“Me too,” replied Mamanti, glancing at Lone Wolf.
He nodded. “If we keep fighting like this—there will be no scalps for the young men. No presents for the women.”
Mamanti laughed. “We dare not go back to camp without presents.”
Lone Wolf chuckled along with Big Red Meat. “That is right,” the Kiowa said. “The women already know about this wagon train and they will not be denied their presents!”
“I think we should make the wagon train stop so we can fight this out,” Big Red Meat suggested.
“Yes,” Mamanti agreed.
Lone Wolf considered, his eyes scanning the countryside ahead of the white man’s long train of wagons. “There,” and he pointed. “The trail they are on will take them to that creek. The banks are steep. The wagons and their mules will be slow in crossing. It is there our warriors must press our all-out attack.”
* * *
Normally the wagons on the trail were kept some twenty yards apart. But now every driver’s team was nosing the rear of the wagon in front of him.
All morning long, almost from those first shots, the Indians had been racing up and down the column, pushing here and there against Lieutenant West’s cavalry, troopers doing a splendid job of keeping the van cleared for the first wagon. And now, with the sun at mid-heaven, James McKinley wondered if Captain Lyman intended on making this a running fight for the rest of the day. While the screeching voices fell about them like hammer strikes on an iron tire, the soldiers kept firing, marching, reloading and firing again when they had a target—although most of the time the brown, painted riders galloped by in nothing more threatening than a grand display of their horsemanship. Some hung from the far sides of their ponies, others sat erect, daring the soldiers to shoot them from their animals. And a courageous few actually stood atop the backs of the lunging, leaping ponies that raced up and down the length of the caravan, lending a touch of the traveling circus to their wild display of horsemanship.
All these young, green soldiers, thought McKinley as he watched the skirmish progress through the day—young soldiers, each one dreaming of smooth-skinned bodies, and until this morning counting down the hours of march until beans for supper. How well McKinley knew that soldiers dream of only three things: grub, whiskey when they could afford it, and women when they could find them. But always a soldier thought of whiskey and women. Not such bad things for a man to dwell on …
Up ahead in the broken, austere country, McKinley caught a glimpse of the beckoning line of green that signaled they were coming to a creek. And there, would be forced to make a crossing. Forced to slow their pace for the teams ahead descending the sharp creek banks with brakes set and teams grunting against their loads, the teamsters would become more of a target. But there at the creekbank was just where Captain Lyman was, swirling ’round and ’round on his horse, shouting orders and encouragement as the first team with wagonmaster Sandford nosed warily down to the ford, trace chains jangling, axles squealing, accompanied by snorts and hoof thuds from the team, whipcracks and a fair measure of curses from Sandford himself.
A second, then a third rumbled down the steep bank as the first team began its climb up the far side of Gageby Creek. The Washita itself could not be far now.
Of a sudden the air erupted with even more wild screeching and gunfire, sounds so hot McKinley believed those war whoops could have burned a man’s ears off. On three sides the warriors charged in now, catching most of the wagons bunched as the teamsters were forced to grind to a halt for the crossing. An advantage worth pressing.
“First and second squads—left oblique!” Lyman shouted, his voice cracking like a quirt on still air as he waved an arm wildly at the brown horsemen racing for them.
In a whirl of dust the captain wheeled his frightened mount and shouted to the far side of the train. “Sergeant deArmond! Third and fourth squads—right oblique!”
With only a salute, the trail-worn veteran sergeant prodded his well-trained troops into a defensive formation.
With orders barked up and down both columns of infantry, I Company hurried forward, the two wings spreading like the sides of an arrow point, slowly, gradually, noisily and not without casualties, pushing the charging, screaming warriors back, foot by foot, then yard by yard, from the crossing.
Their grit held fast that day.
One after another the wagons rumbled down the bank, through the water then up again to cross Gageby Creek as the air grew hotter still, filled with the angry, snarling wasps of lead and iron-tipped arrows. In amazement, James McKinley watched the young, mustached Lyman on the far side of the creek, sitting tall in the saddle, his service revolver in hand, signaling, prodding, urging the teamsters across the ford, forming those who made the climb up the dusty rise into a corral of their wagons.
