War Cry

by Charles G. West

  He paused a long moment, hesitating. He had been determined that he was going to express what was in his heart, but with Emma clutching his hand, he was not comfortable talking of such things in front of the child. Besides, there was no time. He could see the troops already forming up, preparing to ride. “I’ll see you when I see you,” he finally said, handed her the cup, and stepped up in the saddle. Turning Spades around, he paused briefly and said, “I got some things I wanna tell you.” He reached down and playfully ruffled Emma’s hair, then nudged Spades and was off, relieved of the feeling from the night before.

  Chapter 6

  After talking it over with his scouts, Captain Fischer accepted the general opinion among them that the Cheyenne band that had attacked the patrol out of Fort Larned would probably head northwest toward Walnut Creek, possibly to join a larger village on the Smoky Hill. Will Cason confirmed the location of more than one village on that river—both Cheyenne and Arapaho. “But that was about a month ago when I scouted that part of the country,” he said. “Don’t mean they’re still there, but that’s a favorite campin’ place for ’em, all along that river.”

  “All right,” Fischer said, “we’ll start out in that direction.” He laid out a map to indicate the line of march to his scouts—Corporal Kincaid, one other soldier, and three civilians—then sent them forward about a quarter of a mile to each side. At Lieutenant Bordeaux’s suggestion, the captain sent Will out alone to range about a mile ahead of the column. Will preferred to work that way, hoping to discover the presence of any hostiles before they spotted the cavalry column. There was no argument from the other scouts, civilian or army, for most of them felt more comfortable closer to the column. There was always the danger of being ambushed, but Will had complete confidence in his eyes and ears, and his horse. So when all was ready, he gave Spades the signal and loped off ahead of the company.

  Like his idol, Woqini, whom the white men called Roman Nose, Bloody Hand was not a chief or medicine man, but a fierce leader in war. When little more than a boy in the Colorado Territory, Bloody Hand had gone into the mountains to fast and seek his medicine dream. After going without food for three days and nights, he had fallen into a deep sleep and dreamed of a monstrous bear killing a deer. The bear ate only the heart of the deer and left the rest of the carcass to the wolves and coyotes. When he had awakened and was on his way back to the village, he carelessly crossed a path between a mother bear and her cubs, inciting her fury. He barely escaped with his life when the bear slashed at him with a huge paw, grazing his left hand. Though only a glancing blow, the bear’s sharp claws opened a long cut on the boy’s hand. Although weak from his fast, he summoned the strength to run. When he returned to his home, he told his father of his dream and the encounter with the enraged mother bear. His father gave him the name Bloody Hand as a result and told him that if his medicine was to be strong, he must never eat the flesh of a deer, only the heart.

  Bloody Hand appeared to be in a state of anger ever since Roman Nose’s death. He was in the war party that had trapped the soldiers on a small island in the Arickaree River almost a year before. The battle was theirs to win on that day until Roman Nose was struck by a soldier’s bullet, effectively killing the will of the rest of the warriors, who became reluctant to continue the siege without their leader. But was it the soldier’s bullet that really killed Roman Nose? Some said the real killer was a woman in his own village who inadvertently and innocently used an iron fork to tend the warrior’s meat that morning. Consequently, his medicine, which shielded him from an enemy’s bullet, was contaminated, since it was effective only if his food was prepared in the natural Cheyenne custom, using no white man’s utensils. Bloody Hand and two others had carried Roman Nose away from the battle. He was with him later that night when the brave warrior died. He promised him then that he would never surrender to the white man as long as he could draw breath into his lungs.

  Resting now beside Walnut Creek, Bloody Hand thought about his pledge to Roman Nose and knew that the noble warrior would be pleased with the success of the battle with the soldiers at Pawnee Fork. His medicine was strong. None of the soldiers’ bullets could strike him, and he had killed two of them himself in close combat with his knife and ax—which gained him much more honor than if he had killed them at a distance with his rifle. It was a great victory for his warriors. They had killed eleven of the thirty soldiers. His only disappointment was that he had not seen the coyote there. The white scout had seemed to show up everywhere during the past few weeks, so Bloody Hand almost expected him to be with the soldiers. Our paths will cross again, he thought, and I will add his scalp to my lance.

