War Cry

by Charles G. West

  Several times during the long afternoon the hostiles attempted to move in closer to the riverbank. Each time they were forced back by the soldiers. Looking for any helpful ideas from his officers, Fischer had to reject all suggestions to try to forcefully break out of their trap and make a run for it. The probability of casualties was too high to gamble on luck. And even if he was successful in escaping from the riverbank breastworks, he would then find himself on the open prairie, trying to outrun the faster Indian horses. It was painfully obvious that his command would be chewed to pieces. The only hope he had was to send for help, and that brought another concern—the odds were not very good that a messenger could safely get through the ring of hostiles surrounding his company. To add to his dilemma, Fort Dodge was ninety miles away. It would take the better part of a week before a relief column could possibly reach him. By that time, they would be without food for men or horses. He summoned all his scouts to confront the problem, but his concern was directed fully at Will Cason. Huddled under the riverbank to avoid presenting tempting targets for the Cheyenne sharp-shooters, the scouts listened to the captain’s account of their impasse.

  Having already assessed the situation before being consulted, Will expected the captain’s call for a volunteer. “Dodge is ninety miles away,” he said, “but Fort Hays ain’t but about forty or maybe a little bit more. How many troops are billeted there now?”

  Fischer at once felt chagrined for not having thought of that himself. “I don’t know if the Nineteenth Kansas is still there, but the Tenth Cavalry should be billeted there. In fact, I’m sure they are.”

  “I can make Fort Hays before daybreak,” Will said, “and should get back here by tomorrow night with some help. I’ll leave as soon as it gets dark.” He was not especially eager to stick his neck out, but in his honest opinion, he wasn’t ready to trust the job to anyone else.

  It was a dangerous undertaking, and Fischer knew he couldn’t order the civilian scout to take such risks, so he was pleased and relieved that Will had volunteered—and in such a manner that implied he intended to go with or without approval. “I appreciate it, Cason,” he said. “You can take your pick of any of the horses.”

  “I reckon I’ll take my own,” Will replied. “Spades would get homesick if I left him here. Besides, he’s rested up enough now.” To lighten his horse’s load as much as possible, however, he removed everything he didn’t need, keeping only his weapons and extra ammunition.

  As the shadows lengthened, the besieged company continued to receive random shots from all sides, including some from the other bank of the river. Two of Bloody Hand’s warriors were killed when they attempted to swim across in the growing gloom of twilight. It was enough to discourage further attempts. Will readied himself to leave as Fischer ordered fires to be built in several places on either side to cast some light on the perimeter and lessen any attempts by the Indians to creep in closer.

  Corporal Kincaid walked over to talk to Will as he finished checking Spades’ saddle. “Dammit, Will,” he started, “there’s a helluva lot of Injuns surroundin’ this hole we got ourselves in. How are you gonna slip by all of ’em? I mean, even in the dark—hell, it ain’t that dark.”

  Will replied matter-of- factly. “I’m not gonna try to slip through ’em. I’m hopin’ I can swim by ’em.”

  Kincaid slowly shook his head. “I don’t know about that,” he said, his tone reflecting his doubts. “Maybe I oughta go with you.”

  Will smiled. “Probably got a better chance if there’s only one splashin’ around in the water,” he said, appreciating the fact that Kincaid was sincere in his offer to go with him. “I’ll be all right. Hell, Spades ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen to me.”

  When he was satisfied that a hard dark had settled over the river, Will led Spades down to the water. Captain Fischer walked with him and extended his hand as Will prepared to go. “It’s a dangerous thing you’re about to undertake, Cason, but if you make it, you may save a lot of lives.” He stepped back then and said, “Godspeed.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow evenin’, Captain,” Will said. “Just tell your boys to keep their heads down till I get back.” He turned then and led Spades into the dark current. The water was warm, warmer than the late-summer night air, and he felt his clothes suddenly become heavy as they clung to his body. With his rifle held above his head in one hand, he held on to the saddle horn with the other and let the big bay pull him gent ly down the dark river. Confused, the gelding at first started toward the opposite bank, and each time Will gave him a gentle tug on the reins until Spades finally realized what his master wanted and drifted quietly downstream. In no more than a couple dozen yards, he could hear the sounds of soft voices on both sides of him as he floated slowly past, holding his breath for fear a gunshot or an arrow might suddenly come his way. After a hundred yards or so, Spades’ natural instinct to gain the other side was enough to cause him to ignore Will’s insistence on a long swim, and he made for dry land. Will had no choice but to climb in the saddle as the horse clamored up the bank much to the surprise of a startled Cheyenne warrior in the process of loading his seven-shot Spencer rifle. Not sure whether he was seeing friend or foe as Will rode directly up to him, the warrior hesitated a second too long. It was the defining second of the young Cheyenne’s life as Will fired at point-blank range and galloped away into the darkness of the prairie. With the sound of scattered shots behind him, as the hostiles continued to harass the soldiers, he hoped that his shot would not be noticed. At least there was no sound of alarm that would indicate his passing had been discovered, and after a few minutes and no sign of pursuit, he pulled Spades back to a pace the horse could maintain.

