McAllister Fights

by Matt Chisholm

  Tom was up ahead now with a corporal and two men, scouting the forward areas. Anderson wasn’t taking any chances. He had flankers out too on either side.

  He thrilled with excitement, knowing that risk was as intoxicating to him as drink was to a drunkard. He was gambling everything and if he won his name would once more be a byword in the nation, it would be emblazoned on every newspaper headline in the country. Another victory like the one he had last winter and his critics would be silenced. All he had to do was crush that village of savages up ahead. Right was on his side – Cheyenne bucks had run wild through Kansas, killing, burning and raping. Children had been carried off, horses stolen, stage-coach lines had ceased to run because of the danger. He did not admit to himself that many of the stories told were gross exaggerations. The two score warriors who had ridden with Two Bulls had been increased in the tales told to several hundred; a few horse-lifting tribesmen had become hundreds. It was ever so on the frontier.

  A small flurry of movement in advance of the toiling column lifted his eyes.

  A horseman came as fast as he could through the snow.

  The general turned to Major Carpell at his side.

  “Action ahead, major.”

  The major said: “Action on the right flank too, general.”

  Anderson turned his head and saw a rider coming down the ridge to the east, signalling frantically to the column and then riding on quickly.

  Instinctively, the general glanced west. Nothing.

  Within minutes the first horseman heaved his animal to a halt, turned it and rode alongside the general, saluting as he did so.

  “There’s Indians ahead, general, sir.”

  “How many?”

  “Mr. Mangold reckons more’n three hundred.”

  That shook Anderson a little, but he knew that Mangold, though a first-class scout, was a born liar.

  The man from the east came pounding up, saluting.

  “Indians on the right flank, general, sir.”

  “How many?”

  “I’d put ’em at around a hundred, sir.”

  “Major.”

  “Sir?”

  “We’ll have a rearguard out. Not stronger than twenty men and don’t put ’em too far back.”

  “Sir.”

  The major turned his horse back down the still moving column to give his orders. A sergeant raised his bull voice. Part of the rear troop halted and turned their horses south. They started pulling their carbines from their saddle-boots. The talking stopped. Suddenly, there was a tensing of nerves. Every man there knew what this meant. They were caught in the open by the Indians and nobody liked it. The way to fight a war was either to surprise the enemy or be behind good cover. To be caught in the open on horseback by a band of wild-riding warriors wasn’t what a man joined for.

  Snagge, the burly top-sergeant riding behind the general said: “Left flanker comin’ in, general, sir.”

  Within minutes the man was in, reporting that there were Indians on his flank. He reckoned them at something like fifty in number. He hadn’t looked too close, but it seemed an awful lot of ’em were armed with rifles. They were headed in toward the column.

  “Keep moving,” the general ordered. “Don’t stop for anything. I want that village before it moves.”

  They plodded on stolidly through the snow, the men with chins on either shoulder now, watching the flanks, but not seeing any Indians. The scouting party from ahead came pounding back and this time they came with a flurry of shots after them. Indians came into sight ahead of the column, no more than tiny dark dots on the white snow. They sat their ponies and stared at the column for a while and then drifted away. Old Tom Mangold was a little flustered when he reported to the general. There was a heap of Indians up ahead and they were sure painted for war. They were all mounted, but the old man reckoned there wasn’t a lot of run in their ponies. Still, there was a lot of Indians and the general better pick a spot to fort up in.

  “There’ll be no forting up, Mangold,” Anderson snapped. “I want that village. Did you sight it?”

  “Not the village itself, general. But I saw smoke in the direction of Goose Creek.”

  “How are we for direction?”

  “Turn a leetle mite to the north-west, general, an’ you got ‘er. But they’ll be waitin’ for you in there. If there’s all these here bucks out you kin bet your boots it’s a tidy village down there an’ even mebbe more fightin’ men.”

