The Coming

by David Osborne

  “Besides,” Bostwick said, “you don’t want to divide your command. You’re not fightin’ Sioux here.”

  “All right,” Gibbon finally said. “We’ll leave ’em be.”

  Bostwick nodded. “You’ll know we haven’t been discovered if you see fires start up in the tipis just before dawn.”

  Back down the trail, where he had left his horse, Gibbon saw a match light, then heard a quiet voice and the slap of a hand. He moved that way. “Sorry, sir,” a voice whispered. “Imbecile lit his pipe.”

  “Keep ’em quiet,” Gibbon hissed.

  They heard nothing for the next hour but the occasional cry of a child in the night. Just as the sky in the east lightened a bit, he saw a firebrand moving between the tipis, and lights began to show. Women’s voices drifted up them. There looked to be almost a hundred tipis, spread out in a huge V, the tip pointing north, to their left. Gibbon could now make out the creek cutting through the willow bushes, just before the camp.

  He clenched his jaw against his fear. He had the advantage of surprise, he told himself; he just had to use it well. “All right, Lieutenant,” he whispered to Woodruff. “Tell Captains Comba and Sanno to take the center of the line. Put out skirmishers in front. Companies A and G will take the right, F and I will follow in reserve. Have ’em advance as far as they can toward the village and shoot the first Indian they see. When they hear that first shot, I want them to fire off three rounds into the tipis, then charge the camp with the whole line. Fire low; that’s where the people will be.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gibbon moved forward until he reached Lieutenant Bradley. He told him to take the left side of the line, repeated his instructions. “Have Catlin take ten of his volunteers forward as a skirmish line, then follow with your men and the rest of the volunteers.”

  John Catlin started forward, then stopped. “What about prisoners, sir? Where do we take them?”

  Gibbon hesitated. He didn’t have any spare men to handle prisoners. In the War of the Rebellion, the biggest lesson they’d all learned was to minimize their risks. Custer had forgotten that lesson. “I don’t want prisoners.”

  Catlin stared at him in surprise, then saluted, turned, and was gone. Gibbon stayed on the bluff, from where he would see the battle unfold. He watched as the skirmishers reached the flats, where the long grass was past their waists. They moved 100 yards across the bottomland, hidden from the Indian camp by thick willow bushes. They were within 200 yards of the camp when a rider appeared on the left in the dim, predawn light. Everyone ducked into the long grass. The rider kept coming, straight at Bradley and his men. Someone rose and fired, and the Indian tumbled backward off his horse. “Aim low!” a voice shouted, and guns exploded all up the line.

  Red Bear grabbed his mother as bullets ripped through the tipi. “Stay down!” His rifle hung from the tipi poles high above him. He wanted to get it, but the bullets kept him pinned to the ground. When the shooting stopped he stood, untied his rifle and ammunition belt, grabbed his war club and shoved it in his leggings. Soldiers were yelling now, a high-pitched scream that hollowed him out with fear. “You run, hide!” he told his family. “Save yourselves!” Another bullet zipped through the tipi as they hurried out. He pushed them east, where the sky was beginning to show light, then raced the other way, praying to his wyakin for courage. He could see shadowy figures in the dim light, moving through the willows and brush. He fired his rifle, and a soldier across the river went down. He saw Shore Crossing, to his left, dive behind a small log and shoot another soldier. A bullet slammed into the log. Then someone dove behind Shore Crossing—his wife, Knows Her Mother.

  Shore Crossing glanced back at her, and as he turned back a soldier shot him in the head. His wife rose to her knees, blood spattered all over her, and reached for his rifle. She aimed at the soldier, who was reloading. Her bullet went through his chest and he fell face forward. The next soldier’s bullet ended her life.

  Red Bear screamed in rage and fired at the soldiers, who to his surprise retreated behind the willow bushes. He ran south, toward smoke that swirled around the tipis in the center of the camp. “My brothers!” he shouted. “Our lodges are on fire! Get your weapons! Fight!”

  He could see soldiers in the center of the camp, but only a few warriors attacking. He ran forward, keeping behind tipis to hide himself. He heard children screaming inside a smoking lodge. Darting out from behind it, he cut down one soldier, then retreated behind the tipi. He came around the other side and met a second soldier face to face, but Red Bear was quicker.