  “The others are ready to leave now,” Brave Elk said as he led his pony up from the creek bank.

  Bloody Hand nodded and got to his feet. “Good. The ponies are well rested now. We should reach the village before dark.”

  Even though the war party had stopped a while that morning to eat and rest the horses, they were still able to cover the distance from Walnut Creek to their village on the Smoky Hill before darkness fell. There was a great celebration in the village upon the war party’s triumphant return. When told of the number of soldiers killed, the elders decided that a dance was in order to honor the warriors. Bloody Hand’s kills and coups were the theme of more than one of the songs sung that night. His stature as a leader of men continued to climb, approaching that of Roman Nose. It was almost dawn before the people drifted off to their lodges to sleep.

  It was close to noon on the second day out when one of the forward scouts called back to the column, “Rider comin’ in.” After a few seconds had passed, he yelled, “It’s Will Cason.”

  Will, holding Spades to a comfortable lope, rode past the scouts and reported to Captain Fischer. “I think I found where they stopped to rest their horses after the attack,” he said.

  “You think you found it?” Fischer retorted, somewhat testily, his behind a bit sore after hours in the saddle.

  Will, taken aback for a second by the officer’s attitude, replied, “All right, I by-God found where the war party stopped.”

  Fischer couldn’t suppress a grin at his scout’s response. “How far ahead?”

  “Two miles,” Will replied, “no more’n that—on Walnut Creek.”

  “Good,” the captain said. “We can rest and water our horses there.”

  Once they reached Walnut Creek, Fischer gave permission for the men to build small fires to make coffee while the horses were watered. Will let Spades drink, then drifted over to share coffee with Corporal Kincaid and Lieutenant Bordeaux while Captain Fischer searched the banks of the creek, looking at tracks and any other sign that might give him any information about the war party he was chasing—a waste of time, by Will’s thinking. By this time there was a confusion of tracks with shod cavalry hooves mixed with those of unshod Indian ponies. When he had finished, having found nothing that would be of any use to him, Fischer walked over to stand before Will, who was stretched out beneath a tree, drinking his coffee. Hands on hips, striking an impatient pose, he asked, “Shouldn’t you be scouting this area for information that might tell us where they went from here?”

  “Don’t need to,” Will replied, taking another sip of coffee from his metal cup.

  “Why not?” Fischer insisted.

  “Already done it. I looked it over before I went back to get you, so you and your soldiers wouldn’t trample all over what sign there was.” He turned to point toward the cottonwoods behind him. “They rode outta here between those two big trees yonder, headed for the Smoky Hill. That’s where we knew they were headin’ all along.”

  Watching Fischer’s face as the captain nodded solemnly, Harvey Bordeaux grinned to himself. Fischer was learning fast what the lieutenant already knew—you can put your trust in Will Cason. Just let him alone and he’ll do the job for you. “All right,” Fischer said, “we’ll rest here long enough for the men to get some coffee and a little something to eat. How far are w
e from the Smoky Hill?”

  “About thirty-five miles, I expect,” Will replied. “I doubt you could make it before dark without runnin’ the horses into the ground.”

  Fischer nodded thoughtfully. He was considering a night march to get into position to launch a dawn attack on the village as Custer had done on Black Kettle’s village on the Washita. Somehow sensing what the captain might be speculating, Will offered a gentle reminder. “Course I don’t know where this bunch’s village is on the Smoky Hill, so I can’t say how far it is to their village—only how far to the Smoky Hill.”

  Fischer didn’t say anything for a moment while he silently rebuffed himself for forgetting that little detail. “We’ll rely on you to find that village in the morning,” he finally said. He glanced at Bordeaux, then raised an eyebrow and remarked, “I’m beginning to think you were right, Harvey.” Then he turned to leave them. Bordeaux’s grin returned to his face, for he knew what Fischer meant. The lieutenant had advised the captain earlier that Will was the best scout in the regiment.