  “They’ll be packing to move,” the general cried. “We’ll catch ’em on the hip. Mr. Gorman, give the order to trot.”

  Gorman yelled a command. The sergeants took it up. The column quickened its pace to a lumbering trot. They thundered and rattled their way into the north-west. Suddenly, the general felt the need to sing. This was the action he loved.

  A faint crackle of sound brought his attention to the east. He couldn’t see them, but he knew there were Indians on the ridge in that direction, bellied down and firing on the column. The distance was great, but the air was suddenly filled with flying lead.

  They ran on for a mile and he knew that the Indians ahead were drifting away ahead of them or working around to join the others on the flanks. Firing came from the rear and, turning in the saddle, he saw that the rearguard had dismounted and were kneeling in the snow firing steadily. He saw mounted Indians now riding scattered out between the ridges, firing and gesturing at the troopers. They rode backward and forward to little purpose and after a few minutes they seemed to have enough and withdrew to a distance. The rearguard mounted and trotted after the column.

  The command slowed its pace as it came to a slope and strained up it. Halfway up, firing broke out ahead and lead sang among the soldiers, but nobody was hit. The general gave the order for the column to swing around in line and they came raggedly around. As soon as they were in line, he gave the order to charge and they lumbered on up the incline, firing as they went. When they reached the top of the slope, there were no Indians there. They were a half-mile away, drifting ahead of the column.

  Anderson led the way down the other side of the ridge after he had given the horses a breather. The country seemed to close in a little now so that the riflemen on either side of the advancing column were now closer. The column suffered its first casualty. A trooper was winged in the right arm, but he was able to keep his saddle and nobody stopped. They swept clumsily on until the firing became so thick that the general gave the order for Gorman to take his troop and clear the eastern ridge of Indians. The young lieutenant led his men, carbines away and revolvers out. They surged untidily up the ridge, their guns popping, heaved to the top and stayed there for a while, shooting and resting. They came slowly down off the ridge, bringing with them one wounded man riding double with a fellow, the loose horse running behind. As soon as they were back with the column, the Indians appeared on the ridge again, yelling their derision at the soldiers, making obscene gestures with their hands.

  Anderson’s face started to set grimly.

  Turning in the saddle, he said to Carpell: “What would you do now, major?”

  “Find high ground and defend it, sir,” the major answered without hesitation.

  The general’s face flushed.

  “I never defend anything sir,” he shouted. “I only attack.”

  The men were starting to look really worried now. Sergeant Dolan’s voice could be heard bellowing out his encouragement. He had been under fire more times than he could remember and it apparently held no fear for him.

  The country continued to close in until the ridges were to within a hundred yards of either flank of the column. The fire from the Indians grew fiercer, the galloping riders could now clearly hear the shouts of the Indians above the muffled thunder of the racing hoofs. Even the general now seemed to appear anxious.

  He turned in the saddle to the major and shouted: “I want a sudden turn into line, major. Pass the word back to the men to expect the order. The whole command charges that ridge, takes it
and then turns again into column and goes ahead.”

  The major bellowed at the top-sergeant who passed back the word. The general made a small flamboyant gesture. He’d show the men that he still had the dash he had shown during the Civil War. He put the horse’s reins between his teeth and drew his pearl-handled Colts.

  They dashed on for another fifty yards, then the general turned and nodded to his second-in-command. The major bawled the order and turned his horse to the right. He had to give Anderson credit. The man was ahead of him, guiding his horse with his knees, headed straight for the slope of the ridge, spurring his mount.

  The whole command turned in its tracks and there was a frightful jumble of mounts and men as they turned into line. Sergeants screamed their orders. Young Gorman dashed away from the body of the column, spurring his horse savagely for the ridge. But the general was already twenty yards ahead of him, firing with each gun alternately just like a hero in a dime novel. Several Indians on foot rose from the snow there and fired at him almost point-blank, but apparently his life was charmed and he did not fall, but swung his horse toward them and charged down on them, both guns going. They fled. In seconds the ridge was theirs.