  He ducked inside the burning tipi, grabbed a small child and thrust it out the door. Two others followed, and he pushed them north, away from the fighting. An old man was seated on a buffalo robe beside the next tipi, smoking. One soldier shot him, then another, then a third, yet he did not move. Mist, like steam from boiling water, came out of the bullet holes, but no blood. Red Bear shot at the bluecoats, hit one, and the other two ran.

  He saw a soldier crawling like a drunken man. He crept up on him and smashed his head with his war club. The man’s teeth came loose, and Red Bear reached in and grabbed them. All the upper teeth came out in one piece, stuck together. What kind of medicine was this, he wondered.

  Gibbon watched from the hillside. On the far left Lieutenant Bradley had gone down, and his men had stopped short of the village. Those on the right were meeting heavy resistance. But in the center, Sanno’s men had broken through. Gibbon spurred his gray horse down the hill and across the boggy area, Woodruff beside him. Together they stopped short of the creek, under partial cover of willow bushes, and watched. The sky was growing light enough to see clearly.

  The ground in the center of camp was littered with the bodies of Indians and horses, and the air was heavy with smoke. Guns roared and dogs howled. He could hear the shouts and curses of his men, the moans of the wounded, the war cries of the few Indians who had stayed to fight. Women and children dashed toward the creek, jumped in, and hid behind the banks, chest deep, moving downstream, away from the worst fighting. His men were fighting at close range among the tipis, driving the warriors away onto the flat plain toward the east, as he had hoped. To the right, in a bend of the creek, he saw Indians hidden behind the steep cutbank. Most were women and children, but a few men were firing into the village, with deadly effect. He felt movement behind him, turned, and saw Captain Logan leading his reserves. He motioned them to the right, pointed at the Indians who huddled by the opposite bank, and they advanced at a run, then knelt and aimed. “Fire!” Logan shouted, and the noise was deafening. A dozen bodies floated downstream, the river turning red around them.

  Barefoot, Daytime Smoke herded his family north, away from the fighting. Gunfire and screams filled the air, and smoke made it hard to see. Horses reared and whinnied, breaking away from their pickets. One fell right in front of him, shot in the head.

  He crouched behind a tipi as a soldier ducked into it, a revolver in his hand. Smoke heard five shots, then the soldier came out and ran south. Smoke lifted the flap and gazed in; five children lay under buffalo robes, dead. He bent over and vomited.

  He pushed the women along, refused to tell them what he had seen. Bullets whizzed by their heads. They passed a dead woman, on her back, blood pouring from the side of her chest. A baby lay on her breast, crying, swinging a tiny arm that had been shattered by the bullet.

  Echoes on Mountain fell, and Little Fire screamed. Smoke knelt beside his granddaughter, saw the bullet wound in her chest. He took off his cloth shirt, tore it into strips, and Widow Bird wrapped them around and around her torso to stop the bleeding. Tears streamed down Smoke’s face, blurring his vision. He looked up, saw Yellow Hair staring at him, terror in her eyes, her long hair wild and tangled. “Run!” he shouted. His ancient back complained as he lifted Echoes, now a full-grown woman, but somehow he managed to carry her after them.

  When they had escaped the main scene of the fighting, Widow Bird steered them toward the river
.

  Upriver, soldiers fired at the creek. Smoke looked and saw buffalo robes floating downstream. Every so often one would rise a bit; someone was under it, coming up to breathe! The soldiers waited until the robes rose and then fired at the bumps.

  The family hurried north, away from the bluecoats. Finally Widow Bird told them to get in the creek and hide under the steep bank. The cold water was a shock, but it seemed to revive Echoes on Mountain. Thunder Rising ran by with his infant daughter in one arm, wrapped in a wolf skin. He had no rifle; he wore only a shirt and a blanket wrapped around his waist. He stopped when he saw them, thrust his daughter at Little Fire: “Take my baby. As fast as you can, go downstream!”

  “Where is her mother?” Smoke asked.

  “Shot.”

