Wolf Mountain Moon

by Terry C. Johnston

  “I’ll drop this son of a bitch if he tries me again like that,” Kelly said.

  “He’s just wanting to count coup on them Cheyenne,” Leforge explained sheepishly. “Not do ’em no harm.”

  Donegan patted the butt of his pistol, saying, “Just keep them back and there’ll be no trouble.”

  “I don’t think you understand Injuns,” Leforge spat at Donegan.

  “I understand enough to tell you that there’ll be three Crow widows singing their mourning songs tonight if either of these boys hurt one of our prisoners.”

  By the time Kelly got turned around again so he could talk with the women, they were crying out in fear, the children wailing pitifully. Slowly the scouts continued to tighten the wide ring around their prisoners until they halted their horses just feet from the captives. This close to the Cheyenne, Old Bear leaned forward, stretching as far as he could, and slapped one of the younger women on the back of the head with his stick, singing out joyfully as he sang his war song.

  “Keep an eye on both of ’em for me, Seamus,” Kelly ordered.

  “I’ll drop the first one of ’em hurts a woman or so much as looks cross-eyed at one of them young’uns,” Seamus growled, mad enough now that he pulled his pistol and cocked it—just as Half Yellow Face whacked his coup-stick on the shoulder of the old woman who had been leading them all across the snowy prairieland.

  None of the scouts could speak Cheyenne, but they did get the old woman and the rest started off down the coulee toward the river. Kelly motioned Buffalo Horn up to the front of the march with the old woman, where the Bannock made the prisoner understand they were being taken to the soldier camp. Once there, they would be fed and have a fire for warmth, and have no reason not to feel secure.

  Donegan glared at Leforge’s Crow as he asked the Bannock, “Buffalo Horn—you tell them they’ll be safe with us?”

  “Yes. I tell.”

  “Good. If these Crow do anything to hurt our prisoners—I’ll let you have the first Crow scalp we’ll lift.”

  Morning Star was sure they were under attack the moment the first shouts were raised late in the afternoon. But as it turned out, the alarm was only a lone rider, racing a weary, lathered pony through the snow up from the bank into the outskirts of the village.*

  The horseman was howling like a wolf—that eerie warning cry. Four times he stopped, pointing his tired pony to the four winds to greet the Sacred Persons dwelling in each of the cardinal directions, and each time he howled at the top of his lungs. When he got close enough, he started to yell.

  “The soldiers are coming!”

  Women began to scream—both Lakota and Shahiyela. Children darted for their mothers. Then several of the war leaders hollered above the tumult for calm. No guns were being fired nearby. The camp guards had not raised an alarm of attack. Nothing more than a solitary rider come across the river.

  Men began to gather about the lone horseman, helping him as he pitched off his pony, all of them asking questions of the man at once. Then Little Wolf and White Bull, Crazy Horse and Black Moccasin, were there with Morning Star to confront the rider.

  Morning Star asked, “You are Big Horse?”

  “Yes,” the man gasped. “I am of Two Moon’s people.”

  The chief held out his personal pipe and said to Big Horse, “Touch my pipe, and on its honor swear that you will tell me the truth.”

  The exhausted warrior wrapped his fingers around the long stem of the pipe and said, “I swear that I will tell you the truth of what my eyes have seen.”

  Then Crazy Horse shoved his way into the group, anxious, asking, “Where are these soldiers you are yelling at us about?”

  Big Horse pointed, licking his cracked lips. “Down the river less than a half day’s ride.”

  “The Bear Coat,” Crazy Horse snarled, making it sound like a curse. “But he is coming slower than I had hoped.”

  Then Big Horse lunged for Morning Star. “They have taken prisoners!”

  Morning Star gripped Big Horse’s wrists. “P-prisoners?”

  “Our people!” Big Horse replied, and that started the women and children wailing all the more around that circle of men. “Lame White Man’s widow. And Old Wool Woman. Children are with them—”

  “The women gone to Tangle Hair’s camp at the base of the Sacred Mountain?” Little Wolf asked, his voice rising.