McKinley was in the creek and driving his mules up the slippery side slashed by many an iron wagon tire when he heard the pleas for help behind him. He turned to see a young teamster grow petrified when his own team balked at the edge of the water, whipping their heads and fighting the reins.
Sergeant Nicholas deArmond spun toward the creek on foot, splashing past McKinley, bellering for a couple of men to come with him. The old sergeant never made it to the wagon.
As James watched, deArmond stopped suddenly in midstream, as if he had been brought upright by a bolt of lightning. He began to clutch at his back, then fell facedown, arms akimbo, into the shallow stream.
Right behind the sergeant, the two privates were scooping deArmond’s body out of the summertime flow of Gageby Creek with that next breath, dragging him toward the faltering team. Together they hoisted the sergeant’s soggy body into the back of the freight wagon then splashed to the front pair of mules. There they whipped and prodded and beat and cursed the animals across as more lead slapped the water around them.
In a matter of minutes the last of the thirty-six wagons made the crossing and closed Lyman’s corral on the far side of Gageby Creek.
The siege began.
* * *
This kind of warfare would take longer for his young men to win, Lone Wolf realized. But at least the wagons were no longer moving. The white man and his plunder were going nowhere now.
One great charge, then another, the warriors made on that wagon corral. The fighting became furious as the hundreds of warriors then attempted to draw closer and closer still on foot. It was a time of great glory for the young ones: to perform brave deeds and earn many coups.
But to Lone Wolf’s consternation, the white men held the warriors off. Time and again, charge after charge, the warriors fell back, unable to breech that ring of wagons and mules and flaming muzzles.
“We will have to wait them out,” Lone Wolf told Mamanti and Big Red Meat.
The other two regarded the sky.
“The sun has made half its journey already,” Big Red Meat said, sounding dissatisfied with what Lone Wolf had suggested.
He would not let the Comanche’s doubt nettle him. “There is always tomorrow, when the sun will rise again. We can wait.”
“But the white man will try to make it to water,” Mamanti said.
“We both remember the fight where I avenged the death of my son.” He watched Mamanti nod with a smile. “Be assured there will be a few mice that flee the den to go for water,” he told them. “All we have to do … is wait.”
* * *
In the first of those wild, screaming, noisy charges, Lieutenant Granville Lewis was knocked from his perch atop a wagon seat, shot through the knee and crying in agony. Two soldiers near Lewis dragged him out of the wagon and onto the ground, where one of them ripped off a belt and tried to stop the flow of blood. The Indian bullet had clipped a big artery in the back of the lieutenant’s knee. In moments Lewis fell quiet, no longer thrashing about, his face ashen. Any man who looked at the lieutenant knew he had quickly plummeted into shock and likely was close to death already from loss of blood.
“Make him as comfortable
as you can,” Wyllys Lyman told the soldiers, then turned away, his eyes momentarily touching James McKinley.
“You’ve been under fire before, haven’t you? Fight in the rebellion?” Lyman asked.
McKinley shook his head. “Not old enough.”
“Where then?”
“Adobe Walls.”
Lyman smiled. “By blue Jesus, I’m glad to have you here with me today, Mister…?”
“McKinley. James.”
Lyman nodded thoughtfully, then was gone suddenly, trotting off to the far side of the corral, where they were hollering for him from the low depression of an old buffalo wallow.
Hell, McKinley thought, these red bastards got us so far over the barrel at this crossing that our asses are pointing sun-high. James swallowed hard, watching Lyman go, then replied in a low whisper, “I ain’t so damned glad to be here with you today, Lieutenant.”
For the rest of the afternoon and on into the first streaks of twilight coming down on the prairie, the warriors fired sniping shots at the soldiers and civilians taking shelter behind the wagons. When they could, the warriors tried to hit the mules. For the most part they were making more of a nuisance of themselves than posing a serious threat, now that they had ceased mounting their concerted charges.
