by Ron Schwab
"Ouch! Damn it. You don't need to butcher me."
"My, aren't you a baby," she chided. "If you'll hold still, I'll be done in just a minute."
As she finished bandaging a plaster like substance over the purple enclosed laceration, she said with mock innocence, "Captain Carnes, I notice that you're having extreme difficulty walking. It appears to me that you may have incurred some injuries in the lower extremities. I suggest that you drop your breeches . . . then bend over and spread your legs, so I can smear on the liniment."
Joe choked back his laughter when sharp pain bit his starchy, swollen lips.
Tom rose stiffly and awkwardly from the cot on which he was seated, and, restraining his smoldering temper, said indignantly, "I'll take care of everything else, thank you. We appreciate your help, but now I'd be grateful if you'd leave and wait outside. . . . We'll be with you in a few minutes."
She smiled mischievously, and he gingerly sat back down with dismay on the cot. Sometimes, he just didn't know how to cope with this woman. Anyway, he'd sure as hell killed his standing with her last night.
As Sarah scurried out the door, she called back, "Oh, by the way, there's a hot pot of coffee in the kitchen . . . biscuits and honey, too, if you want to eat a bite before we leave. Stone Dog's already loaded the supplies on the pack horses, and your horses should be saddled by the time you're ready. I suspect, though, you may have to ride side saddle, Captain." The door closed before Tom could reply.
Later, as they left the fort, Sarah waved goodbye to Mrs. Jordan standing on the parade ground in front of the post commander's residence, and Tom detected moistness in Sarah's eyes as they rode away. No one else seemed interested in their departure as they galloped out of Camp Robinson, Tom standing upright in his stirrups to avoid painful contact with his saddle.
They pulled up momentarily outside the fort. Stone Dog, typically, had uttered no sound to this point and cocked his head, peering quizzically at his injured comrades. Receiving no explanation, he turned to Sarah, who smiled and winked. The old Indian chuckled.
Sarah kneed her horse up next to Tom's. "Captain Carnes," she said, "I trust you are now assuming command."
Tom looked to Stone Dog. "Uh . . . I’m afraid we didn't learn much at the fort, Stone Dog. What do you think? Where do we go from here?"
Stone Dog answered simply, "Black Hills."
15
STONE DOG HAD said it was going to be an early winter, and if last night was any indication, the old Pawnee was probably right, Tom thought. It was early October, but already the nights were turning uncomfortably cold. An icy dew had settled on their blankets the previous night, and it had been late morning before the penetrating dampness evaporated from their bones. The brilliant sun was directly overhead now and scorched the back of Tom's neck, but he welcomed its warmth. That, coupled with the rhythmic plodding of the horses, made him drowsy as they made their way through brown, sun-cured grass that was almost belly high to the horses.
Glancing back over his shoulder, Tom noticed Sarah was having much the same reaction, her head bobbing sleepily, jostled by the venerable black gelding as he clomped lazily through the grass that swished like a broom against his flanks. She was tired—damned tired—he worried. She had lost weight and taken on a gaunt look since their speedy departure from Camp Robinson several weeks ago, and crimson splotches dotted her pale cheeks where they had been bitten by the whipping wind. Little streams of red branched out like spider legs from the blue irises of her eyes.
Tom and Sarah's relationship had sunk into limbo since the tender interlude at Camp Robinson. In fact, Tom didn't know where he stood with Sarah now. She'd become increasingly reticent and uncommunicative in recent days. Yes, she was congenial enough—certainly not sullen or pouty, more like preoccupied. This was understandable enough in light of their progress. They didn't seem to be any closer to finding Billy than they were a month ago. If something didn't turn up soon, they'd have to make some hard decisions about their quest. Well, he'd face that when he had to. In any case, separation from Sarah was unthinkable. He would stay the course until they had no choice but to abandon it.
The pursuers had ridden into the ashen, slate-covered mountains well over a week ago, and since then had wandered aimlessly, it seemed to Tom, over the steep, often hazardous, trails that twisted through the Black Hills. They had skirted precariously close to Oglala encampments as Stone Dog scouted for the band of Bear Jenkins. The Sioux were stirring like angry hornets. Twice, they had come upon small miners' camps to discover the mutilated handiwork of the Oglala.
