War Cry

by Charles G. West

  “You think that’s what they’ve got in mind?”

  “Don’t know,” Will replied. “They might, though, when they find that dead Injun by the river.”

  “Dead Indian?” Fischer responded.

  “Yessir. I had to kill one. He caught me by surprise and I didn’t have no choice.”

  “Is that how you got that wound on your arm?” Fischer asked, making note of it for the first time. When Will replied that it was, Fischer nodded, then got back to the business at hand. “You think they know how many men we have?”

  “I can’t say,” Will replied. “All I can tell you is what I saw, and they were gettin’ all fired up about somethin’. It sure looked to me like a war dance.” He paused and glanced at Bordeaux as if seeking confirmation for what he was about to say. “Course, I reckon when they find that body on the riverbank, they’ll know somebody was spyin’ on ’em. I doubt they’ll think he committed suicide.”

  Fischer frowned, unappreciative of Will’s humor. He thought the situation over for a long moment. Finally, he submitted to pride and sense of duty. He gave the order to break camp and prepare to move out. After informing his officers of the line of march, he turned to Will. “I want you to go on back out front and keep your eyes open. I don’t want to march this company into a damn ambush.”

  “Yessir.” He turned to leave, but Fischer stopped him.

  “Get that arm looked at first. Then you’d best take a man with you,” the captain said. “You might have to send word back.”

  “Yessir,” Will repeated. Then, glancing at Bordeaux, he said, “I wanna borrow Kincaid again.” Bordeaux nodded and Will bellowed, “Corporal Kincaid!”

  A couple dozen yards distant, in the process of saddling his horse, Kincaid looked back when he heard his name called. Seeing Will, he grinned and commented to the private standing next to him. “There’s that feller that’s always tryin’ to get me scalped. I reckon you men will have to do without me to hold your hands.”

  Contrary to what Will and Captain Fischer suspected, Bloody Hand did not know how many the soldiers were, only that they were surely coming. A young girl had discovered the body of Little Crow while looking for blackberries that morning, causing a sense of alarm throughout the camp. His wife, brokenhearted, had said that he had been restless after the dancing and had complained that he could not sleep. So he told her he would walk a while to rest his mind and think about the battle to come. When she awoke that morning, he was not there.

  The dancing had lasted late into the night as the Cheyenne camp prepared to defend their village against the hated army cavalry. Early that morning Bloody Hand and Chief Spotted Horse went to talk with Broken Knife, the chief of the village they had just joined, and the elders of the village. At first, the talk was primarily about the necessity to make plans to defend their villages against the coming attack and the need to send the women and children to a safe place. Then Bloody Hand rose to have his say. “We talk about protecting our villages, but I say that it may not be necessary to fight the soldiers here where they may kill our women and children and burn our lodges. I say we should send a scouting party to find the soldiers and see how many they are. We have many warriors in these two camps. Maybe we have more warriors than the soldiers bring. I say it would be better for us to send our warriors to attack the soldiers before they reach our village.” He paused a moment to gauge the impact of his words on those assembled. “That is all I have to say.”

  “There is wisdom in what you say,” Broken Knife said as the others in the circle nodded in agreement. “It is better to fight the soldiers away from our homes.”

  So it was decided to act on Bloody Hand’s proposal immediately. Since it was his plan, Bloody Hand requested that he might be the leader of the scouting party. To go with him, he selected Brave Elk and two warriors from Broken Knife’s village. He did not express his thoughts when told of Little Crow’s death, but the first suspect who came to mind was Coyote, the white scout. There was no evidence to support his suspicions, but his instincts told him that none other would dare to come so near their camp to kill.

  Broken Knife and Spotted Horse decided that it would be a wise thing for all the warriors to follow soon after the scouting party in case the soldiers were closer than they thought. So, leaving the rest of the Cheyenne camp to ready their weapons and paint their favorite ponies for war, the scouting party left as soon as the four scouts could be assembled.

