by Tim Champlin
“Somebody got White Elk, I think,” Grouard said. "Couldn't tell how bad he was hit, but he'll be out of action for the rest of this fight, if I'm any judge."
"That should dampen their enthusiasm for a while,” Wilder said, turning the cylinder of his smoking Colt and working the ejector with the other hand. "We're still in a helluva fix. A good fifty miles from camp. Cut off, and nobody knows where we are. Even if we could get somebody out after dark to go for help, it'd be at least two days getting back to us."
"Just in time for them to keep the wolves from eatin' the rest of our carcasses," Big Bat finished.
"I thought it was a little strange they charged us like that," Grouard said, "but I think I see the reason for it now." He pointed. "Here come some of their Sioux allies to join them. White Elk's band wanted to show their brothers their bravery and maybe rout us out before the Sioux had a chance."
More riders were arriving and dismounting in the cover on the far side of the clearing. Looking around, I noticed the men getting a little edgy as they realized the trap we were in was growing tighter.
Some shooting started again from the other side and was answered sporadically from our side, as the troopers spotted a target here and there. For this kind of sniping, they used their Springfield, breech-loading, single-shot carbines. These were accurate up to six hundred yards. But for rapid firing they had to fall back on their single-action Colts. During a lull in the firing one of the newly arrived Sioux recognized Grouard and yelled across at him. "Standing Bear, why do you bring the long knives here? Do you think the white eyes are the only people in this country?" The brave spat derisively.
Grouard's only answer was to draw a bead on the distant Indian and squeeze off a shot. The slug ricocheted off a rock about a foot from the Sioux's arm, and we laughed at the way he scrambled for better cover.
But the laughter died quickly, and with the arrival of the Sioux, the battle settled down to a siege. The Indians seemed to have plenty of ammunition and kept up a more or less steady fire, along with a lot of yelling. The noise of the battle was attracting other Indians from several miles away. We could see the increasing numbers moving on horseback and afoot among the boulders and trees, spreading out toward our flanks. Like a bulldog who only shifts his grip to get a better one, they were consolidating their position and gradually working their way around us. Time dragged, agonizingly. Though no one as yet admitted it aloud, we all realized after about an hour that our situation was critical.
Sergeant Killard, from Wilder's Company B, stood on my left only a few feet behind the same fallen pine. I looked over at him. "Well?" I nodded toward the clearing. "What do you think?"
"When I left home to enlist, my mother told me there would come a day like this," he commented. "But she thought it would come about a week after I joined, instead of fifteen years later." He spat out his worn-out chew of tobacco and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The perennial twinkle had disappeared from his eyes. "I tell you one thing," he vowed, "they'll never take me alive. If need be, I'll save the last shot for myself."
The tone of his voice left no doubt that he was serious. Several of the other soldiers within earshot muttered their agreement. I saw one or two farther down the line bow their heads on their carbines. To be struck down in the heat of battle is one thing, but to have to sit and look death in the face and wait for its icy grip to close on your throat is something few men can do without some show of emotion. I felt a knot in the pit of my stomach. Wiley hadn't said a word. His lips were compressed in a grim line; his only display of feeling was the taut grip of his hands on the rifle I had given him.
At that moment, I would have given anything to be back safe and sound—and bored—in General Buck's camp. I had been a fool to beg to come along. And because of me, Wiley Jenkins, the one who detested violence probably more than anyone in camp, would die a violent death. None of us would ever see another sunrise. The sight of my mutilated body kept jumping before my mind's eye—and I knew a stark, cold fear. My knees felt weak and I sat down on the ground. Life had never seemed so precious to me as now, when I was about to lose it.
To calm my sudden panic, I pulled out my notebook, opened it, and wrote some brief lines explaining our situation. Maybe someone would eventually find it and know what had happened to us. Just before I closed it, I impulsively picked some mountain crocus and forget-me-nots growing close by and flattened them between the leaves. I don't know why I did it, since I'm not particularly fascinated by flowers. Maybe it was just a last, desperate attempt to grasp and hold on to something alive and blooming.