  The men showed every inclination to stop. The horses were winded by the steep and rapid climb, but the general would have none of it.

  “Into column! Into column!” he cried. “Keep ’em on the move. All you’ll find here is a grave, boys. Lead on, major.”

  They shuffled their horses around and got on the move again, the men red-faced and swearing openly; their formation was anyhow and the sergeants moved this way and that yelling them into line. The Indians had withdrawn into scattered timber to the east, using the tree trunks as cover and their firing started again now. They were safe there for nobody but a fool would send horsemen into timber against a dismounted foe.

  The column lurched forward again, the general leading with the major on one side and Tom Mangold on the other. They covered another quarter-mile when the ridge petered out and brought them down on to the flat again. Suddenly, they were free of Indians. They went on for a couple of miles at a brisk trot without seeing a single Indian and the men started to feel better, but it was not long before they spotted a large knot of horsemen off to the left.

  The general turned to Carpell.

  “They’ll try hit and run now for a bit, major,” he shouted. “Then, when we get near the village, they’ll have to make a stand. That’s when we go through ’em like a knife through butter.”

  The major wasn’t so damned sure about that, but he was too long in the tooth to say so.

  The general proved right.

  The knot of horsemen started racing their ponies on a parallel course to that of the column, every man riding superbly, but the major knew they wouldn’t keep that up for too long, for their ponies were too weak on winter diet. They could maybe make one attack and then some other mounted men would have to take over.

  Suddenly, the Indians darted to the right and came in on the column. It seemed that they had no sooner done so than they were racing alongside the column, firing point-blank into the ranks. The troopers tried to snap shots at the swiftly moving targets, but no Indian was seen to fall from his horse. One soldier was wounded and another died in the saddle. Men turned back to pick him up as he fell into the snow, but the general rode back along the men shouting for them to keep moving. There was an untidy jam of horsemen as they rode into one another, then slowly they straightened out. The Indians were gone, disappearing over the nearest ridge.

  No sooner had they done so than Tom Mangold shouted and pointed to the east. Another bunch of racing horsemen bore down on them.

  “Mr. Gorman,” Anderson bawled, riding back down the column again. “Take your troop and stop them. Get on now. Move.”

  Gorman shouted. His troop swung into line from the center of the column and started heavily toward the lightly mounted Indians. The column continued on its way, every man turning in the saddle to see what the outcome of the meeting would be. But the troop, though it charged down on the Indians, never met them. The Cheyenne scattered from ahead of them like a covey of wild birds, splitting into two parties on either side of the troop. Then, suddenly, they were to the rear of the troop, united once more and headed in toward the soldiers.

  The troop was endeavouring to turn and meet them, but the horses were too heavy to make such a maneuver swiftly and the men too unskilled. They were half around when the Indians seemed to dart amongst them. The column watched men tumble from the saddle, a horse went down screaming. A soldier was down running, a savage rider bore down on him and the lance drove through from back to breast.

  “General,” Carpell shouted, “they’re in trouble.”

  “They certainly are, sir,” said the general. “If young Gorman doesn’t get them out of it pretty damned quick I’ll reduce him to the ranks.”

  One moment the Indians were among them, the next they were gone, riding back out of gunshot, their lack-stamina ponies going slowly now. The command thought Gorman would go after them, but he did not. His troop stopped dead, shocked and confused by the rapid striking power of their foe. Men dismounted to help unhorsed and wounded comrades. Raging, Anderson brought the command to a halt, ordering men to dismount and take up positions to shoot from the knee and over the backs of their horses. Indians came out of the west, coming no nearer than just within rifle range and lobbing shots at the column. The soldiers poured back a withering fire and this time it was the Indians who lost men. Certainly, they were badly shaken by the fierceness of the fire, dismayed by the number of braves who either toppled from their horses or went down in a kicking heap with the animals. They quickly lifted up their dead and wounded and departed, flogging their weak horses into a semblance of a run. The sight cheered the soldiers a little. Lieutenant Gorman and his troop limped back to the column and the general stormed down the line to him, raging at him in front of the men, an unforgiveable thing to do in that man’s army, but the general had never been one to care for convention. He was mad because he had been brought to a halt. The Indians had not been able to do it, but one of his own officers had. Leaving one more man hating him, he rode back to the head of the column and ordered the advance.

