A refreshing breeze brushed Abigail Noone’s cheek now, nudging her awake. She had been dozing, daydreaming with the rhythmic rocking of the ambulance. Squinting into the bright sunlight, she studied the trail ahead. Ever since Dry Fork, the Montana Road had begun its climb out of the high prairie into a country knifed with ridges and deep coulees. Now, at last, Abigail saw a further change to the landscape. From this high ridge they rode along, the trail gradually descended into the drainage of the Crazy Woman Fork. To her left rose a rounded knoll south of the creek. Just beyond a fringe of trees that meandered beside the creek below arose a quiltwork of blue foothills only now touched by mid-morning light. Farther still, wrinkled peaks piled one against the other.
Abigail drank deep of the new, welcome coolness to the air, shuddering with an unaccustomed chill as she gazed down the gentle slope at the cottonwoods beckoning from less than five miles away.
Perhaps we’ll find water there, she prayed. They had been promised water at Dry Fork. Instead, they had found the dead courier. Dear Lord, let there be water by those trees.
“Look! Just beyond the creek!” Daniels hollered like a schoolboy. “That’s got to be a buffalo herd!”
Templeton brought out his glass again and gave the hillside a hard appraisal. The dark, ambling objects beyond the trees on the other side of Crazy Woman Fork did appear to be great humpbacked beasts, grazing leisurely near the creek. “By god, Napoleon! This could be our first taste of buffalo!”
“Let’s ride ahead, George! Before the others scare the buffalo off. We’ll cross the creek above the buffalo. Sweep down and drive them back toward the road. That way the rest of the fellows will get in some shots as the herd charges past.”
“Sounds like it’ll work,” George said, turning to Lieutenant Wands. “Alex, you’re in command in my absence.” Templeton kicked his fatigued horse into a trot, straining to catch the eager Daniels, who raced down the slope toward the creek.
“Just make it a fat one for dinner!” Wands hollered after them as the pair disappeared into the trees.
Abigail slipped the damp bonnet from her head. The breezes refreshed her, enough that the sun’s warmth no longer seemed all that bad. In that cool water just ahead she could soak her tired, dirty feet. Dip a kerchief in its icy chill to press against her sticky neck.
The wagons lumbered down the slope into a winding gut of gorge that led them toward the creek. Dust from the wheels twisted upward in gold ropes toward the clear, cloudless blue overhead. Tall cottonwoods momentarily hid the buffalo hunters from view. Still, those left behind could hear the enthusiastic yelps as the two lieutenants galloped into the herd.
“We’re twenty-six miles from Reno, dear.” Frank glanced at his wife, beside him on the ambulance seat.
Abigail glanced back at the rest of the wagons. Thick, glittering dust rose in sheets from the spinning wheels as they plunged into the gorge that would usher them to the cool, waiting water. Down to the shade of trees and thickets of chokecherry, plum, and rock grape. Fragrant, verdant growth mixed with the smell of axle grease and the sweet sweat of the mules. Rays of morning sunlight slanting off the nearby ridges turned the dust screen to a shower of gold.
“Heave! You brutes!” Frank slapped the reins against the team’s rumps. Like huge paws grabbing at the wheels, the deep sand of a dry wash made their wagon lurch and list. Slowing almost to a halt. “Hup! Hup!”
In one arm Abigail held fast to the baby, her other hand clutching the bouncing seat-board. Suddenly they careened onto firmer ground, rolling more easily.
“Must be a dry course of the creek back there—come spring runoff,” Frank volunteered, sweat beading his forehead. “But these mules smell the water now. Look at ’em!” He smiled at Abigail. “They’re pulling better. Won’t be long now, dear.”
Wands loped past on his horse, headed back along the column. “Keep ’em moving! Don’t let ’em slow down in that sand. We’ll never get those wagons out if you bog ’em down now! Hump it, fellas!”
“Goddamn!” Sgt. Patrick Terrel hollered as his team slowed then lurched to a complete halt in the dry sand. He looked at the shaken passenger beside him. “Sorry, Reverend. At times we Irish have a way of sprinkling our speech.”
“Q-Quite all right, Sergeant. You and Seamus Donegan both,” he replied as he wiped his brow. “I sympathize with your sentiments for these brutish animals we find ourselves hitched to!”