Without so much as a word of it being spoken, every man in that corral knew what their situation was: halfway between the Miles cantonment and Fort Supply. And what water they had was in their canteens and water barrels, along with a little murky, scum-covered rainwater slowly drying in that old buffalo wallow on the far side of the corral.
How many days would it be before Miles realized the wagon train was late? How many more days would it take for the relief Miles would send to make it here, scare off the warriors and lift the siege and save their hash?
From time to time the bullets flew past his ear and over his head like angry hornets. Sometimes they struck something more than the canvas tops on some of the wagons, smacking into the iron bows, or slamming into the oak and ash barrels of flour and sugar and coffee. In the center of the corral the soldiers had stacked the precious boxes of ammunition. One thing was certain, this bunch wasn’t going to run out of ammunition, McKinley chided himself. Water might become a real problem—but they had enough cartridges to hold off every warrior on the entire southern plains if they had to.
Beneath the purple glow of twilight, Lyman ordered his soldiers to begin work on rifle pits that would completely surround the wagon corral. With their bayonets, their pocketknives, tin cups and plates and lengths of board torn from opened ammunition crates, the infantry and cavalry alike began to dig in.
No one had to ask the captain why. Every man jack of them knew this was a siege.
* * *
Between Mamanti and himself, Lone Wolf chose groups of warriors to sleep and eat, while others they put to work digging pits to fight from, trenches dug in the ground as close to the white man’s wagons as the warriors dared go under cover of darkness.
From time to time one of the warriors would grow tired of digging with his hands and his knife, for such was woman’s work. Fighting was a task for a man. And a warrior here or there would resume shooting in the dark, aiming in the general direction of the wagon corral. It wasn’t a lot of shooting, Lone Wolf mused. Just enough to remain almost constant. Enough that he knew he would not get much sleep this night before the sky in the east turned the color of old ash in a fire pit back in his lodge.
He wanted his wife’s warmth right now, thinking about her plump body heat. Especially as cold as the nights were getting now. After the sun went down in the west, the ground gave up its heat quickly this season of the year. He shivered, feeling very old at this moment. Wishing he again had the hot blood of a young man.
Then he cursed himself for being so foolish. Perhaps he did not have the hot blood of a young man for coupling with women, but Lone Wolf knew he still possessed the hot blood of a young man for making war on the whites.
His hatred would keep him warm this night. Until dawn his hatred of the pale-skinned ones would keep Lone Wolf warm.
* * *
In the murky light of sundown, some of the warriors had again mounted their ponies and circled the corral, again showing off their horsemanship and acrobatics, noisily crying out and firing beneath the animals’ necks at the wagons, but doing little damage.
Once the dark had clotted around them blacker than the unopened paunch of a buffalo calf, McKinley tried dozing. But he was too uncomfortable sitting up behind the wagon wheel in his rifle pit. Besides, every time he started to nod off, another rattle of gunfire would startle everyone away, men start yelling, warriors whooping for a few moments until things quieted down. It was that way all night. Enough to put a man’s teeth on edge and get his nerves scraped raw by the time the sun was crawling out of the east.
“My God,” he whispered, nudging the young infantryman beside him. “Look.”
The soldier rubbed the sleep-grit from his eyes and blinked into the gray light. “Red bastards dug pits too.”
“Sure as hell did,” McKinley answered.
From the front lines of both sides the riflefire erupted as soon as it was light enough to make out a target. And the sporadic duel continued throughout the morning and into the late afternoon. More noise than damage done.
By twilight of that second day the water situation had become a genuine concern. The sun had seen to it that the rainwater caught at the bottom of the scummy buffalo wallow had all but dried. And throughout two days of fighting beneath that same sun, the soldiers had drained their canteens. Any water kegs lashed to the far sides of the wagons were riddled with holes already, drained of their precious contents.