  Chapter 8

  With a large full moon rising above the hills before him, he followed the river east, still shivering from his wet clothes as the chill evening air pressed the garments against his skin. On into the night he rode, holding Spades to a ground-eating pace, dismounting every couple of hours to walk and let the horse rest a bit. Fixing the run of the river in his mind, he had to rely on his memory and his instincts to decide where to leave it and take a more northerly line to strike Fort Hays. When he reached a point where the river seemed to bend gently in a more southerly direction, he stopped for a short while to let his horse drink and rest before leaving the Smoky Hill and heading north. If his instincts were right, he figured he was no more than twenty miles from the fort, but he had never approached it from this direction in the dark when all the landmarks looked decidedly different.

  The moon had already passed beyond its highest point in the sky when he came to a lone chalk pillar that he recognized, and realized that he was two miles west of where he had figured to be. Had he continued on that line, he may have missed the fort, but now he at least knew where he was, and corrected his course. Sure of himself then, he pressed Spades for a little faster pace.

  His clothes were almost dry when he spotted the buildings of Fort Hays in the predawn light. A few minutes later, he was challenged by a guard as he approached the outer compound. Taking a quick minute to identify himself and why he was there, he proceeded to the post headquarters building just as the urgent call of the bugle sounded reveille. After hearing Will’s purpose for being there, the lieutenant on duty immediately sent a runner to alert the colonel. In short order, two companies of the Tenth Cavalry were ordered to the field. While they prepared for the march, Will got himself and Spades something to eat. The one hundred and sixty man column under the command of Captain Daniel Forrest, with Will beside him, left the compound before mess call was sounded for the rest of the post.

  Captain John Fischer knelt behind a low hummock covered with bushes and peered out through the branches at the enemy surrounding him. Although he knew there were fully two hundred warriors holding his company hostage, he could spot no real targets within range of his men’s carbines. It was amazing, but equally frustrating to know that there were so many hostiles almost invisible to the eye in the open
prairie right before him. And the only ones he could see clearly were about ten or twelve sitting their horses on the top of a hill comfortably out of rifle range. They were no doubt the chiefs, like generals overlooking the siege.

  The responsibility for the lives of his men weighed heavily on his conscience as he contemplated the possibility of a desperate attempt to break through the ring of hostiles encircling his command. Up to this point, his casualties were light, only because they were able to keep the Indians at bay. But he knew a point would come beyond which he would have to make an offensive move. A few more days would see the depletion of rations for men, horses, and ammunition. Will Cason had said he would be back by this evening, but what if he didn’t show? Fischer had no way of knowing if Cason was able to slip through the hostiles even though his scouts assured him that the hostiles would most likely have let him know. “They’da paraded his body back and forth so you could see it,” Kincaid commented to Lieutenant Bordeaux.

  Fischer’s thoughts were interrupted by a sudden volley of gunfire behind him and he turned to investigate. In a few moments his first sergeant moved up beside him. “Another try by that bunch on the other side of the river,” the first sergeant said. “Maybe we oughta let ’em get some of ’em across so we could kill ’em. At least we’d have something we could see to shoot at.”

  “Make sure the men aren’t wasting ammunition shooting at something they can’t see,” Fischer said. He knew that some of his men would shoot solely out of frustration, and like the food rations, ammunition would also run out if they remained there too long. The night just passed proved to be long and tiring. Although his men had tried to sleep in shifts, no one really got much rest—the Indians saw to that with stray shots and flaming arrowheads throughout the night.

  The day bore on through the noon meal, which was greatly reduced in order to save food, and into the afternoon. As evening approached, Fischer crawled back to the hummock and trained his field glasses on the chiefs on top of the hill. While he watched, a warrior rode up to them and, with excited gestures, delivered a message of some apparent importance—Fischer could only guess. Much to the captain’s surprise, the Indians disappeared from the hilltop. A few minutes later, a shout went up from his men. When he looked to see what had caused the outburst, he was astonished to see warriors pop up from every bit of concealment and retreat to the hills. It appeared they had evacuated the field entirely. After a few minutes passed, the mystery was solved as a long column of cavalry troops appeared near the bend of the river with Will Cason in the lead.

  Surely as dumbfounded as Captain Fischer to see Broken Knife’s warriors retreat from the field, Bloody Hand moved quickly to the riverbank to see what had caused the unexpected turn of events. Thinking of the time he had been tricked by Coyote and the bugle, he paused to listen, but he could hear no bugle. He remained confused over the untimely exodus until moments later when Brave Elk pointed toward the hills where Broken Knife had watched the siege. “Many soldiers!” Brave Elk exclaimed. “No trick!”

  “Augh!” Bloody Hand cried out in frustration. “We can fight the soldiers!” He looked around him at his warriors, all of whom were watching the dark column cresting the hill and descending into the valley. “We must stay and fight.”

  “There are too many,” Brave Elk said, aware of his friend’s passion for eradicating the white man from the Cheyenne’s traditional hunting grounds, a passion that often blinded Bloody Hand’s practical sense.

