Ashes of Heaven (The Plainsmen Series)

by Terry C. Johnston

  * * *

  If it hadn’t been for those Cheyenne scouts, Donegan knew in his gut this army would have been little more than a wandering band of tinkers and drummers—stumbling about in the rain and the gloom with little chance of following the enemy’s trail.

  As it was, White Bull, Brave Wolf, and the others led the Irishman, with young Joe Culbertson and Robert Jackson, at the head of the column throughout that drenching ride as the cold sheets of rain lanced sideways at them, carried on the back of a chilling wind. Now Seamus sat huddled in the darkness with the others, reins wrapped around one hand, his other holding that big watch against his ear. Listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of Samantha’s heart in his soul.

  Somehow that unwavering pulse kept at bay the cold, the blackness, the crushing solitude of the night. Water continued to sluice off the wide brim of his hat, some of it spilling inside his collar, raking down his back like the path of a cold, iron box-nail. The canvas mackinaw coat had nearly soaked through, so steady was the unremitting storm. Frosty vapors clotted in front of every face, creating gauzy streamers at the nostrils of every horse and mule.

  The older he grew, the quicker this damp cold stabbed him to the bone, making him weary in the saddle. What with the way it settled in his joints, stiffening them like uncured rawhide, Seamus had begun to wonder just how long he would have the strength to ride out the better part of a day, covering more than those last forty miles in some twelve hours. How long could a less-than-young man take the sort of beating this land dealt those who came to test themselves against it?

  Beyond the high ground to the east, over yonder in the country of the Powder and of the Tongue, a thin, mica-shaded grayness was a’birthing, faintly reflected along the edge of the hills. Its coming gave him a small measure of relief. Perhaps the storm had spent itself. With the coming of this new day’s light, they could be back at their task of tracking the Lakota. From the trail-sign, he could tell the village wasn’t a big one, not like many Seamus had seen. But then, the enemy camp might be as small as the one Reynolds had jumped on the Powder more than a year back. As small as the one Frank Grouard and Captain Anson Mills bumped into last September.

  But nowhere near as big as that village Mackenzie destroyed along the Red Fork of the Powder River. Nothing close to approaching the inconceivable size of that string of camps Custer had pitched into beside the Little Bighorn. One huge crescent of tipi rings after another Seamus and Grouard had stumbled across as they probed north, anxious to provide Crook with word of General Terry’s and Colonel Gibbon’s columns operating south of the Yellowstone.

  No, this wasn’t a big village—but likely a dangerous camp, what with the many young hot-bloods along for the adventure, those youthful holdouts who were likely to throw in with the last chief to offer them this grab at fleeting glory.

  But with help from men like White Bull, the hounds would soon have that den of foxes surrounded, cowed, and on their way back to the reservations.

  He almost felt sorry for those Sioux out there—not realizing what they had coming at them: this army, its cavalry spearhead, and these trail-toughened doughboys. Not to mention their commander, a man driven, obsessed to close out a conflict no one else had been able to end.

  Seamus felt a pang of regret for the enemy out there in this cold, wet coming of dawn—realizing that, had the circumstances of his birth been far different, he would be out there with them, sleeping in that camp with his wife and son, fully prepared to offer his flesh and bone to protect their lives. As it was, he was born in faraway Ireland, come as a youngster to distant Amerikay. No longer a Patlander was he—now Donegan realized he was as American as any, a yonderer, a plainsman.

  Some of the Cheyenne were stirring now, just yards away, slowly getting to their feet, ripping up clusters of grass they used to brush the drenching moisture from the backs of their ponies before replacing the dampened blankets.

  “Time for your husband to go back to work,” he whispered, reluctantly taking the watch from where it had grown warm against his ear. For a moment, he stared down at its face, trying to conjure hers cupped there in both of his hands—then he kissed the rain-splattered crystal, as if it really were her warm, wet mouth. And stuffed the watch back inside the vest pocket where it would remain as dry as possible beneath his canvas mackinaw grown heavy with the relentless rain.

