue!” a man cried for joy.

  “A little late,” another said.

  “Hush, men,” James commanded. He was on the lookout for the hostiles. The breeze gusted, thinning the smoke, and he beheld the slaughter he had caused. A dozen horses and almost as many hostiles lay in spreading scarlet pools. Several of the horses were alive and thrashing. None of the Indians moved.

  James turned as Captain Pemberton brought D Troop to a halt. Pemberton took in them and their foes with an expression of both relief and incredulity. He dismounted, as did Lieutenant Finch and Sergeant Heston.

  “What happened here?” Pemberton demanded. “I told Lieutenant Myers not to engage the enemy. Where is he?” He looked around.

  James had to clear his throat to speak. “We were ambushed, sir. The lieutenant was the first to fall.” He glanced at the others and some of them nodded or smiled in understanding.

  “His body is out there a ways.” James pointed.

  “Then you rallied the men and made a stand on your own initiative?”

  “On my own what, sir?”

  “You did this on your own,” Captain Pemberton said.

  “Yes, sir,” James replied. “I couldn’t think of anything else to do.”

  Pemberton glanced at Finch and Finch smiled and shook his head.

  Sergeant Heston had gone to the troopers who were down and was examining them. “Two dead here, sir.”

  “Counting Myers, that makes three.”

  “I make it to be fourteen hostiles accounted for,” Lieutenant Finch said. He rose onto his toes and shielded his eyes from the sun. “With more off yonder.”

  Captain Pemberton turned to James. “Do you have any idea what you’ve accomplished here?”

  “We stayed alive,” James said.

  FOREVER THE WEST

  36

  Seven years had gone by since the Battle of the Bluffs, as the fight became known.

  Second Lieutenant James Doyle studied his reflection in the mirror. His hair was cropped closer than on that fateful day. He had filled out more, but none of it was fat. He adjusted his hat and rested his hand on the flapped holster to his Colt single-action Army revolver, standard issue since 1874. The Dyer cartridge pouch on his prairie belt held forty cartridges. In addition, there were loops filled with cartridges for his Springfield carbine, which had replaced the Spencer.

  Satisfied he would pass muster, James emerged from the bedroom. Their living quarters were small but included a parlor and a kitchen.

  Peggy was chopping carrots and humming.

  Quietly coming up behind her, James wrapped his arms around her waist and pecked her on the neck. “You’re awful cheerful.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Peg grinned and kissed him on the cheek. “Fort Sisseton isn’t as bad as everyone made it out to be.”

  “I was worried you wouldn’t like it.”

  “I’m the wife of a soldier,” Peg said lightheartedly. “Where my soldier goes, I go. And not just because I’m in the family way.”

  “The frontier can be hard,” James said.

  “But you
like it out here. It’s in your blood.”

  James chuckled. “That’s a strange thing to say to a boy born and bred in New York City.”

  “Maybe so,” Peg allowed, giving him another kiss. “But somewhere between there and here, you learned to love the West as much as you love me.”

  “I can’t ever care for anything as much as I care for you,” James corrected her. He meant it. He hadn’t done a lot of smart things in his life, but one of them was marrying her. The other was letting Captain Pemberton convince him to make a career of the military. He tickled her and she giggled.

  “Didn’t Colonel Maxton send for you?” Peg gave him a playful push. “You better go see what he wants. We only just got here four days ago and you shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

  Fort Sisseton was the northernmost post in Dakota Territory. Situated on a plateau known as Coteau des Prairies, it was one of half a dozen established to control hostile tribes, principally the Sioux, and to safeguard wagon routes to Montana and Idaho.

  The site had been well chosen. Thick timber provided lumber, an abundance of clay and lime allowed for the making of bricks, and a lake ensured that the soldiers would never want for water.

  James stepped out into the harsh glare of the Dakota sun. Summers here were as hot as on the Kansas prairie. He crossed the parade ground and entered headquarters. The orderly admitted him.

  Colonel Maxton wasn’t the ideal image of a cavalry officer; he was short and portly and balding. But during the Civil War he’d served competently. Later he was assigned to the frontier.

  By his own request, James had heard.

  “Have a seat, Lieutenant Doyle.” Maxton gestured. “We have a lot to discuss and you might as well be comfortable.”

  “Thank you, sir,” James said as he sank down.

  Colonel Maxton tapped papers on his desk. “I’ve been reading your file. Quite the rise you’ve had. The commendations. The medal. And then your appointment to West Point. Apparently a Captain Pemberton had a hand in that. He even got your congressman involved. You graduated thirty-fourth in a class of seventy-six, I believe.” Maxton consulted the file. “Yes. That’s it. As I say, quite the rise.”

  James shrugged. “I was lucky, sir.”

  “To the contrary, Lieutenant,” Maxton said. “You pulled yourself up by your bootstraps and made something of yourself. No one did it for you. Oh, you had help getting into the academy, but graduating was your doing. Then there’s your experience fighting hostiles. You were the acknowledged hero of the Battle of the Bluffs. It says so right here.”

  “Others were just as heroic.”

  “Why diminish yourself?” Colonel Maxton asked. “Humility is well and good in a parson, but you’re a military man.”

  James said nothing.

  “No one ever advanced their career by being humble, Lieutenant. Be forthright. Be bold. I expect that of my men, especially my officers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This post is no place for the timid. The Sioux and the Cheyenne and other tribes are far from contained. At this very moment General Terry and General Custer are out in the field on a campaign to blunt these Indian uprisings once and for all.”

  “I hope they succeed, sir.”