Several days ago, they had stopped at a small, fortified miners' settlement called the Custer Stockade, when, at Stone Dog's suggestion, they acquired some heavy mackinaws, additional blankets, and other cold weather supplies. Tom had felt silly buying some of the items that warm afternoon, and was concerned about the added bulk for the pack animals to carry, but he remembered also that the old Pawnee hadn't been wrong very often, and he wasn't about to pull rank now.
Tom mentioned to the trader at the stockade that they were searching for some Oglala renegades that rode with a big white man.
"You're talking about Bear Jenkins," the grizzled trader had said. "If his outfit is still around here, they won't be long. They're relations of Crazy Horse's bunch, and talk is they're congregation' over Wyoming way on the Little Powder River. I tell ya, friend, if I was you, I'd get out of here like a bat out o' hell. It's gonna be mighty hot around this place for a good long spell. Shit, if the gold fever hadn't bit me, I'd ride out with ya. Army'd like to chase us all out of the hills right now."
This morning, Stone Dog had confirmed that the major Sioux villages appeared to be pulling out of the Black Hills and moving westward, probably toward the Big Horn Mountain range along the Wyoming-Montana border. There were still plenty of signs of scattered war parties, but the permanent camps were withdrawing from their sacred homeland.
Today, Stone Dog had seemed especially uneasy, fidgeting like a hound with fleas. He had ranged far ahead of the others ever since they had ridden into the open, wide-ranging valley, returning several times to his companions, circling wide to their flanks and to their rear before forging ahead again.
During one such episode, Tom queried the brown man, "Are you finding signs?"
The Pawnee answered, "Big war party," his single eye rolling skittishly from side to side.
That had been nearly an hour ago, however, and Stone Dog appeared more at ease now. Just a few moments before, he had ridden out again and now roamed far ahead, a speck on the horizon.
Tom could see that the waves of tall grasslands would soon give way to rockier, barren soil severed by deep gorges and canyons with huge granite bluffs and stark shale mountains emerging from nowhere to frame the valley's borders.
"Tom," Joe called from behind, "something's going on up there. Look at old Stony."
The urgency in Joe's voice jolted Tom from his reverie and he signaled a halt. The riders pulled up their horses, their eyes fixed on the ant-like form at the far north end of the valley. Tom could see that something was troubling the Pawnee. First, Stone Dog galloped his horse far to the right. Abruptly, he weaved to the left, and then, suddenly, to the right again. An eerie, unnatural silence permeated the valley sending shivers down Tom's spine and taking him back to an earlier time just before a Sioux ambush south of Fort Fetterman. Reflexively, he jerked his Winchester from its saddle loop; he heard Sarah's shotgun click as she shoved shells in the double chambers. Instinctively, his eyes cast about for cover in case it were needed, stopping when he spotted a cluster of stubby, granite bluffs jutting from the ground and surrounded by huge scattered boulders not more than a half mile away. His soldier's mind identified the site instantly as a natural fortress.
Suddenly, a succession of rapid popping sounds pierced the quiet, like a string of firecrackers exploding on Independence Day. The horses danced nervously, nearly throwing the riders from their saddles. Tom could barely make out
tiny, filmy puffs of smoke discharging from Stone Dog's old model Winchester. Then he saw the Pawnee's horse go down, Stone Dog rolling free, and evidently tumbling into a rocky crevice off to his right.
The Sioux warriors appeared from nowhere like phantoms rising from the earth. There must have been twenty-five or thirty of them mounted on stocky, spotted ponies charging hell-bent toward the three riders. As the Sioux approached, they formed a V-shaped wedge coming to a point in the direction of Stone Dog's dead horse.
Tom spun his horse around, and reined up short. His first instinct had been to retreat blindly for the open end of the V. Too damn easy, he thought, and turned the mare toward the rocky buttes lying beyond the left wing of the charging Indians.
"Come on," Tom yelled, "ride like hell!"
"But Tom," Sarah protested, "they're coming right at us."