  Recalling that incomplete map George Crook was forced to use in last spring’s campaign to the Rosebud, Seamus remembered that the country west of this creek vaulted itself in a rugged divide separating the waters of the Rosebud from that of a series of streams called Tullock’s Forks. They likely spilled on down to the Bighorn, if not the Little Bighorn.

  As he stood slowly, becoming accustomed to the stab of damp pain in his joints from sitting too long on the cold, wet ground, Donegan wondered if the Sioux were returning to the seat of their glory—the Little Bighorn. Were they hurrying over these Wolf Mountains to drop down to that valley where they sent Custer and his five companies to their fates?

  Or was he only trying to manufacture some dramatic climax for this Sioux War—wanting to believe that this last band of Sioux holdouts was racing back to reach that field of victory, there to make their final, glorious stand against the inevitable?

  The men muttered and coughed around him now, grumbling at their sergeants for the lack of sleep, at the kicks from those boot-toes it took to get them off the soggy ground. The men stumbled bleary-eyed and soaked with sweat beneath their India-rubber ponchos to the edge of the brush to relieve themselves, to hack up the night-gather from the backs of their throats, then turning back to tighten cinches and replace bits on protesting horses and balky mules.

  Seamus turned to gaze south after he had thrown the saddle blanket on the back of his claybank mare. Surely the Sioux could hear this army coming—so noisy was this band of wet, miserably cold, and weary fighting men. Miles would whip them into line, he figured, then move them out the way Crook kept his column marching through day after day of soaking rains last autumn. That ragged column had first stalked an elusive Indian village, fell to searching for a route to the Black Hills, then ultimately stumbled and lurched southward in hopes of finding its salvation before the men died of starvation, died of despair in the wilderness.

  Yanking up on the cinch, jabbing it back down through the cold, steel ring, Donegan knew this army was different. Now they had a fresh trail. And they had Cheyenne trackers. Besides, they had Nelson A. Miles—an Indian fighter if ever there was one. While Crook and Terry might dawdle and ruminate and filly-faddle, the Bear Coat was a man who took the fight right to the enemy.

  He was not the sort of man to order men into battle. Instead, like Custer, Miles was a man to lead his troops right into that fight.

  “Mr. Donegan.”

  Turning, Seamus discovered the colonel’s young adjutant approaching. “You found me.”

  “The general would like a word with you.”

  “Only me?”

  The lieutenant’s eyes flicked over to glance at Rowland. “Said you could bring along the squawman.”

  “Bill,” Donegan called out. “Miles wants to see us.”

  Rising from the ground where he was retying his wet moccasins, the white man stepped over as the Cheyenne scouts looked on with great interest. “Likely the general’s gonna give us our orders for the day.”

  * * *

  As the new light emerged out of the east, White Bull led the other scouts south along the hills west of the Roseberry River.*

  Behind him rode Long Knife and that gray-eyed ve-ho-e who possessed a good smile, the sort that caused White Bull to believe the tall one was a fair and open man. But there were enough lines at the corners of the ve-ho-e’s eyes, creases and crevices that ran from the edges of his nose into the hair on his face that led White Bull to realize the man wore a virtual war-map of his life. Each flaw a story of trial, tragedy, and eventual triumph.

  Just the way White Bull was himself marked
with the seasons of his life, all those joyous springs … and all those terrible winters.

  Of a sudden he remembered Noisy Walking, his son who had chosen to die in the fight they all knew was coming when the soldier chief led his men to attack that village camped beside the Little Sheep River. It hurt anew to remember how a mortally-wounded Noisy Walking had begged his father for water that evening after the soldiers had been wiped off the earth, just as the Everywhere Spirit had promised. But White Bull could not grant his son that simple, yet precious, drink of cooling water. Now White Bull was scouting for the ve-ho-e soldiers who had killed his son.