  Brave Elk’s calm reminder served to restore Bloody Hand’s rational mind, and after a long moment’s thought, he nodded his understanding and called for all to withdraw. Still, he remained, reluctant to leave the siege, while the others quickly stole back to their horses. As usual, the faithful Brave Elk stayed with him, even as the soldiers approached within one hundred yards of the cheering troopers trapped in the bluffs of the river. “They are the Buffalo Soldiers,” Brave Elk said upon recognizing the black troopers of the Tenth Cavalry, so named by the Indians for their dark curly hair, like that of the buffalo.

  Bloody Hand did not respond, transfixed as he was on the scout leading the soldiers. “Coyote,” he uttered in a soft, angry voice. Enraged by the helplessness of his position on this side of the river, too far away to take revenge, he could only glare at the tall figure riding beside the officer. With his own eyes, he had seen the coyote retreat to the river with the other soldiers, yet there he was now, leading more soldiers to fight him. It infuriated him to think that he had slipped by the ring of warriors surrounding the trapped soldiers.

  Feeling the siege had been lifted, many of the encircled soldiers left the cover of the river bluffs to welcome their relief column. Seeing the careless disregard of the soldiers, Bloody Hand grasped the opportunity for a clear target and immediately started firing. Two troopers were cut down before the entire company rose up to return fire. Forced to retreat in the face of the blistering rain of bullets, Bloody Hand and Brave Elk hurried to get to their ponies and chase after their friends. The taking of the two troopers’ lives afforded Bloody Hand some measure of consolation, but his burning hatred for the white coyote continued to spread through his veins like wildfire.

  When it was apparent the last of the Indians had fled, Captain Fischer walked out of the bluffs to greet his relief. He stood there, appraising the two full companies of cavalry as they pulled up before him, and Captain Forrest stepped down to shake hands. “Daniel Forrest,” he said. “Looks like you were in a bit of a tight spot.”

  “John Fischer,” the captain replied. “Indeed I was and I’m damn glad to see you.” He paused then to nod at Will, still seated aboard Spades. “Well done, Cason. We’re all in your debt.”

  “Not at all,” Will replied politely. Then, figuring his job was done, he turned Spades’ head toward the river and left the officers to confer.

  “By God, we can go after those devils and punish them now,” Fischer said, returning his focus back to Captain Forrest. “With three full companies, we can match their numbers.”

  Forrest shook his head apologetically. “Afraid I can’t do that, Captain. My orders are to relieve your company and ensure your safety in returning to your post. Due to the need for these troops to guard wagon trains on the Smoky Hill Trail, I was specifically ordered not to pursue these Cheyenne, and to return immediately to Fort Hays as soon as you were safely on your way back to Fort Dodge.”

  Totally perplexed by Forrest’s answer, Fischer complained. “Jesus, man, this is an opportunity to destroy this band of renegades, burn their village, kill their livestock. It would be pure folly to simply let them go.”

  “I understand what you’re saying,” Forrest replied. “And I totally agree with you. But I’ve got my orders and I can’t turn a blind eye to the need for these troops back at Fort Hays. I’m sorry.” Signaling an end to the discussion then, he said, “Now, if you’ll get your men ready to move out, we’ll ride with you until we’re satisfied there’s no threat from that band again.”

  Bitterly disappointed, but understanding the captain’s position, Fischer again thanked Forrest for pulling him out of a desperate situation and ordered his lieutenants to get the men ready to depart. Sympathetic to Fischer’s point of view, Will shook his head when told that the Indians would not be followed. In his opinion, there would never be a better opportunity to defeat a sizeable band of hostile Indians. They were on the run, and would have little time to evacuate their village with the soldiers right on their heels. But hell, he thought, me and Kincaid ain’t paid to think.

  With time to consider other things now while the company assembled to move out, Will decided it suited him just fine that they were not going after the Cheyenne hostiles. Once again his mind was free to think about Sarah and Emma, and what changes in his life would have to be made if she saw fit to accept a proposal of marriage. Proposal of marriage! The thought sent a cold feeling racing through his veins. This was not the first time he had allowed his mind to even form the words, but each time
he did, it caused the same feeling of blood rushing though his veins. It occurred to him that he might not be bold enough to even broach the subject—she had not been a widow very long. She might think him insensitive and crass for suggesting a marriage of convenience, hoping she would learn to love him as time went by. His mind seemed to go loco just to be in her presence, but he was sure he perceived an interest on her part. I’ll damn sure get up the nerve somehow, he thought. Then he smiled and thought, I’ll tell Emma what’s on my mind. She’ll make sure her mama comes up with the right answer. He was suddenly aware that his mind had drifted far from the riverbank beside him when he realized someone had spoken to him. “What?” he replied, and turned to see Corporal Kincaid pulling up beside him.

  “I said, ‘What’s that silly smile about?’ ”

  “Nothin’,” Will said. “I guess I was just thinkin’ how much better my life will be if I give up this job with the army. Maybe it’s about time.”

  Kincaid’s head cocked back and displayed a questioning face. “And do what?”

  “I don’t know,” Will answered honestly. “Farm, run some cattle, raise horses.” He shrugged, unconcerned.