Wands reined up beside them, signaling his enlisted men. “Reverend, if you’ll be good enough to step down. We can use you in back of the wagon.”
“Certainly, Lieutenant.”
“Sergeant, when we start pushing, I want you to shake these sonsabitches like they’ve never been shook. You understand?”
“Completely, sir.”
“Put your shoulders to it, men!” Alex reined away. “Heave on it! Slap those mules, Sergeant. Slap——”
The wagon broke free of the sand at the exact moment something else snagged Abigail’s attention, drawing her eyes back to the creek. An unearthly cry. As if wrailing out of the land of the damned itself. She gazed up at the steep walls of the gorge ahead, where the hellish wail of death seemed to echo. Surely it must be her imagination. This tight, closed-in place, like the belly of a tomb.
Pounding, pounding, pounding hoofs. The buffalo were coming! At once she grew frightened, hoping the wagons would not be turned over. Her baby trampled. Then, that unearthly cry again. Something inhuman. Almost like a beast … in great pain.
A clatter of gunfire echoed along the gorge. Arrows like swift, iron-beaked birds whispered into the sidewall beside her. Frank swore as his left arm swung abruptly back without warning, knocking her and the baby into the wagon. Her last glimpse of the bare ridges hemming the gorge froze Abigail’s heart in her breast.
Never before had she seen naked, painted warriors. Shrieking like demons from hell. Shaking their rifles and bows. Cavorting along the ridgetop as they fired down on the wagons again and again and again …
Naked, brown demons freed from her worst nightmares. Lieutenant Daniels’s nightmare come true. Glistening brown bodies sweeping down on the helpless wagons. To butcher them all.
“Not my baby!”
That voice screeched in her ear so loudly Abigail could not recognize it. A voice hollering those three words over and over again as she mantled herself like a sage hen over the infant.
“Not the baby!”
Not sure who kept screaming in her ears, until her own throat began to burn.
Chapter 9
The foul taste of his own stomach flung itself against his tonsils, burning his nostrils. All too well Ridgeway Glover remembered that taste of fear so intense it caused him to vomit. Again and again during the war he had crawled off and hidden himself after dark, certain no man would find him—afraid he would have to fight the next day. Each time certain even God Himself couldn’t see how he cowered from the gunfire.
Glover swallowed and kept his stomach down. His limbs wouldn’t move at first. Petrified. Forcing him to stand riveted by the wagon tire as the soldiers raced for their rifles and cover. Captain Marr and the Reverend shouted for him to dive beneath a wagon. Then a bullet smacked into a mule beside him. The beast dropped in its traces, kicking in its death throes, brassy lungs shrieking out a death song. Deafening in his ears.
Glover was yanked off his feet.
Like a doll, Donegan flung Glover along the wagon, shoving him beneath the box. Reverend White pulled the photographer into the shadows.
“Welcome, brethren!”
“Addle-minded sonuvabitch was fixing to get himself punctured out there, Reverend.” Donegan cursed with a smile as he rolled his rifle into position.
“What in God’s name is that?” White asked.
Donegan sighted along the weapon, fired, then looked at the minister. “This? Called a Henry.” He pulled the trigger again.
“Blessed God!” White marveled. “A repeater.”
“A ble
ssing indeed, Reverend!” Seamus aimed and fired. “Sixteen shots worth of repeater, i’tis.”
“We’ll ask our Heavenly Father to see to it those sixteen shots mean sixteen heathen souls sent scurrying straight to hell!”
By the creek the first wagon shook and shuddered. A mule went down, braying in its pain. The other three answered with their own brass-lunged cries, exploding in three directions at once. Unable to handle the reins and keep his seat at the same time, the young driver leaped from the wagon. He caught an arrow high in his throat with the next jolt of the mules. With a whimper, the soldier tumbled over the sidewall to the sand, gurgling as he drowned in his own blood.
She had never watched a man die before. At least Abigail supposed he was dead. The soldier didn’t stir. Mesmerized, she watched the body to see if it would move—breathe or quiver. Death …
A painted face leaped into view at the front of the wagon, scrambling onto the ambulance seat. She shrieked, not sure if she had made a sound at all. Twisting to the side as the warrior raised his tomahawk, deciding to shelter her daughter to the end. His grinning, painted, savage smile—
The ambulance jolted, throwing the warrior off-balance for an instant. He clambered back to his feet just as a blue blur hurtled itself against the glistening brown body. Abigail slapped a hand across her mouth.