  Long Knife and the tall one returned from speaking to the Bear Coat, declaring it was time for them to move out in advance of the soldiers. While Brave Wolf and a young half-breed rode through the spotty brush half-way down the hillside, White Bull led the others higher up, tracking just below the skyline so they wouldn’t chance being spotted by distant eyes. After all, they were following a village of those who had once been old friends. Not just Lakota, but Ohmeseheso too. Those who had joined the Mnikowoju chief, Lame Deer, those refusing to go either north or south to surrender. Following this close on the enemy’s back-trail, White Bull was sure Lame Deer would have wolves out in the hills, watching for the soldiers whom he had dared to catch his people unprepared.

  At first White Bull grew furious with the Lakota chief for enticing the Shahiyela deserters to join his warrior band, for offering them a hollow, empty promise. Eventually, as the morning wore on, he grew saddened for those among his people who hadn’t gone south with Little Wolf and Morning Star, for those who hadn’t come north to surrender to the Bear Coat. He found his heart filled with a deep ache for those who once again had joined their hopes with another ill-fated leader.

  Like those who had believed Last Bull in the valley of the Red Fork, assured the old way would live on, believing that the People would survive in glory and greatness, unable to realize their day was passing, unable to admit that the sun was setting on the magnificence and majesty that was the Ohmeseheso—

  For a long moment White Bull wasn’t sure what it was. Although not nearly close enough to smell Lame Deer’s camp, the holy man drank a deep breath of air becoming drier already this morning. He glanced at the sun just then touching his left shoulder, rising in the brilliant blue sky. Yes, the air was nowhere near as damp as it had been yesterday and last night. Smoke might well rise rather than be weighed down, heavy and wet.

  Turning to look downhill at Brave Wolf, he could tell his friend was just then spotting the faraway smudge against the hills himself. Brave Wolf gazed up at White Bull, pointing quickly.

  He nodded at Brave Wolf, waving his friend up the slope as he halted. The young half-breed from the north country kicked his heels into his horse and followed Brave Wolf up the side of the hill, clucking at the animal as it struggled, lunging over the broken, brushy ground.

  “Long Knife, do you see the smoke?” White Bull asked the squawman when he came up to join the rest.

  Rowland said something to the white man and they both took what seemed to be a long time to study the distant hills.

  “I cannot see the smoke,” the squawman admitted. “Where do you see this smoke?”

  Urging his pony closer to Rowland’s, White Bull brought his left arm up and laid it against the squawman’s right cheek, pointing to the faraway horizon. Then Rowland rubbed his eyes and muttered something to the gray-eyed ve-ho-e. The tall one said something to the two half-breeds. But both of them squinted, then shook their heads.

  “Can’t see it, White Bull,” Rowland confessed. “How far away?”

  He took but a moment to calculate the distance to the village as the red-tailed hawk would fly from where they sat atop their horses. Perhaps a long day’s ride across broken country, without pushing one’s animal too harshly—but a lot of climbing and descending. That, or winding along the tortuous curves of the Roseberry itself. If a hawk flew straight from here—

  “Not quite a full day’s ride,” he concluded thoughtfully. “Not a half-day’s ride either.” Then in a swift gesture he tomahawked the edge of his flat right hand down upon the open palm of his left hand. “Half the afternoon.”

  When Long Knife turned to say something to the gray-eyed ve-ho-e, a smile was spawned across that tall man’s face.

  Chapter 33

  6 May 1877

  “Culbertson,” Donegan called, waving the young half-breed closer. “Dig out them field glasses of yours.”

  While Joe Culbertson inched his horse closer to the Irishman, he twisted round in the saddle and yanked at the pair of buckles securing the flap to his off-hand saddlebag. All around them, the Indian trackers were talking quietly among themselves, a few pointing to the south, others gazing off left and right to study the nearby heights or glancing back to the north to assure themselves of the column’s advance.

  “Couple of the Cheyenne must’ve got themselves spooked,” Seamus said as Culbertson held out the field glasses to him. Want to make sure the army is close at hand, what with just spotting the enemy—

  “Donegan,” Rowland interrupted him as Robert Jackson dragged out his pair of field glasses and brought them to his eyes, “Brave Wolf just said both him and White Bull can see ponies grazing on the hills yonder.”