  The column moved slowly forward with the Indians hovering irresolutely just out of gunshot, desperately wanting to stop the soldiers before they came within sight of the village but not daring to come in close now. But Anderson knew that their courage would return when the village was in sight. Courage would come to them when they saw their women and children were in danger. He might despise Indians in general, but he knew the Cheyenne could fight like devils when they were cornered.

  They pushed on five miles, firing now and then to keep the Indians back.

  Suddenly, old Tom Mangold clapped his glasses to his eyes.

  “Somebody comin’ up ahead, gineral. Looks like a white flag.”

  The general raised his own glasses to his eyes.

  “By God, Mangold,” he said, “you’re right.”

  They advanced another quarter-mile before Anderson called another halt. The column heaved to a stop. The order was to break out the packs on the mules and for fresh ammunition to be issued to the men. The Indians on the flanks stopped and stared at them from the backs of their ponies. Pennons fluttered in the slight breeze; ponies fidgetted.

  As the party up ahead came nearer, all eyes were on them. A murmur of dismay went along the ragged line of mounted warriors. In the lead of the small party of horsemen was their chief, Many Horses.

  Chapter 7

  General Anderson waited until the party of advancing Indians halted. Then he smiled and said: “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He turned in the saddle. “Major, you take command of the column while I’m up ahead. If I’m foolish enough to get myself killed, your orders are to go ahead and destroy the village. Is that understood?”

  The major nodded.

  “Yes, general.”

  “Good. Tom, I want
you and Sergeant Dolan. Where’s Sergeant Dolan?” The sergeant’s name was cried down the line and that worthy appeared, trotting his horse along the column. He saluted when he came to a halt. “Be ready with your weapons, lads, you’re going to need ’em. We’re going to give these treacherous devils a lesson they’ll likely never forget. Forward, now.”

  The general led the way on his magnificent white horse, the scout and the sergeant following closely behind. Two hundred yards out from the troops, the general halted and raised his hand in salute to the Indians who were perhaps another two hundred yards further on. There was a slight hesitation on the Indians’ part before Many Horses, matching the size of the general’s party, came forward with two other chiefs.

  He came slowly and with dignity, walking his pony as though nothing in the world would hurry him.

  The Indians out on either hand started to edge in, a fact that Anderson did not miss. As soon as Many Horses came to a halt, Anderson said: “Tom, tell him if those damned Indians come any nearer my men will fire on them.”

  Mangold interpreted. The chief cried out in a loud voice and made signs to the warriors. They halted, eyeing the general hungrily, but scarcely within gunshot.

  Anderson was giving the renowned chief a close inspection, thinking to himself: So this is the great Many Horses the eastern newspapers write so much about. Why, he’s nothing but a dirty old savage. Is this the man everybody’s afraid of?

  He looked beyond the chief to the sub-chiefs behind him, sitting like bundles of muck in their buffalo robes on their scrawny ponies. By God, it was almost an insult to ask a soldier to fight them. But when his eyes went further back to the knot of horsemen beyond the one immediately in front of him, he received something of a shock. There were the remaining chiefs and the warriors from the village and the warriors were ready to charge. They held their lances and their rifles at the ready. Any wrong move on the part of the general was going to bring them down on him fast. Something inside the man momentarily quailed. But he was determined. He had ridden out here with only two men with his mind made up. He was going to take the fight out of the Cheyenne here and now.