Tom yanked his saber free from the bedroll behind his saddle and snapped, "Sarah, for Christ's sake. For once, shut up and do what you're told." He flourished his saber in the air and charged recklessly, like a man possessed, toward the line of approaching Oglala. His companions wavered and then fell in behind.
The stunned Indians pulled up their ponies and froze momentarily, apparently taken aback at the audacity of the charging band. Before the Sioux could renew their attack, the riders were upon them. One brawny-shouldered buck, war axe uplifted, drove his pony into Tom's mount, threatening to topple the struggling mare. Without warning, Tom's gleaming saber swept downward, its driving force slashing like a guillotine into the Indian's neck, and the Oglala pitched from his pony, his severed head flopping lifelessly against blood-drenched shoulders. Joe's pistol cracked and another warrior plunged forward, red fluid spewing from the gaping hole that had been his nose.
Forcing his way through the Oglala ranks that had been thinned in formation of the wedge, Tom stabbed and slashed, his arm swinging like a well-oiled machine, until he broke into the clear, Joe and Sarah crowding his flanks. Instantly, they bolted, frantically and resolutely toward the buttes, but not before the pack animals were yanked loose by a Sioux warrior.
The Indians chased after them in frenzied pursuit, their incensed, blood-curdling cries ringing through the basin.
Tom noted that few shots had been fired by the Oglala in the onslaught, and deduced that they had few firearms. No sooner had he made that observation, than a rifle cracked and his mare faltered and lurched forward, stumbling to the grassy earth, blood seeping from her neck. Tom leaped free of the horse as Sarah and Joe tore past. Throwing himself behind the dying mare, he fired three quick shots with his Winchester, slowing the rush of the Sioux momentarily. In the meantime, Joe and Sarah had swung around, and Sarah veered her horse toward Tom as Joe's Peacemaker kept the Indians at bay. As she reached Tom, Sarah stretched out her hand and Tom seized it firmly, pulling himself up behind her on the black gelding. In a few seconds, they were racing again toward the rock fortress, Joe stopping and whirling intermittently to fire a volley of shots at the oncoming Oglala, slowing them just enough to enable him and his friends to maintain their slim lead.
As they reached the stone-belted bluffs, Tom slid from the horse, taking cover behind a jagged granite boulder and unloosing a rain of rifle fire at the Oglala until Joe scrambled into the rock sanctuary. As Sarah tethered the horses, the two men served the Indians a torrent of bullets, and, finally, the attackers eased away from the rocks to regroup out of gunfire range.
Casting about for better cover, Tom saw that the Indians’ main effort would have to be directed toward frontal attack. He had indeed selected a natural fortress—their rear was protected by a steep, craggy bluff, perhaps forty feet at its highest point, and stretching not less than one hundred feet from north to south, its ends curving outward to form a crescent-shaped formation with the defenders cradled midway in the concave. Just behind his party, Tom noticed that a segment of the cliff rose some five feet from the earth and cut back into the bluff another ten feet or so before the sheer walls rose to meet the sky. The rock platform seemed almost stage-like as its sides narrowed gradually to meet the stark cliff walls. Several giant boulders, one taller than Joe, protected the outer edge of the shelf.
"Get everything up on that ledge," Tom ordered, gesturing toward the escarpment. "Joe, this bunch must be hard up for guns. There couldn't have been more than half a dozen rifles firing out there. The height we can get from that ledge should help us even things up a bit when they charge again. We need to get some more cover up there, though . . . and fast."
Instantly, the men went to work hoisting large stones up onto the shelf. Sarah rolled the boulders into strategic places plugging several gaping holes with the two remaining saddles. In a short time, they fashioned a crude barricade forming a pocket of protection for the defenders that looked like a mammoth swallow's nest plastered against the cliff's face.
Inventorying their depleted arsenal, Tom tallied only the Winchesters and pistols of the two men, his own saber, and Sarah's double-barreled shotgun. Sarah had carried her shotgun shells in her saddle bag, so she had ample ammunition, but the shotgun was only effective at close range. There were enough .44 cartridges for perhaps eighty rounds each for Tom and Joe, but unless the Sioux discouraged easily, it wouldn't be enough. The water situation was even more ominous. They could make it last two days if they rationed it sparingly, he reasoned, and becoming aware for the first time of his sweat-sopped shirt and the perspiration dripping off his beard, he added, if they were lucky. There sure as hell wouldn't be any food—that got away with the pack horses.