  Little Fire accepted the infant as Thunder Rising lowered himself into the water and seized Smoke’s arm. “Come with me! Help save our herd!”

  “I am old. I must help my family.”

  “There are times when we must all fight!”

  “I can help!” Little Fire said. She handed the infant to Yellow Hair, then took Echoes from Smoke and began to move away.

  “Come!” the chief said, still holding his arm. “If we lose our horses, there is no hope!”

  Smoke waded through the chest-deep water, climbed out the other side, glanced back at the village. A few tipis were burning, and black smoke filled the camp. Behind it the eastern sky showed pink.

  They ran west toward the hill, where the horses grazed. Smoke could see Soyappos on foot among the herd, trying to drive the animals south. As he came around a willow bush a dead soldier sprawled in his path. He stripped off the man’s cartridge belt and picked up his gun.

  He tried to keep up with Thunder Rising as they climbed through the damp bunchgrass, but his lungs burned and his legs felt like lead. He stopped by two big fir trees that grew side by side, halfway up the hill, gasping for breath. Thunder Rising grabbed the first horse he reached by the mane and jumped on, then rode after the Soyappos. They did not wear blue coats, but they had guns. They saw Thunder Rising and one of them turned and fired, but the chief kept coming.

  Smoke threw himself on the ground between the trees. He said a prayer to his wyakin, took aim at the Soyappo, and fired. He ejected the cartridge and loaded another one, aimed, squeezed the trigger, and another Soyappo fell. The rest sprinted away down the hill. Thunder Rising threw him a sign of thanks and began to turn the herd.

  Smoke examined the gun, looked down the barrel, saw the rifling that spun the bullet. He felt young again, as if something inside him had been released. He crawled around to the other side of the trees and lay behind the thickest one, looking down at the camp, at the bluecoats who had shot his granddaughter. They were a long way off, but this rifle was good. He sang his power song, called on his wyakin for help. It was a good day to kill Soyappos.

  Gibbon had ridden through the creek and dismounted when someone shouted at him: “General, your horse has been hit!” Gibbon stared at the big gray gelding, saw that his foreleg was broken near the knee. He looked down at his own right leg, saw a bloodstain gradually widening on the light-blue cloth. He let go of the horse, hobbled back to the creek, and stepped into it to wash the wound. The shock of the cold water brought him back to his senses. He turned back toward the camp, where chaos reigned. Half the tipis had been knocked down, but a few still smoldered. Horses and dogs lay dead on the ground; one dog tried to crawl away, dragging its useless hind legs. Blankets and robes and cooking pots were spread amidst corpses; even dolls littered the grass.

  It had been a mistake to burn the tipis, he realized. They were damp from the dew and the poles were green, so only a handful had actually gone up in flames. His men had begun ripping them with knives and pulling them down with lariats, but the pause in their attack had given the enemy a chance to regroup.

  Looking back toward the river and hill, he saw hostiles approaching through the willow thickets. Others were on the hill, on horseback. Shots came from the plains beyond the camp, where they had driven most of the warriors. His men were surrounded, inside the Indian camp. As he watched, men began to run southwest, back toward the timbered point of land that descended the hill to the river. He was about to lose control of them. “Retreat!” he bellowed. “Lieutenant Woodruff, tell those men to cross the river and form two lines!”

  Woodruff remounted his mare and dashed after those who had begun to run. Gibbon called to the rest of them, “Pick up the wounded and follow me!” He led them across the river, firing at the Indians across the slough. His men followed, picking up any loose rifles they found and throwing them in the creek so the Indians couldn’t use them. He heard a gunshot from the hill and Corporal McCaffrey went down. They all looked up, saw an Indian lying prone behind twin trees, halfway up the hill. The gun barked again and Sergeant Hogan fell.

  “Scatter!” Gibbon shouted. He pointed at the timbered bench they had crossed in the dark last night: “Charge that wooded point and rake the brush with your rifles! Bring the wounded, leave the dead!”

  The men began to run. Hobbling because of his calf wound, Gibbon fell behind. He tried to keep willow bushes between him and the sharpshooter, but there were great empty spaces where he had no choice but to dash through the grass without cover. Two more men went down before they got to the base of the wooded hill, and he saw others drop the wounded and sprint for the safety of the trees. “To the top of the hill!” a corporal yelled. “To the top of the hill or we’re lost!”