The sun was sliding toward the west, and I watched the afternoon shadows growing longer, knowing it was the last sunlight I would ever see in this world.
Chapter Fifteen
Wilder had not given up. He called the scouts over and asked for information on the surrounding area and whether there was any chance of sneaking out of there.
"Captain," Grouard began, brushing away the leaves and pine needles to expose a patch of bare earth, "the passes are cut off on the east, north, and west by Indians." He drew some markings on the ground with his Bowie knife, indicating our relative positions. "Even if our horses were all in good shape, we'd never be able to outrun them on horseback. If the grass was a little drier, I’m sure they'd try to burn us out—one of their favorite tricks. With all the resin in these trees…” He straightened up and sheathed his knife. "We're in a hopeless position here."
Wilder thought a moment. "Could we make it if we left the horses?"
"Possible. Just barely. But it's the only chance we got."
"That's right," Big Bat agreed. "They're just toyin' with us now. Takin' their time. They'll attack sometime before dark when they get in position. We gotta do somethin' now, or it's all over."
It was either an heroic stand to the death, or a slipping away to fight another day--if we could get away. I knew at least some officers who would stay and make a fight of it, but, thank God, Wilder had more sense.
"Sergeant." He turned to Killard. "Pass the word for the men to quietly take all the ammunition they can carry out of their saddlebags. Then, in single file, I want them to follow the scouts."
I had heard the order, and Wiley and I moved to obey without a word. As I got the cartridges and stuffed my pockets with them, I patted my bay. He was bleeding from a wound, and I felt sorry to have to leave him. But it couldn't be helped.
Wiley and I filed past Captain Wilder who was waiting to leave last, to be sure all his men were accounted for. He kept four soldiers with him, and when we were about a hundred yards back into the rocks, we heard some random shots and then two or three volleys to fool the Indians into thinking we were all still in position. Our horses still stood in plain sight of the Indians. This, plus the fact that we had been holding our fire for short periods, allowed us to retreat into the thick timber and rocks without our absence being noticed right away.
We were moving quietly, but quickly, through the woods, filled with boulders and fallen pines. We were forced to crawl over, under, and squeeze through places no horse could ever follow. When we had gone about a mile, Wilder and his four marksmen caught up to us, panting hard, and we all forded a branch of the Tongue River, wading up to our waists in the icy water. Then we began climbing the slippery rocks on the other side.
"Damn mountain goat would have trouble with this," Wiley grunted, as his foot slipped and he grabbed for a handhold to catch himself.
A few minutes of scrambling up that steep incline was all we could do before we stopped and gasped for breath. Five or six volleys of sudden gunfire crashed and echoed and reverberated through the mountain canyons.
"They're probably charging our position," Grouard said.
"I'd like to see the look on their faces." Wilder grinned.
"I hear losing face is not one of the things an Indian does best," Jenkins added.
"Let's get some more distance between us while we have the daylight," Wilder said.
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The big guide took off again I tried to keep up as he leapt from rock to rock above me, sometimes grabbing a handhold on a bush. The man was indefatigable. He was about six feet two inches, slim-hipped, and appeared to be about two hundred pounds of supple muscle. He was hatless and dressed in shirt and trousers of soft, tanned doeskin. His feet must have been taking a fearful beating since they were protected from the rocks only by rawhide moccasins that had been further softened by a soaking in the river. But he kept up a half-running lope, uphill and down, that made us all strain to keep pace.
The late afternoon weather was sultry. There was no breeze and there had been a light shower earlier in the day. We were all sweating and soaking the rest of our clothes that hadn't been wet in the river. Climbing and crawling and scrambling, it was all we could do to carry our rifles and what was left of our ammunition. We kept up this pace until almost midnight, heading generally in a southeast direction. But then we were forced to stop from absolute exhaustion. We curled up to sleep near the top of a high ridge, protected a little by an overhanging rock ledge.