  “As do I, Lieutenant,” Colonel Maxton said. “Because if they don’t there will be hell to pay.”

  37

  There was hell to pay.

  Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer and five of the seven companies of the Seventh Cavalry were wiped out. The overwhelming force of Cheyenne, Lakota, and others tried to do the same to what was left of Custer’s command, who were entrenched on high bluffs. Given time they might have succeeded. But word reached them of more bluecoats converging on the Greasy Grass River where they were camped and they hastily tore down their lodges and fled.

  James was stunned by the news. He never met Custer. He’d heard about him. Everyone had. Custer was famous not only for his daring during the Civil War but for his flamboyant nature, dashing good looks, and his recent political battle with President Ulysses S. Grant. Custer testified against Grant’s brother and a friend of the president’s in a scandal involving payoffs, and Grant tried to ruin him. Ironically, Custer had to practically beg to join the very campaign that witnessed his demise.

  To James the fate of the Seventh was added proof, not that any was needed, that once beyond the haven of a fort, a cavalryman’s life could be as quickly extinguished as the blowing out of a candle. He’d learned that lesson on the brutal plains of Kansas.

  Fort Sisseton was abuzz with the news about Custer. Public and political pressure had mounted for the army to, as a newspaper editorialized:Do something to finally end the Indian problem. For far too long our frontier has been besieged by these red heathens who refuse to give way to the advance of progress and civilization. Their stubborn and witless resistance has led to the loss of untold lives and the destruction of untold property and livestock. Enough, we say! Put an end to it! Put an end to them! Exterminate the vermin as they exterminated Custer. Americans one and all have tolerated this situation long enough. Do you hear us, President Grant? Unleash the army. Throw all the troops you must against the savages and end the red menace now and forever.

  James didn’t share the same sentiments. Not since that terrible day he fought side by side with Two Bears. He had liked Cowlick, too. Getting to know them had taught him that Indians might be different from whites but they were still people, still human beings, and not the animals they were often portrayed. It had saddened him when Lieutenant Finch found the bodies of Cowlick and Jack Shard.

  At the moment James was on his way to an officers’ call. As one of the junior officers, he took a seat at the back. He’d met all the rest and rated them as dependable men. Not a Lieutenant Myers in the bunch.

  Colonel Maxton stood at the front and cleared his throat. His hands were behind his back and his demeanor was grave.

  “Gentlemen,” he began. “You are all aware of Custer and the Little Bighorn. Custer’s death has become a lightning rod that has galvanized this nation as never before. The army is mobilizing on a scale not seen since the War Between the States. A concerted campaign is being mounted to put every last Cheyenne and every last Sioux on reservations, and to deal summarily with those who refuse.” He paused. “They will submit to our will or we will kill them dead.”

  Assent rippled among the officers.

  “While we are not directly involved, we nonetheless have an important role to play. Emboldened by the victory, bands of renegades are more active than ever. And it is our job, gentlemen, to see that the surrounding territory is spared those depredations. Accordingly we are under new orders to increase our patrols. Hostiles are to be rooted out and engaged.”

  James noticed the excitement that gleamed on many a face.

  “We are, in effect, at war. Should you encounter hostiles, you will show no mercy. Should any of them throw down their arms and surrender, then yes, disarm them and take them into custody. But otherwise you are to do to them as they did to Custer. Is that understood?”

  Maxton paused as if waiting for comments, then went on.

  “Tomorrow night will be your last night of leisure for a while. Enjoy it. The day after tomorrow all of you are going out into the field. You’ll be gone for weeks.”

  James thought of Peg and how she would take the news.

  “I don’t need to stress the danger. The Indians have been made bolder than ever by Custer’s defeat. They are out for white blood and won’t hesitate to shed yours if you give them the slightest advantage.” Maxton looked as grim as death.

  “Don’t give them that advantage.”

  38

  Peg had spread linen on the table and set out candles. She’d used her best china and not her everyday plates and bowls, and her best silverware.

  James stared at the table, wondering what the occasion was. Then it hit him. She had heard patrols were going out in the morning and she was treating him to a
special meal. “I’m home,” he announced, and sat.

  Peg came around the corner, smiling. She had on her newest dress and an apron to protect it from spills. Wiping her hands, she kissed him warmly. “How did the meeting go?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “How could I, dearest? I was here the whole while.” She retraced her steps, saying over her shoulder, “I’ll have the food out in a minute.”

  James debated whether to tell her. He decided not to. It might spoil her mood. He compromised with “There’s a lot of concern about the Indians, what with Custer’s downfall.”

  “I met his wife once,” Peg’s voice floated out. “Did I ever mention it? Libby, her name was. Every inch the lady and devoted to her husband. Much as I’m devoted to you.”

  James took a sip of water. “The Cheyenne and the Sioux did themselves no favors. They defeated Custer but will reap a bitter harvest.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The public has never been so stirred up against the red man as they are now, and when the public is stirred up, it stirs the politicians to act. Before, the policy was mainly to contain the Indians. Now I’m afraid the army will be much more ruthless.”

  Peg reappeared carrying a bowl of mashed potatoes. “Haven’t we been ruthless enough? Their villages have been attacked, their women and children killed. And don’t forget the poor Cherokees and that awful march they were forced to make.”

  James sat back. “I never realized you were so friendly toward them.”

  Peg set the bowl down. “I wouldn’t go that far. I wish we could live in peace, but we can’t.”

  James dropped the subject. “So, what else is for dinner? Or is it just potatoes?”

  “You’re about to find out.”