  A gentle mist lay upon the slowly moving water as the sun climbed up from the prairie behind him. Spades’ ears flickered constantly, searching the quiet morning air for sounds of other life, but there were none, except for the scolding of a crow from its perch in the top of the tallest cottonwood on the opposite bank of the river. They had been there, but they were gone now. Will nudged Spades with his heels and the patient bay stepped slowly down into the water. Climbing the bank on the other side, he reined the gelding back for a few moments while he surveyed the empty circles where tipis had once stood. Then he prodded his horse again and slowly walked it through the pattern of circles. He counted forty-two lodges, and from the dead grass within the circles, he knew that the village had been there for some time. Tracks from horses and lodge poles following the river west also told him that the village had moved no more than one or two days ago, apparently almost as soon as the war party returned. All this told Will that the hostile Cheyenne expected a sizable detachment of soldiers to follow them, and they most likely were seeking to join another village farther along the river. The question facing Captain Fischer would now be the strength of the combined villages. It might be more than a company of cavalry could handle. I’d best get on back and tell him his village has moved, he thought.

  “Okohome,” Brave Elk spat in angry amazement to see the white man Bloody Hand had named Coyote. Watching him from a point some distance west on the opposite bank, Brave Elk seemed hypnotized by the actions of the white scout as he looked around the former camp site. Like the animal for which he had been named, he almost seemed to sniff around the ground where the lodges had stood. Brave Elk turned to one of his two companions. “It is the white coyote that the soldiers follow. I think his medicine is strong, but if we can catch this coyote and take his scalp back to Bloody Hand it will be a great loss for the soldiers.” The appearance of the scout at the site of their village was verification to the Cheyenne warrior that the precaution of moving the people was a wise one, and Brave Elk felt that if they could kill the coyote, the soldiers would not know where to look for them. “Quick!” one of the other two said, “he is turning away.”

  Just as he turned Spades back toward the water, Will was startled by a sudden puff of sand in the riverbank a foot or so from the horse’s front hooves. It was followed almost immediately by the sharp crack of a rifle. Spades reared up on his back legs, then leaped forward to plunge into the dark water when Will gave him a firm kick. Off to his right, Will saw three warriors riding along the bluffs in an effort to cut him off. “Get me outta here, boy,” he implored and the big bay was quick to respond. Charging up from the water, he scaled the opposite bank and threaded his way through the willows at a full gallop with the sounds of wild shots stinging the air around him.

  He was not inclined to call on Spades to race the swift Indian ponies for any length of time. On heart and pride alone, the big horse opened a sizable lead on the three warriors, but Will knew it was unlikely he could hold it. So he looked for the first reasonable cover he thought he could defend and hoped there were no more warriors behind the three shooting at him now. The problem facing him was the gentle rolling terrain of the prairie stretching out before him. Still Spades drove on at full gallop, his powerful stride pounding the prairie floor in a rhythmic beat, and Will knew he would continue the pace until he fell dead as a result. Determined not to let that happen, Will headed for a low mound with two lone trees standing on the crest. It didn’t offer the best of cover, but it was the best he could see.

  He jumped from the saddle as soon as he pulled Spades to a halt. Taking a quick assessment of the spot he had landed in, he led the bay behind the highest point of the mound, which was still not high enough to shield the entire horse. Snatching his rifle from the saddle, along with an ammunition belt, he scrambled up behind one of the two trees. The one he chose had a smaller trunk than its partner, but the decision was an easy one. The other tree was dying, having obviously been struck by lightning, which was enough to tell Will that it was an unlucky tree and he didn’t like the idea of depending on an unlucky tree to protect him. He cocked the Henry and waited.

  His wait wasn’t long, since they were only seconds behind him, but he held his fire as long as they continued to race toward him. When they were well within the range of his rifle, he took careful aim and squeezed off a round, knocking one of the warriors off his pony. It was enough to cause the other two to veer away sharply and seek cover of their own. With little to choose from, they took refuge behind a low grassy hummock. A few shots were exchanged before both parties realized it was little more than a waste of cartridges. Neither side was willing to stick their heads up. It was apparent that there had been no more than the three, a fact that was encouraging to him. It eliminated the threat of being surrounded, especially key since he had no cover behind him. In addition, to get around behind him, one of the two would have to come out from behind that hummock. And at this short range, he would be dead the moment he showed.