“Frank!” she screamed.
Like a true soldier, Noone grappled with the muscular brave, not the trumpeter he was nor the concert musician he had always hoped to be. Again and again he wrenched on the arm that held the hatchet, until the warrior lost his footing and fell back against the cushioned seat. Frank fell with him, choking the brown neck with all the strength left in his hands. Frantically the warrior fought back, pinned beneath the blue fury. For a moment they both held the tomahawk. Then Frank found it in his hand alone, watching in fascination as it streaked high over his head and plunged squarely into the middle of the warrior’s face.
Abigail felt the hot sting as flecks of blood and brain slapped her face and neck. Tasted the Indian’s blood on her lips. She watched Frank slowly release the tomahawk, gulping. The first man he had ever killed. Right in front of his wife. She knew he would need her. Needing him. To feel his arms around her. To take the horror away—
“In God’s name, Abby—stay down!”
Obediently she fell back to the floor of the ambulance, among the baggage and clutter of what an enlisted man’s family was allowed to bring west to a new household. Crawling like some maimed animal on knees and one hand, clutching the wailing infant against her breast. Sobbing harder still as she watched Frank leap from the seat, disappear. He was gone. Alone again with the baby.
“Cut that one loose!” she heard some man cry out. “He’s done!”
Abigail hoped he meant a mule in harness. Not another soldier. None of them would last long if the Indians cut soldiers down so quickly.
“Pull the harness loose!”
“Pull it, hell! Cut the goddamned straps! Slash ’em!”
Another mule cried out. Abigail shuddered as bullets slammed into flesh with a sickening smack.
“Dear, merciful God—watch and protect Frank—”
“Jesus, that was close!”
“Cut it loose,” another, deeper voice hollered, banging into the ambulance. From the thickness of his brogue, it sounded like that standoffish one, Donegan. “Too late! Too late! Here they come for another go a’tus!”
As if ordered by that stern voice without, Abigail fell to the floor among the canvas bags, blankets and a straw tick. Coming from a foggy daze, she suddenly heard her infant daughter wailing. Hungry and frightened by all the noise thundering against the canvas and wood of their little sanctuary. Whimpering, feeling so alone—Abigail unbuttoned her blouse and freed one engorged breast, guiding the rigid nipple into her baby’s mouth. The infant grabbed the nipple, suckling lustily. Abigail cried in silence, her hot tears splattering her bare breast. It was all she knew to do, remembering the horror of the squaws’ promise to take her baby.
“Behind you, Noone!”
Abigail jerked as she heard Wands’s voice cry out. A man yelped in pain. Not knowing if it was Frank or not, she clenched her eyes shut with all her might, hoping the horrid sounds would be shut out as well.
“Watch it!”
She heard Frank shout.
Beside her an arrow ripped through the thick canvas, burrowing its iron head into the board siding behind her.
They’re above us … on the ridge! She cowered. Firing down on us—we’re like helpless animals. Lord, the baby’s not safe——
“Abby!” Frank’s voice shrieked.
“W-We’re … we’re all right, Frank!”
Blessed God, savior of man, she began to pray. And wondered if that Methodist minister was praying as well, clutching his worn bible between his wrinkled, veiny hands.
“Reverend! Get down! Great ghost, but White’s a fool!”
It was that man’s voice again. Donegan.
In the next breath the wagon lurched as a body flung itself against the rear gate. Abigail’s heart surged into her throat, fearful another warrior had made it to the wagon. Desiring her. Wanting her baby even more.
Through the buttoned leather pucker-hole at the rear a wild spray of gray hair appeared. In the middle of its disarray hung a bright red circle of wrinkled flesh, White’s veiny nose suspended beneath two wild, marble-like eyes.
“Dear woman!” the reverend shouted in at her. “Pull me in, for the grace of God. Pull me in!”
She dragged a dirty hand beneath her runny nose and flung it his way. Clutching the hand, White dragged himself into the rear of the wagon.
“Dear Lord!” she gasped, looking him over at close range at last. “You’re … you’re bleeding.”