  “Yes,” Big Horse said, nodding. “The soldier scouts captured them. I saw the scouts taking them to the soldier camp.”

  “Who are these scouts?”

  Big Horse turned to He Dog to answer. “Some are Crow People, but most are ve-ho-e”

  “It does not matter,” Little Wolf snarled. “Ooetaneo-o or white man—we must get our people back!”

  A loud roar erupted from the crowd.

  “I call for a war council!” Morning Star shouted.

  Lakota and Shahiyela alike agreed, war chiefs of all the clans stepping forward to follow Crazy Horse and the three Old-Man Chiefs to the center of camp, where they would decide just what to do.

  By twilight they had decided there was but one course of action to take. For many suns now they had been slowly retreating up the Tongue River, drawing the Bear Coat’s soldiers farther and farther from their fort. They knew the white man did not fight well far from his source of supplies. So they would be patient and continue to lure the white men farther, and farther.

  But with their own people taken captive, they were now forced to change their original plans. Now they must attack, no matter the rugged terrain, no matter the wind and snow.

  The first warriors ready before dark would follow the war chiefs north to the soldier camp, where they would attempt to create a diversion and free the prisoners. The rest of the warriors would come along sometime after the moon was high and be ready to fight at dawn.

  Dawn … when they would have the soldier camp surrounded.

  “You’ll see to this one first, won’t you?” Seamus asked the surgeon. He clutched the small girl across his arms tightly. The child squirmed enough that it was a battle, so afraid of him was she.

  Dr. Henry R. Tilton evidently read the seriousness in the scout’s face and looked at the girl’s legs and feet, covered by frozen, icy wool leggings and skimpy moccasins. “Likely she’s got frostbite.”

  “This’un’s worse off than all the rest,” Donegan said. “See to her first, I beg you in God’s name.”

  Tilton smiled. “Yes. I’ll see to her first. Take her into the tent.” Then he motioned the rest to follow the tall gray-eyed civilian. “Bring the others into the tent too. I’m sure we won’t need to worry about them escaping tonight.”

  Donegan ducked through the flaps, went to the lone cot, and laid the girl upon the blankets. She tried to rise immediately, swinging her feet off the cot, but he laid a firm hand on her shoulder, stopping her attempts. With the other hand he motioned the old woman to come over. She limped to the cot and sat down, talking to the child in a calm, soothing voice. Then the woman gazed up at Donegan and nodded once.

  Reassured, Seamus turned and ducked out of the wall tent.

  “Kelly!” he called out, spotting the chief of scouts.

  “Donegan—you up to riding?”

  “I s’pose. Set on going after that camp now?” He glanced into the afternoon sky.

  “Maybe we can get a fix on where it is before nightfall,” Kelly said. “At least we may end up finding out if these prisoners have any bucks coming along behind them. I’ve some of the rest going with me, but you’re always welcome if you’re up for more saddle work.”

  “Count on it,” Donegan answered.

  “You think we can get any more news out of those women?”

  Seamus shook his head. “Not a chance. Those women are scared, but they’re brave too. Those aren’t just squaws, Luther. Those are wives and mothers of chiefs and warriors. They’re not going to talk to us.”

  Kelly turned to one of the Jackson brothers. “William—see that
those women and children have all the food they want to eat. Fill ’em to the brim. Maybe we can make all of them warm and happy enough that one, just one, will want to chatter a bit tonight when we get back.”

  “I’ll feed ’em my own self,” William replied before he turned away.

  Kelly looked determined. “You ready to ride, Irishman?”

  “Let’s swing a leg over a saddle, Yellowstone.”

  That trip out, John Johnston, Tom Leforge, James Parker, and George Johnson rode along with Kelly and Donegan as the sun eased ever closer to settling behind the Wolf Mountains off to the southwest.

  “You know they’re all around us,” Kelly said quietly as the horses plodded through the snow, picking their way among the sage and cedar.

  “It’s too late in the day for them to make a go at Miles,” Donegan replied. “But I’d lay a full month of your wages that they’ll be eye to eye with us for bacon and biscuits by first light.”