The defenders perched themselves on the iron-hard shelf, Joe positioning himself belly-down behind one of the saddles lodged firmly between two shale slabs. Tom directed Sarah to their far left flank, the lowest point on the ledge where the Indians would be most likely to make an assault in an attempt to overrun the barricade. It bothered him to place her at such a vulnerable spot, but he knew that was where the shotgun would inflict the most damage. Sarah obeyed unquestioningly and only the frantic caged-animal look in her eyes betrayed her fear. She had said hardly a word, only a polite ‘yes’ or ‘no’ since Tom's earlier sharp reprimand.
Tom bent down to counsel with Joe. Before he could speak, Joe whispered, "She's one hell of a gutsy lady, isn't she, partner?"
Tom responded with a single affirmative nod before changing the subject, "What in the hell are they doing out there?"
Tom calculated that it had been nearly two hours since they took refuge in the bluffs. Unless the Sioux were settling in for a prolonged siege, he could not understand why they had given the defenders time to entrench themselves. Crazy Horse would have regrouped his Oglala and overrun Tom's little band instantly. It was evident that the leader of this war party was less decisive.
Peering over the crude barricade, Tom observed a whirling cloud of smoke like dust moving rapidly from the area where he had last seen Stone Dog toward the main body of the Oglala. Shortly, another dozen warriors joined those beyond the bluffs, several talking animatedly and pointing in the direction from which they had come. Suddenly, Tom understood why the Indians had not attacked. One of the new arrivals was apparently the leader of the war party—likely, one of the bunch that had been waiting ahead in ambush when spotted by Stone Dog. Poor old Stony, they must have been finishing him off.
Tom fixed his eyes on the Sioux leader. Considerably taller than the average Oglala, he clearly had what the military called "presence of command." The Indian, a young man with braided, black hair, waved his arms and rode back and forth in front of his tribesman, looking in the direction of the bluff, searching for his enemies' weaknesses. Tom knew this had to be a full-fledged war party, blood hungry and impatient for the kill. Common sense told him that Indians in this mood would not willingly suffer a protracted battle. The leader would want to deal the death blow quickly and be on his way. Neither would he wish to incur infinite losses for so small a prize, Tom suspected. If they could just hold out long enough, there was at least some sma
ll hope the Sioux would move on. It was already late afternoon; perhaps, if they could survive till nightfall.
The tall warrior lifted his right arm, waving it first to the left and then to the right, and the Indians fanned out in a single line forming a semicircle on the flatlands, something over one hundred yards in front of the rocky breastworks. Damn good strategy, Tom thought grudgingly. If the Oglala came in a bunch, they could shoot in a crowd and have a good chance of hitting somebody. This way, they would have to pick the Sioux off one at a time.
Tom rose and moved off to Joe's right to the highest point of the ledge, spotting himself behind one of the giant boulders. He leveled his Winchester across a ragged niche in the granite and waited.
The Oglala sat on their motionless ponies like statues on the horizon, eyes focused vulture-like on their besieged enemies. Not more than four or five, including the leader, were armed with rifles. Some carried short bows, most already strung with feathered arrows, and others displayed long, wicked-looking lances held upright in their hands. At the sight of the lances, Tom shuddered, recalling bizarre scenes from earlier days on the frontier. He had always thought that death by a bullet was many times preferable to that of a spear.
Tom tossed a glance at Sarah. The tension showed in the tightness of her jaw and the grimness of her mouth. "Just a little delay, Sarah," he said easily. "Don't worry. Just take it easy and do your job. We can hold them off. I don't think these birds want to pay the price."
She relaxed noticeably, and, with a feeble, nervous smile, patted her shotgun to indicate her readiness.
The Oglala leader flourished his rifle signaling the attack and, like a single, orchestrated wave, they swept toward the bluff.
"Wait till they're closer," Tom cautioned, as the Indians charged nearer, their frenzied whoops increasing in intensity, almost drawing even Tom, with his military patience, to commence premature firing, but he held back. Then, after a few moments, "Okay . . . now!"