Those kegs lashed to the near sides of the wagons were nearly empty as the men refilled their canteens periodically beneath an unmerciful brassy globe suspended like an unmoving orb. Yet the sun did fall, despite predictions that it wouldn’t from the hot, thirsty, swollen-tongued soldiers.
Sometime after dark but before moonrise, McKinley learned that some of the soldiers had gone out to find water at a pool where Gageby Creek eddied against the bank less than a quarter mile away. They had taken the Kiowa captive along when he had expressed a desire to help them fetch the water. Word passed around the ring now beneath the stars had it that the young red-haired captive had made good his escape from the soldiers, who brought back a scanty supply of water for all their trouble.
McKinley turned at the sound of the horse’s snort and the low voices coming near. He watched Lyman hand the buffalo hunter, William F. Schmalsle, an official note.
In the field near Washita River
3 o’clock, P.M., Sept. 10th, 1874
Commanding Officer
Camp Supply
Sir:
I have the honor to report that I am corralled by Comanches, two miles north of the Washita, on Gen’l Miles’ trail. We have been engaged since yesterday morning, having moved since first firing, about 12 miles. I consider it injudicious to attempt to proceed further, in view of the importance of my train, and the broken ground ahead. It was nearly stampeded yesterday. Communication with Gen’l. Miles is closed. My scout very properly will not return.
Lt. Lewis is dangerously wounded through the knee and I think he will die if he has no medical assistance. The Assistant Wagoner McCoy is mortally wounded, I fear. Sergeant DeArmon, Co. I, 5th Infantry is killed, a dozen mules disabled.
I think I may properly ask quick aid especially for Lieut. Lewis, a most valuable officer. I have only a small pool of rain water for the men which will dry up today.
I estimate the number of Indians vaguely at several hundred (as Lieut. Baldwin did), whom we have punished somewhat.
Scout Marshall, who left Camp Supply, I am told, has not reached me.
I have but twelve mounted men—West made a pretty charge with them yesterday.
Very respectfully
Your obedient servant,
(s) W. Lyman
; Capt. 5th Infantry
Commdg. Train Guard
When Schmalsle had stuffed the note inside his greasy shirt, he shook hands with the captain. Then turned to James and held out his hand. The front of his bib shirt was stained with brown-black tobacco-juice dribble, standing out beneath the starshine.
“You gonna wish me luck too, McKinley? Say a prayer that them Injuns don’t eat my testicles off?” he asked.
They shook. “You acting cockier than a sassback jaybird. What you fixing on doing, Bill?”
Self-conscious, he checked the near stirrup. “Riding out of here, see.”
“Are you, now?”
“As sure as buffler pies draw flies.” His face went a little more serious, furrows raised between his brows. “I volunteered to go, Jimmy—don’t like the company in these parts.” He turned to Lyman of a sudden, with a quick grin. “Not your soldiers, Captain. I was meaning these infernal redskins.”
“God go with you, Mr. Schmalsle,” Lyman said quietly, then saluted the civilian as he climbed aboard the horse.
Struck dumb of a sudden, McKinley didn’t know what to say. He had always taken Schmalsle as a soft sort, not the kind would volunteer to ride into the dark through that red gauntlet. McKinley had been through the fire of Adobe Walls and knew the others would long be considered heroes. But this—this ride Schmalsle was about to make—was something altogether different, a unique sort of sand and tallow required. Why, the idea of leading a horse single-handed out into that darkness was enough to curdle a man’s blood to fly pepper. And here, this quiet Billy Schmalsle was about to go with a grin on his face—
“Pull that tongue back!” Lyman shouted to a knot of a half-dozen soldiers.
In the darkness, they muscled the freight wagon back far enough for the horseman to slip into the night, and Schmalsle was gone.
“I hope he makes it,” McKinley said, standing there beside Wyllys Lyman, drenched in autumn starshine.
The officer only nodded, dragged a hand beneath one eye before he strode off toward the far side of the corral, clearing his throat.
Dying Thunder Page 30