  “A month of my wages?” Kelly snorted. “Will you listen to that!”

  John Johnston guffawed in that affable way of his, reaching over to slap the Irishman on the back of the shoulder. “Always been that sort of fella what’ll play fast and loose with another man’s wages, are you?”

  “Long as there’s a pot, I’ll ante up—”

  “Look there, by damn!” Parker cried, pointing at the ridge in their front and a little off to their right.

  At least a handful of warriors sat atop their ponies, motionless as buckbrush, watching the scouts’ advance.

  “Keep your eyes peeled, boys,” Kelly advised. “I’ll bet a month of Donegan’s poorhouse wages those aren’t the only redskins close at hand.”

  Despite the fact that they were being watched from the heights, they kept on the trail that would lead them back to the place where they had captured the women and children. At the spot where they had surrounded the Cheyenne, Kelly halted them, dropping to the ground to study the backtrack direction of the captives’ prints.

  “Luther,” Seamus said in a quiet voice.

  Kelly rose from a crouch. His eyes followed Donegan’s arm, where the other four were all gazing. On the nearby ridge sat at least ten, maybe more than a dozen, horsemen now.

  “Never did like me no Sioux sonsabitches,” grumbled George Johnson. “I say we give ’em a hoot and a holler and run ’em off.”

  “Maybe you’ll get lucky and get yourself a scalp,” Parker replied.

  “A man can hope, can’t he?” Johnson added. “What say, Kelly?”

  “All right,” Luther agreed after a moment’s contemplation. “If they were up to something, I suppose they would have pulled their shenanigans by now. Let’s give that bunch a how-do, then be about our business to find the village they came from.”

  “We run them off,” Seamus explained, “why—they might even lead us back to their village, Luther.”

  “What are we waiting for, fellas? Let’s give those redskins a little send-off!” Kelly cheered, lunging into the saddle and drawing his carbine out of the saddle boot.

  *At the mouth of present-day Post Creek, seventeen miles upstream from the soldier bivouac.

  Chapter 27

  7 January 1877

  In those next few moments Seamus thought it very odd that those mounted warriors stayed put right there atop that ridgeline, the wind scutting past them in sharp gusts, tugging at hair and feathers and horses’ manes. Not a one of the Indians so much as moved an inch—just sat their ponies and watched the white men galloping closer and closer.

  If he didn’t know better …

  Then the big scar across his back began to itch.

  And there wasn’t any time to scratch it.

  When the scouts were no more than fifty yards away, one of the motionless horsemen suddenly shouted, at the same time raising a scrap of blanket high overhead at the end of his arm. Before Donegan and the others galloping across the slope below could react, better than fifty warriors burst out of the snow, leaping out from behind every other clump of sagebrush, behind every scrub of oakbrush and cedar. They all had rifles, and most of them already had cross sticks planted in the frozen ground—all the better to hold on a target.

  Sweet Virgin Mother of God! he prayed as he sawed the reins savagely to the right, bumping against James Parker’s horse as their animals made the sharp cut on the icy ground the moment the Indian weapons cut loose.

  Lead sang through the air with the fine whisper of death hissing past a man’s ear.

  A second volley from those fifty-plus rifles spewing orange muzzle blasts no more than fifty yards away cut through the half-dozen scouts as they wheeled left and right, jabbing spurs and kicking heels into their mounts to escape that deadly alley of lead.

  Kelly was hollering … something … Donegan could see his mouth moving but couldn’t hear a thing but for the shouts of the warriors, the pounding of his own blood in his ears, and the snorting of the roan suddenly goaded into a gallop.

  He prayed again in the space of the next heartbeat, thankful that Indian marksmanship was a sometime and indifferent matter. It was all that saved their lives that afternoon in the valley of the Tongue River.

  The roan gelding stumbled, almost went down, then lunged forward another half-dozen steps before Seamus was sure of it. The paunch-water sounds, the wheezing, the bloody phlegm clinging at the nostrils … and that unmistakable fear in its widening eyes. The look of an animal not knowing what was happening to it—but sensing something feral and deadly all the same.