  Seamus blinked his eyes, rubbed at them, then blinked some more, before he put Culbertson’s field glasses against the bridge of his nose. These damned Injins seen smoke, and now a pony herd off where I don’t see nothing but those hills brushing the sky.

  As he slowly twisted the inner wheel, the far horizon ground into focus—right there where the green of those distant heights met the flawless blue sky. Maybeso … He gradually inched the field glasses down, there—a bit of a smudge against the ridges—down across the countryside at the base of the bluffs. But for the life of him, he couldn’t make out the horse herd.

  “Can’t see no ponies,” he grumbled, tearing the field glasses from his eyes and blinking them from the strain of trying so damned hard.

  Young Jackson looked over at him and instructed, “Look for some worms crawling on the eastern hills.” Then the half-breed put his field glasses back against his eyes.

  “Let Rowland have himself a look, Bob,” Seamus requested as he positioned the field glasses for another look.

  Worms, they said. Crawling on the hills. Worms.

  He sighed, staring, concentrating again. When out hunting, a man had to look for something that didn’t fit. Something out of place—only then would he spot his quarry: the deer, elk, or antelope. Something that didn’t quite fit.

  Worms! By the bloody saints—it looked like a small cluster of bleeming worms!

  “I see ’em, old man,” he breathlessly declared to Rowland without taking his eyes off the distant sight.

  He had yet to spot any lodges, but hell, it didn’t matter! They saw the smoke, and there was the pony herd! Not a big one, but no other band was going to be out hunting in this country.

  Rowland asked with a grim countenance, “So you see their herd?”

  “I saw the worms, yeah,” Donegan replied as he took the glasses from his face and smiled at the squawman.

  “Smoke too?”

  “Damn right. That too.”

  Rowland handed the field glasses back to Jackson, quickly glancing at the position of the sun as it neared midsky. “Smoke means they ain’t moving for the day, Donegan. And they got them ponies out to graze.”

  “They’re still in camp,” Seamus agreed. “Means they’ll be in camp ’least till morning—”

  “If Miles can get this army anywhere close to that village by sunup,” Rowland interrupted with a doubtful wag of his head. “We got some ground to cover afore then.”

  “I’ll lay my month’s wages this bunch’ll do it,” Donegan declared. “Just like Mackenzie done it.”

  For a moment Rowland chewed on his chapped upper lip. “But you ’member: Mackenzie had more men along when he come to jump
that camp, Irishman. Even then, we rode in after sunup and got ourselves pinned down all day—”

  “Miles is gonna get the job done, Bill,” he shut off the squawman.

  “Leastways,” Rowland sighed deeply, “this time my wife don’t have no family in there.”

  Reading the struggle there on the squawman’s face, Seamus laid a hand on Rowland’s shoulder. “Just remember, there can’t be much of a fight come sunup. Only enough for them sojurs to capture the village and run off the herd.”

  “Said you’d bet your month’s wages on it, eh?”

  Asked to show his cards, Donegan swallowed. “Yeah, I will.” And he held out his hand to shake hands with the grinning squawman. “Now, what say we get back down to tell Miles what his Cheyenne found?”

  When Donegan announced the news, the colonel was beside himself, galloping on ahead of the column for that spot where the other scouts were waiting so he could confirm the presence of the enemy village for himself.

  “By Jupiter, all I can claim to see is a fine mist, or cloud, against those hills,” Miles admitted as he squinted into the distance. Holding out his hand to his adjutant, he took the field glasses from Lieutenant Baird.

  Everyone waited breathlessly while the colonel studied the countryside.

  “That’s smoke all right!” he eventually cheered, clearly exuberant at this discovery. “And there! I see the herd! Their ponies!”

  “Rowland and me, we figure they’re laying in camp today,” Donegan explained.

  “Then we’ll approach under cover of darkness,” Miles declared. He looked through the glasses again, finally bringing them away from his face to say, “Four or five of you, I want to slip up on the village and learn what you can of their strengths, how the camp is laid out, where the herd is in relation to the tipis. Every intelligence you can bring back to me.”