  “Hold on!” Gibbon shouted. “Your commander is still alive!” He heard guffaws. “Take that wooded point at the bottom of the hill and dig in!”

  It was a raised point of land, thick with lodgepole pines. Just as they reached it, Gibbon heard two shots from the howitzer, perhaps a mile away. Had the Indians captured it? If they found his supply train, his men had no chance.

  They dug in behind the trees with whatever they could find—Rice bayonets, knives, mess kits. Gibbon heard the thud of a ball striking flesh and Lieutenant English pitched over with a cry, hit in the back. Private Hurlburt rushed forward from where he had been digging and dragged English behind his rudimentary breastworks, and the rest of them scrambled back to safety. Another gun fired and Hurlburt fell. Good God. Who taught these Indians to shoot?

  Gibbon took off his black hat and wiped his brow. It was full morning now—his pocket watch said seven—and the heat was rising. They had no water here, he realized, and he had a powerful thirst. He took out his canteen and drank, then moved carefully through the defenses, urging the men to conserve both ammunition and water. Many of them were tending wounds, some spitting tobacco into them to disinfect them. One had broken open a cartridge and was pouring black powder into a gaping thigh wound. As Gibbon watched, he lit a match and ignited the powder, cauterizing the tissue.

  Daytime Smoke had been so effective from the twin firs that the bluecoats trained their fire on him. He crawled backward, away from the trees, hiding in the long grass. Then he crawled up the hill, toward the forest, where other warriors had found cover to fire down at the soldiers. It was farther away than the twin firs, but safer.

  When he reached the forest, he saw someone with yellow hair on a black and white horse galloping up the hill toward the twin firs. His granddaughter! He was afraid she would be shot as she stopped at the firs, but she began to move again, racing up the hill toward the woods.

  When she reached them, she leapt off her horse and ran to him, jumped into his arms, tears streaming down her face. “I thought you were dead!”

  “I have been killing Soyappos.”

  “Come with us now, Grandfather. We are leaving.”

  “Is your mother alive?”

  She nodded her head.

  “Your grandmother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Echoes on Mountain?”

  “Unconscious.”

  There was a murmur of excitement from the young warriors. One had set fire to a small bunch of
dry grass he held. The others did likewise, then spread out down the hill, lighting the grass. The wind at their backs would carry the fire right to the Soyappos. Then they would charge, and he would charge with them!

  “Grandfather!” she cried again. “Come with us! Let young warriors fight.”

  He could see desperation in her eyes. When he was young, people still liked Soyappos; today they were hated, and she was often mistaken for one. She needed him, he knew. Widow Bird and Little Fire did, too. He glanced at the fire, pulled by his desire to kill more Soyappos, then down at the camp, where he could see people already departing.

  “I will come,” he said.

  Gibbon smelled the smoke before he saw it. He knew instantly what was happening: the Indians were going to burn him out.

  He hobbled up toward the northwest side of their breastworks. A strong breeze swept across and down the hill, and black smoke wafted toward them. He glanced at the dead trees and dry brush scattered about. If the fire reached them they would be forced back, and the Indians would surely charge them. Images of the bloated, dismembered corpses of Custer’s command floated through his mind. But if he evacuated the point of timber, his men would never survive—not the way these Indians shot.

  The fire moved slowly, inexorably toward them. It was more smoke than fire; the grass was half green at this altitude, even in August. But occasionally it hit a dry patch and flared up, and the Indians hidden behind it unleashed their war cries. No one said a word; the sporadic gunfire had stopped. He could hear the moaning of wounded men. All eyes, on both sides, watched the black smoke inch its way down the slope. It was 100 feet away, then 90, then 80. It flared up into flames, moved faster. He could feel the heat now. Sweat soaked his shirt. When it was only 30 feet away and he was sure they would have to run, the wind died. The flames went out, though the grass continued to smoke. Someone fired at one of the warriors behind the smoke, who dropped into the half-burned grass. Then everyone was firing, as if releasing some huge, pent-up burst of emotion.