But we had hardly fallen into fatigued oblivion when a terrific crash of thunder woke us to a storm sweeping across the mountains. It was almost as if Nature had been waiting for us to doze in order to catch us off guard. A sudden blast of cold wind was followed by solid sheets of rain, driven almost horizontally.
"God, that’s too cold to be rain!” Wiley shouted into my ear while we scrambled back with the rest of the troop to flatten ourselves against the granite wall that was partially sheltered by the overhang. And, sure enough, the rain quickly changed to hail. The pounding pellets of ice bounced and rattled off every rock around us, sounding as loud as someone throwing gravel onto a tin roof.
The wind began-to gust even more strongly, and we heard crashing, banging, and popping explosions as the pine trees on the slopes below us were broken off or were uprooted and fell. Over the noise of the hail, it sounded like artillery fire. We clung to our pitiful shelter, freezing, shaking, and in awe of this fearsome display of power. But the storm finally passed over, and we huddled together for the rest of the night in a vain attempt to keep warm. The few matches among us were soaked and useless. And even if they hadn't been, there was nothing dry enough to burn. All blankets, tent shelters, and jackets had been left behind.
"Well, at least this should have pounded our trail to a mush," Wilder remarked cheerfully, and since we were eager to get started, we moved off again behind the scouts as soon as it was light enough for us to see. Just after sunrise we reached the top of a tremendous canyon, cut through the mountain by a branch of the Tongue River. The scouts estimated we were still about twenty-five miles from camp. Most of us were not equal to the climb straight down to the river and up the other side, so Grouard took a chance and led us down a fairly open path to the riverbank. The walking was easy, but we were stepping pretty lively, since we would have been caught without a chance if any Indians had seen us. But we got across to the right bank with no trouble.
"Sure wish I could just walk along the riverbank right out there," Wiley said, indicating the river cutting its way through the lower foothills to the east and then reappearing to sight as a winding thread far out on the plains.
But Grouard had other ideas. He led us up a trail that narrowed to about a foot and a half in width as it angled diagonally across the face of the canyon wall. At several points we hardly dared look down since the rock face fell away almost sheer beneath our feet about five hundred feet to the river and went straight up above our heads another two hundred feet or so. Several times the trail was so narrow we had to flatten our faces to the perpendicular wall, and inch our way along for a few yards.
Wiley's hat brim was crushed against the sheer rock. The hat flipped up and off his head. He made a quick, backhanded grab at it, but missed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw it sailing out into the dizzy space below our feet. "Damn!" he panted, the sweat trickling down his face. "We escaped getting shot or scalped just to have the fun of falling off a cliff and spreading ourselves all over the landscape."
"Shut up," one of the soldiers growled, without looking around.
It took us nearly an hour to reach the crest where we were able to see, in the distance, the mountain that overlooked our camp. Jutting up in the clear sunlight, it looked fairly close, but the guides assured us it was a good twenty miles away.
"Man, that looks mighty good," Sergeant Killard said.
"Might as well be the moon, for what good it'll do me," another soldier said weakly, sinking to the ground.
"I sure as hell didn't train in the infantry, or on an empty stomach," a corporal named Boyle added. "My folks came here from the heavenly isle because we were hungry, and here I am, thirty years later, performin' a starvation march in their honor. Disgustin'!"
After a short rest of about ten minutes, Wilder ordered us up and moving before anyone had time to get settled. The scouts wanted to move fast until we reached the eastern foothills before we slowed down. Then we could work our way southwest toward camp through a little easier terrain.
But thirst was the immediate problem.
The big scout led us down toward the river again for a drink. The steep slopes were covered with slick pine needles and loose shale. So, as often as not, we were sliding on our rumps or our hands and feet, since it was impossible to walk upright.