  They traveled less than a day before the forward scouts of the cavalry were spotted following the river. Taking care not to be seen, the Cheyenne warriors left the river and hid in the chalky bluffs some distance away. Bloody Hand gazed closely at the two forward army scouts in an effort to see whether one of them might be Coyote, but he was not to be seen. In a short time, the first troopers of the company came into view, riding in a column of twos. The Cheyenne scouts crouched in the bluffs, watching and counting until the last troops of the company came into view, and Bloody Hand grew more confident that his plan would work. They could defeat the cavalry detachment with their overpowering numbers. “There are no more,” he said, pointing toward the empty trail behind the last of the column. “We must hurry back to meet the others and make ready to attack while we still have time to strike them before they reach our villages.” They wasted no time in scrambling back down into the deep gully where they had left their horses. As he jumped upon his pony’s back, Bloody Hand wondered why he had not seen the man he called Coyote—for he could almost feel his presence.

  Fifty yards away in the same bluffs, the presence Bloody Hand felt rose from behind a limestone mound when he saw the four Indians ride out of the gully. “Damn!” Will exclaimed softly to Corporal Kincaid, who was crouching beside him. “There goes the element of surprise if that bunch gets back to the village.” With no other choice, they both raised their rifles and fired as rapidly as possible, hoping to be lucky enough to stop all four, but knowing it unlikely. One of the fleeing warriors was hit, but did not fall from the saddle; the others escaped unharmed. “Better go tell Fischer the bad news,” Will said.

  Halting the column when he heard the rifle shots, Captain Fischer waited while Will and Kincaid rode down from the bluffs and loped across the prairie to join him. When told what the shooting was about, Fischer called his officers forward for conference with the scouts. “I know for sure they saw the whole troop,” Will said in answer to his question.

  “You don’t think there’s the possibility that they were unable to see the whole column?” Lieutenant Gates asked, directing his question at Kincaid. “They were way back up in those bluffs. Maybe there’s a chance they took off as soon as they saw the forward scouts. What do you think, Corporal?”

  “Well, sir,” Kincaid replied, “I ain’t paid to think. But I was back up in those bluffs and I saw the whole column.”

  Fischer looked at Will. “What do you think, Cason?”

  “I think you’re gonna have a helluva fight in a little while. There’s a heap of warriors in those two villages, and I don’t think they’re gonna wait to fight you on their ground. If I was you, I’d pick me out a good place to make a stand, else you’re gonna take a lot of casualties. Me and Kincaid can ride out ahead and give you as much warnin’ as we can if the Injuns do decide to come after you.”

  The decision was as important as Fischer had ever been called upon to make, but he was in command and he intended to make it in the fashion he felt his superiors expected of him. He took his scouts’ report under serious advisement, but he could not in good conscience yield the field to a bunch of wild hostiles. In spite of the difference in numbers, he felt he had a distinct advantage in terms of military discipline. He was not inexperienced in Indian warfare, having commanded successful campaigns against Cheyenne, Arapaho, and Comanche raiding parties. And it was his experience that the typical Indian war party was no more than a collection of warriors fighting as individuals with no real organization. Consequently, he gave the order to prepare to
march, with the intention of meeting the enemy on the open field of battle, convinced that they would wilt under a cavalry skirmish line. Turning to Will and Kincaid, he said, “Find the enemy for me, and we’ll see what they do when facing a company of seasoned troopers.”

  “Yessir,” Will replied, turned without hesitation, and rode off toward the river. Kincaid rendered a casual salute, then turned to follow Will. When he caught up to the rangy scout, Will glanced at him and said, “This is liable to be a mistake. Somebody’s been tellin’ your captain some fairy tales about the Cheyenne warrior.”

  “Maybe,” Kincaid responded. “I expect you’re right, but I just take orders. I ain’t paid to think.”

  “We’ll see, I reckon,” Will said just before giving Spades his heels. “But those Injuns got away from here, so they know we’re comin’ and they know how many men we’ve got. The way I see it is, if there’s a big bunch of warriors already on the way from that village I saw last night, they might not be but a couple of hours ahead of us when those scouts meet up with ’em and tell ’em what they saw.”

  Holding their horses back to a spirited walk, they continued on along the river, carefully and constantly scanning the terrain before them and to each side. After approximately an hour with no sign to cause either of them to become concerned, they came to a narrow plain with a line of low- lying hills to the north. The fact that it formed a natural trough between the hills on one side and the river on the other caused Will to rein Spades to a stop.