  With none of the combatants knowing how to gain an advantage, an extended standoff was the result and now it was a matter of who had the most patience. Either side could safely withdraw by backing away, but Will knew that would only result in another chase to another standoff. And Spades was already tired. I reckon I’ll just sit here and wait for the cavalry, he thought. He wasn’t sure about the two civilian scouts with the column—he’d never ridden with them before—but he was confident Corporal Kincaid could follow the same trail he had followed to find the village.

  As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the morning began to heat up considerably and he began to think about the canteen hooked over his saddle horn. Should have thought about that when I grabbed my rifle, he told himself. Now he was reluctant to slide back away from the tree to fetch it, afraid he might draw fire toward his horse. So he shrugged off his thirst and continued to watch the hummock, hoping for a target. A full hour passed. A riderless pony slowly wandered over to stand before the hummock. It grazed on the grass atop the low mound until one of the warriors made a quick move to grab the horse’s reins and pull it around to the other two. It was not quick enough, however, for Will had a brief glimpse of his shoulder. The Indian yelped in pain as the .44 slug found its mark.

  Brave Elk pulled the injured warrior back down behind the hummock. “I think he has broken my shoulder,” Wolf Kill groaned painfully. “I can’t use my arm.” There was a great deal of blood running down his arm, dripping from his fingers, and he tried to stem the flow, but the grass beneath him was soon shining scarlet. Brave Elk was afraid that Wolf Kill might bleed to death, forcing him to make a decision. His desire to kill this coyote man was second only to that of Bloody Hand’s, but he knew he must take Wolf Kill back to the village as soon as possible. His decision was made for him in the next few minutes, for while he agonized over his dilemma, the forward cavalry scouts appeared on a rise in the prairie, no more than a quarter mile away—that mean
t a detachment of soldiers was close behind. “Hurry!” he urged, and helped Wolf Kill as best he could to slide back to their horses.

  Fifty yards away, Will also spotted the forward scouts, one of whom was the familiar figure of Corporal Kincaid. A smile of relief appeared on his face and he thought, saved by the cavalry. Returning his attention to his immediate problem, he saw the two warriors sliding away from the brink of the hummock. Knowing he would probably get a chance for at least one clear shot, he inched up closer to the tree trunk and set his rifle in a position to fire. As he suspected, the two Indians could not retreat from their position without exposing themselves and their horses. Expecting them to jump on their ponies and bolt away as quickly as possible, he was surprised when they walked out from behind the hummock using the three horses as cover. “Huh,” he grunted and hesitated. Then he raised his rifle again. First he aimed at their legs, which he could see under the horses’ bellies, decided against it, then thought about shooting the horses. But he did not pull the trigger. He was kind of soft when it came to shooting horses. Then, curious to see how far they would walk before jumping on their ponies, he watched as they continued across his field of fire until he realized they were intent upon retrieving the body of the one he had killed. He would chastise himself later for being softhearted, but he decided to let them pick up the body and leave.

  He got up from behind the tree and stood watching as Brave Elk handed his reins to the wounded warrior and lifted the corpse up onto the pony’s back. Sure would be a clear shot, Will thought, but he stuck by his decision. The warrior who did the lifting looked familiar—Will was sure he had seen him on the day he had inadvertently ridden down that hill and found himself staring at the war party waiting to ambush Bordeaux’s patrol. Stepping clear of the tree when he realized Brave Elk was looking back at him, he felt that the Cheyenne warrior was silently expressing his thanks and understanding of the respect shown by his white enemy. Will was sure the warrior valued the gesture to hold fire so he could recover his dead companion—until the Indian suddenly raised his rifle and fired. Will jumped back behind the tree as Brave Elk’s bullet ripped a piece of bark from the trunk. “Why, you son of a bitch!” Will shouted, feeling furious and very much the fool. He ran down from the mound as the Indians galloped away, throwing shot after shot after the retreating hostiles as he ran, none hitting the mark. Two hundred yards away, Corporal Kincaid pulled up to watch in astonishment when he saw the fleeing hostiles galloping away with Will chasing them on foot and firing wildly.