“Nothing to worry the Lord over, dear lady.” White smiled, trying out his wounded arm by combing at the wild gray hair that stood out in thick sprigs along both sides of his head. At the top, where the reverend was very much bald, a second wound. Long, ugly, and bleeding. He dabbed fingers at it. “Nothing at all.” Then used his sleeve. “Afraid I didn’t keep my head low enough as I took cover beneath a wagon. There, now. Better still. My bag, Mrs. Noone. I need my bag.”
With that imperative ring to the minister’s words, Abigail scanned the ambulance for his bag. He pulled his legs into the wagon at last, took one final glance out the rear then searched for the bag himself.
“Ah, blessings upon us all!” he cried, leaping for a canvas satchel topped with thick leather handles. He crabbed over Abigail to get at it.
Nimbly his old fingers fought with straps and buckles until a wrinkled hand dove into the satchel. Extracting a stubby object of dull pewter. Ugly as a pond-toad, she thought, staring at those seven round holes backing the squat barrel. White cracked the pepperbox in half, quickly checking each chamber before he slammed the barrel back in place.
“The Lord helps those who help themselves.” He held the pistol before his chest like a chalice at communion.
“P-Pray for me … us,” she pleaded, her eyes imploring him to remember the babe suckling at her breast.
White glanced at the firm, milky flesh and gulped, his eyes leaping back to her face. His cheeks crimson. “Our Heavenly Father, may we all live to see this child grow to your glory! Amen.”
He brushed by her, again at the rear of the ambulance. Turning, he seemed to decide on a better plan of action. Crawling past Abigail again, White slid over the back of the driver’s seat and tumbled to the ground.
“By the saints, Reverend!” Donegan cried out. “I thought you’d hidden yourself off somewhere to pray for us all!”
“Pray? HELL! Comes a time for praying … and a time to slay the heathen Levites!”
“You’ll get plenty of that today,” Donegan added grimly. He pressed his Henry into his shoulder. “You any good with that stub of a pistol?”
“This?” White held the pepperbox high in his hand as he slid in beside the
Irishman. “Don’t have to be. Got seven chances to dispatch them straight to Lucifer himself!”
As the wave of warriors rushed past, smoke puffed beneath one pony’s neck. A young soldier on the other side of Donegan lurched backward, clumsily. The trooper moaned, eyes rolling back in his head.
Donegan stared down at the youngster for a moment. “He’s gone now. Better off, he is too—a man stops one in the belly like that, Reverend.”
Wands bolted up, helping Marr and a soldier drag the quivering body behind a wagon. “We can’t stay here,” the lieutenant explained, rising from the body soon to turn cold. For an instant the lieutenant surveyed the creek bottom, then the hills and gorge surrounding them. We’re like clay targets here. Wands swallowed, his nostrils already fetid with the stench from the young soldier’s punctured bowels. Our only chance …
“None of us will last pinned down here!” Donegan grabbed Wands by the shoulders. Swung him round. “Best get your wagons moving afore we’re just a greasy spot on this crossing!”
Wands glared back at the big Irishman a moment, ready to lash back. Instead, something pushed him back to the saddle. He spurred away, riding low at the horse’s neck, shouting, “Back to the hill! We’ve got to make a run for it. Follow me! All of you!”
Back again by Donegan and White, Wands slid to a halt, kicking up sand. “You! Irishman. Grab the reins to that wagon! Chaplain—you’ll drive that ambulance. Noone—the other. We’ll run two wagons up front … then the two ambulances. As a rear guard we’ll bring up the last four wagons. I want the Irishman to lead the way. Now, ride like your necks depend on it!”
Savagely the lieutenant sawed his reins to the left, his mount tearing back toward the creek and the waiting ambulances, his hat flying into the air. “Bradley! You spotted Templeton or Daniels?”
He shook his head. “Not a sign, Alex. I’m afraid both were cut off up ahead. Never make it back—”
“It’s up to you now. Take the point. To the high ground—yonder!”
“I’m on my way!” the young lieutenant answered. “Sergeant Terrel. You five—no! All the rest of you, FOLLOW ME!”
Sioux Dawn: The Fetterman Massacre, 1866 (The Plainsmen Series) Page 10