  “You see somethin’?” Kincaid asked, pulling up alongside.

  “No,” Will answered. “I feel somethin’.” With raised eyebrows, he threw Kincaid a cautious glance. “If you were set on ambushin’ a column of soldiers, this little valley through here would be a damn good place to do it.”

  “You think they’da had time to get this far?” Kincaid questioned.

  “If they started out before their scouts got back, they coulda.”

  Both men scanned the treeless hills to their right, looking hard to catch any tiny telltale sign along the grassy hilltops, like a single feather that didn’t belong, or the reflection of the sun off a rifle barrel. There was nothing, not even the sound of a bird. Figuring he had just spooked himself, Will nudged Spades again and the two scouts moved farther into the narrow valley.

  Lying flat on his belly just beneath the crest of the hill, Bloody Hand watched the two scouts advancing along the floor of the valley, his muscles tense as he peered through the rifle trench he had fashioned with his war ax. He wanted to scream out his war cry; such was his agony in having to restrain the urge to kill racing through his muscular body. It was him! The coyote—no more than a hundred feet below.

  Seeing the anguish of his war chief, Brave Elk whispered softly in an effort to calm him, “We must wait for the soldiers to follow them,” he reminded. Bloody Hand only looked back at him with teeth clenched in angry frustration, but he knew he could not destroy the element of surprise.

  Down on the valley floor, Will and Kincaid moved slowly now, the corporal watching the rangy scout even as closely as the hills to the north, alert for any signal of alarm. Suddenly a pair of quail burst from the tall grass near the top of the hill, their wings beating a sharp flutter as they fled toward the river. Will pulled Spades up again and listened to the silence left behind the quail’s flight. He calmly turned to Kincaid then and asked, “Is that horse of yours ready to run?”

  “I reckon,” Kincaid answered.

  “Well, ride like hell. We got to get our asses outta here!” That was all the warning he gave. Wheeling Spades sharply, he gave him a definitive kick and the big bay lunged into a full gallop. With no thought to question, Kincaid followed suit, and the two scouts raced toward the mouth of the valley.

  As one, the line of Indians hidden in the hills leaped to their feet, knowing their ambush had been discovered. Screaming out his rage, Bloody Hand implored his warriors to get to their ponies. The coyote had once again destroyed his trap. “Cut them off!” he roared. “They must not escape!” He jumped on his war pony and galloped recklessly across the hilltop, angling toward the end of the valley.

  Down on the flat, Will and Kincaid lay low on their horses’ necks, urging each mount for more effort. Spades did not disappoint. He had been called upon to haul his master out of more than one scrape, and knew it was his role in the partnership. Kincaid was trailing, but not by far. Both men were well aware of the consequence of losing the race to the end of the valley. Behind them, like angry ants from a disturbed ant-hill, two hundred warriors streamed down the slopes in pursuit.

  With the advantage gained by galloping along the flat floor of the trough, while the Indian ponies were hampered by having to descend the steep slopes, the two white men were able to open a sizable lead on their pursuers. Riding as if the devil himself were chasing them, they flew back over the trail they had just traveled minutes earlier. With thoughts of the fabled endurance and speed of Indian ponies on his mind, Will was praying that Spades could stand up to this ultimate test. The courageous horse could maintain this pace for only so long. Then it was going to be a question of finding a hole to jump into and break out the rifles. He didn’t care for the odds if that happened. The question was answered after a run of approximately three miles when Kincaid’s horse started to stumble and the corporal was forced to pull up where the river took a sharp bend. Will reined Spades back and waited for Kincaid to come up beside him.

  “She’s spent,” the corporal announced apologetically, then looked back to see if the warriors were in sight.