We slaked our thirst with the cold water and had just gotten about halfway back up the slope and into the cover of the trees, when the sharp-eyed Grouard said "Sshhh!" and threw himself flat on the ground, facing north. "Get down!" he hissed.
All of us obeyed instantly and without a word. In a few seconds we saw a party of Sioux come into view across the river and below us. They were riding leisurely in single file from around the point of the opposite canyon wall.
"By God, make every shot count if they see us," Wilder whispered hoarsely.
We were so tired we knew we couldn't run. At this point we were so irritated from fatigue and hunger, we were almost eager for a fight. We had the courage of desperation. Barely breathing, we gripped our rifles and carbines, froze as immobile as the boulders on the hillside, and awaited the outcome. The long, loose column came slowly on, apparently unaware of our presence. But they trailed on past, not looking our way, and went winding on down the river trail and out of sight toward the foothills.
As soon as the tension was lifted, we felt twice as tired as before. We could walk only a few paces back into the trees before we all, almost as one, flopped down and fell sound asleep. When I opened my eyes, the sun had disappeared and darkness was fast closing down around our bedraggled group of fugitives. The ever-alert Grouard and Big Bat were on guard.
"Captain, the men are pretty well used up," Frank said quietly to Wilder, as the rest of the men were being roused from their stupor. "I don't think they'll make it if we stick to the mountains."
"You're right. I'm about done in myself." He scrubbed a hand over the dark stubble on his lean cheeks. "I'm leaving it up to your judgment as to how we get back. But I think we have to sacrifice safety for speed at this point."
"All right, Captain. We'll strike straight down out of the mountains and head directly across the plains to camp. We'll just have to chance the Indians seeing us. If we push it, we can get most of the way before daylight."
So, with aching muscles and bruised feet and concave bellies, we started once more. A deadly fatigue seemed to drag at me like invisible weights. I no longer felt hunger pains—just a constant desire to rest. After stumbling along numbly in the scouts' footsteps for what seemed like forever, we finally reached Big Goose Creek at the base of the mountains about three A.M. We forded the stream, wading up to our necks in the icy water. Three or four men lost their footing on the slippery rocks and were carried downstream several yards before they could swim to the bank and flounder out.
Two privates who couldn't swim absolutely refused to cross. No amount of persuasion or coaxing or reassurance co
uld move them. The fear of drowning in that swift, black water, sliding by in the moonlight, overrode any fear of Indians, starvation, or anything else. So we finally left them there to hide in the underbrush and promised we would send someone back for them. We' were all pretty far gone, so it was fortunate we were at least walking on level ground.
Dawn broke early as the light spread up over the plains. At five A.M. we spotted several Indians on horseback to the east of us. I'm sure they saw us, too, but they made no move in our direction. Even though we were on foot, they may have mistaken us for outlying pickets from General Buck's camp.
My boots were split at the seams, and the right sole had partially separated from the boot, allowing stones and dirt to be scooped in at every shuffling step. It was aggravating to be walking on small, sharp pebbles, but I was too tired to stop and empty them every few steps. I just gritted my teeth and ignored the pain while Wiley and I stumbled along, sometimes leaning on each other. We were all so exhausted, it took us four hours to cover about six miles.
About six-thirty we spotted two horses grazing on a little knoll. The carbines shining in the saddle boots told us they were cavalry horses. The two soldiers rose up out of the tall grass and went for their guns before they recognized us. They turned out to be men from the 2nd Cavalry who had been given permission to go hunting. They were working their way toward the Tongue River. It was just as fortunate for them as it was for us that we met before they got any farther. Wilder sent them back to camp for some food and transportation. He also instructed them to ask that an escort be sent to pick up the two privates we had left at Big Goose Creek.
Unable to walk anymore, we flopped down and awaited their return. About an hour and a half later they reappeared, along with Captain Stubblefield and Captain Anderson, leading horses for us and carrying what looked and smelled like cooked provisions.
"Have you ever seen anything that looked so good in all your life?" I asked Wiley.