  He came out of the saddle as the horse sank to its knees with a raspy grunt, stepping off and collapsing to his own knees beside the animal on the icy ground. Then heard that familiar smack of lead against flesh, like a wet hand slapping putty. The same sound he had listened to as the General had carried him those last few yards to a narrow sandbar in the middle of a nameless river seconds before Roman Nose’s Cheyenne rode down on Major George Forsyth’s fifty scouts.* The roan groaned a second time, raising its head and fighting to rise as voices cracked the cold, dry air all around him. Indian taunts as they lunged out of hiding. Kelly and the rest bellowing as they sought cover.

  Seamus looked down at the valiant animal breathing its last in the cold and fought back the tears. After dragging the Winchester from its boot, he quickly patted the big, strong neck as the roan shuddered, that one eye rolling back to white. How cold it made Donegan feel at that moment—to lose a horse soldier’s best friend.

  As the Irishman hunkered down behind the big animal, twenty yards away he watched Leforge struggling beneath his own horse, one leg caught. With the other leg the squaw man had cocked against the animal’s backbone, he shoved and pushed until he got his leg free. Wrenching his pistol out, Leforge held the muzzle down on the beast’s forehead and without hesitation fired a shot. Whirling to snap off another at the closest of the yelling warriors, he clumsily spun on his heel and limped toward the cover of some buckbrush, his injured leg nearly giving way under him in the deep snow and uneven ground.

  As bullets kicked up spouts of earth and snow about him, Leforge hobbled into a narrow hollow behind some cedar and plopped to his belly, pressing himself into the ground to make as small a target as he could.

  At that very moment Luther Kelly was heeling his horse about in a tight circle, spraying snow in a high rooster tail from its hooves, his mouth shouting something at Leforge. One side to the other, Kelly searched frantically for the man…. Then suddenly he whipped his horse around in another tight circle among all the buckbrush, spotting Leforge’s trail through the snow, making for scrub undergrowth. As much lead as the Sioux and Cheyenne had sailing across that broken ground, Seamus was nothing short of amazed that Kelly escaped from that deadly piece of open ground back to where the others were gathering in a copse of some cedar and oakbrush and a few old fallen cottonwood.

  When Donegan glanced down, the roan was staring up at him, that one eye clear again, but bloodshot in terror. Seamus bent over the animal—suddenly reme
mbering their march together from Laramie to Camp Robinson to surround Red Cloud’s camp with Mackenzie’s men; their cold trip north from Fetterman into the frozen wastes of the Crazy Woman Fork, and that charge into the Red Fork Valley with Lieutenant John A. McKinney’s gallant men at the moment the ravine erupted with the fires of hell; and as he laid a hand along its powerful foreflank, Seamus recalled how this brave animal had tackled a hostile country alone with him as they had pushed over from the Little Powder and down to the Tongue, carrying dispatches for Nelson A. Miles.

  The horse did not deserve to be left to die alone and in pain.

  He drew his pistol with a trembling hand.

  Such a magnificent creature.

  Then dragged back the hammer with his thumb.

  Like saying a painful farewell to another friend.

  And placed the muzzle behind the ear as the horse struggled to rise.

  So many friends … all those he had buried and left behind in this wilderness.

  Squeezed back on the trigger.

  Donegan was up and running in a crouch before he had to look again at the eye.

  A horse soldier’s dearest friend is usually the first to fall, he remembered an old master sergeant telling him before they’d ridden into the Shenandoah behind little Phil Sheridan. Don’t ever get close to no man you ride with, the soldier had warned young Donegan. And never, no never—should you give a damn about no horse … cause they’re always the first to die in battle.

  Kelly was waving him in, standing there at the edge of that clump of cedar brush, down in a little hollow that reminded him of a buffalo wallow out on the Staked Plain. The rest were still up and on foot, yanking their horses over a rocky ledge some five to six feet high, dragging the reluctant animals down into the pocket. Lead smacked the sandstone rocks all around them, kicking up skiffs of snow, whining past but hitting nothing at all, or ricocheting with a zing that dusted them all with rock fragments.