  Walking the two exhausted horses, they both looked behind them, expecting to see the hostile hoard come into view around the bend in the river. “We’ve got a few minutes’ lead on ’em at best,” Will said. “I just hope their horses are as tired as ours.” He would have considered crossing the river and finding a place to hide had it not been for the fact that C Company would have no warning of the war party about to descend upon them. “Damn,” he uttered in response to the dilemma that faced them. Then, after a moment of thought, he said, “Maybe we can warn the captain, anyway.” He pulled his rifle from the scabbard and fired three rapid shots in the air, hoping that the column was close enough to hear the warning. Following suit, Kincaid did likewise. Then, in an effort to complete their mission, they dismounted and set out on foot, jogging and leading their spent horses. Luck was with them, for it was not a long run. They met the forward cavalry scouts in less than a mile. Behind them, the Cheyenne war party had closed the distance to three quarters of a mile.

  The company was already forming for battle when Will and Kincaid strode wearily up to the captain. “I brought you some Injuns,” Will reported casually.

  “I see you did,” Fischer replied, shifting his gaze back and forth between the two obviously exhausted men. “Corporal,” he said, “you can rejoin your troop.” Fixing his gaze upon Will then, he said, “You can find you a spot to use that rifle of yours.” He then returned to the business of preparing to meet the cloud of hostile warriors just descended on the plain before him.

  With the enemy so close upon them, Fischer had little choice in tactics. Cason had not exaggerated the count, and after seeing the great number of warriors facing him, he was forced to assume a defensive posture. Still, he was confident that his soldiers would inflict far more damage upon the hostiles than they would have stomach for. Taking a stand with the river behind them, he ordered the company to assume standard procedures. A double skirmish line was formed with the men divided into squads of four, with one man behind to hold the horses and three to fall in the line, ready to fire. When all was ready, Fischer stood beside Will and peered across the open expanse of prairie that separated the two foes. “What are they waiting for?” Fischer asked.

  “I reckon they’re sizin’ up the situation,” Will replied, “tryin’ to decide if they can overrun us or if they wanna surround us and gradually pinch in on us.”

  The Cheyenne strategy would be dete
rmined in most part by Bloody Hand’s impatience to kill the soldiers, especially the coyote. “Come!” he shouted. “Follow me! We will crush those who come to take our hunting grounds.” Caught up in his passion to kill, a large number of the war party followed him in a frontal assault on the two lines of soldiers.

  “All right! Here they come, boys!” Fischer bellowed out orders for the first rank to kneel. “Hold your fire!” he yelled. “Wait for my order.” The hostiles charged, numbering about forty or fifty by Will’s estimate, screaming their fearsome war cries, shooting wildly. Fischer held off until the distance was about fifty yards before giving the order to fire. The first volley cut a sizable swath in the charging warriors. It was followed by a second volley that left even more riderless ponies to scatter from the field.

  Realizing his folly too late, Bloody Hand called his warriors back while taking even more losses as the soldiers were firing at will. His assault had taken the lives of at least fifteen or twenty of his warriors while doing very little damage to the troopers. Trembling with rage, he retreated out of range of the cavalry carbines, humiliated by his foolish attack while Broken Knife, a cooler head, prepared to split his warriors to attack on three sides. Desperate to regain his pride, Bloody Hand advised Broken Knife that he would cross the river with his warriors to prevent the soldiers from escaping that way. Broken Knife nodded in approval. “We will hold the soldiers against the river until they run out of bullets and kill them if they try to escape.”

  And so the siege was set with hostiles on all sides of the company of cavalry, many with single-shot Springfield rifles that allowed them to snipe away at a greater range than that of the soldiers’ carbines. Fischer was forced to huddle the horses together below the riverbanks and further divide his command in order to guard against hostile infiltration from the other side of the river.

  After two dead and six wounded by the sniping of the hostiles, Captain Fischer drew his troopers back from the open prairie to take positions along the bank of the river. Digging in to form protected firing pits, the soldiers continued to exchange fire with the Indians, although neither side inflicted much damage. The company was effectively pinned down, however, and incapable of moving out without taking an unacceptable number of casualties. “The sons of bitches should be here with us in this damn hole,” Fischer uttered to no one in particular, referring to all Indian Agents who had issued Spencer carbines to the Cheyenne, supposedly for the purpose of hunting for food. There was a definite feeling of anger, knowing the government was furnishing the Indians with weapons to use against them.