Red Cloud's Revenge

by Terry C. Johnston

  Later, as the sun had risen like a dull pewter plate behind the thick clouds, looking more like a glob of buttermilk gone to clabber, Grant had sniffed noisily, his runny nose raw and aching. “You stink, Noah.”

  “You don’t smell no better, Grant,” the sergeant growled.

  “Maybeso we can take a bath we get to Smith.”

  Graham laughed mirthlessly. “You crazy loon. What with all the creeks froze up solid ’tween now and spring, no soldier’s bound to waste water on washing. You best get used to smelling your friends, Leonard Grant.”

  Through the morning Seamus listened to them arguing, bickering like bitchy women. He minded not at all, as it kept the soldiers’ minds off the march. Off the cold. And off the coming storm boiling up in the west and headed their way over the hills.

  There’d been times this last few months, Seamus had to admit, times when he had wondered privately of putting his name to a recruiting form once more. Then, he would hear the soldiers at Phil Kearny grumbling of their diet. For lack of vegetables, the post hospital had grown crowded by men down on their backs with scurvy. With no relief outside of Surgeon Horton’s medicines, the entire garrison was threatened. A pitiable sight to see so many young soldiers grown emaciated and weak, flat on their backs and afflicted to the extent that their teeth were ready to drop from their mouths.

  Food. Army troubles always came back to food.

  That’s when Donegan spotted it, off to the side of the trail he was breaking through the wind-carved snow.

  The animal’s tracks crossed the trail Seamus was cutting. He stopped, studying the country ahead. To his left—the snow pounded and trampled by many footprints. And in the center lay the carcass of an old buffalo bull.

  “That what I think it is?” Graham pushed past Donegan.

  Seamus flung his left arm out, trying to stop the sergeant lunging ahead into the tracks beaten by moccasined feet.

  “Sergeant!” he whispered hoarsely. “Get your ass back in the trees.” Donegan whirled, stumbling back to keep from falling as Grant barreled by him.

  As fast as they could stumble through the trampled snowdrifts, both sergeants lumbered up the bare slope to what was left of the buffalo carcass. His Henry held at ready, ears pricked for any foreign sound and eyes scouring the skyline, Donegan trudged behind them warily.

  He joined the soldiers at the carcass as they both freed knives and hacked slices of raw, cold meat from the ribs, stuffing the bloody flesh into their gaping mouths. “Don’t you realize what this carcass means?”

  “A blessing, that’s what it is!” Grant exclaimed.

  “The Injins killed it,” Donegan replied, placing a bare hand against the cooling flesh. “Not here long, either. We best be moving quick.” He rose, nudged Graham with the muzzle of his Henry.

  The sergeant shoved the rifle barrel aside. “Lemme alone, Irishman. Gonna eat my fill and cut some for supper. No telling when we’ll eat again.”

  “You’re more worried ’bout your belly than your scalp, is it?”

  “Lookee here,” Graham retorted. “Red bastards butchered what they wanted and hot-footed it back to their camp. They long gone by—”

  “Just how far you think they are from here?” Seamus snapped, his muzzle trying to nudge Grant from the carcass. “They wander out on foot to hunt, they don’t wander far from camp at all.” He backed off a few steps, sensing something on the change of wind as it shifted to a norther. His eyes crawled to the ridgeline.

  “I ain’t gonna be long, I told you,” Graham snapped, slicing meat.

  “You ain’t at that,” Donegan barked, his voice loud now. “You ain’t got time for nothing but running now, boys.”

  Grant was the first to look up, see where Donegan pointed his rifle. Off the top of the ridge poured a dozen or more warriors wrapped in wool capotes and brandishing rifles over their heads as they screeched their way down the slope.

  “It’ll be a merry chase, sojurs…” Donegan said as he turned back to the carcass, finding the sergeants gone, seeing and hearing them beating a path into the timber along the north brow of the ridge. “Why you bleeming fools! Leave me to close the file for you, eh? Cover your backsides, worthless as they are.”

  Donegan was running full tilt by now, the warriors closer to him than he was to either Grant or Graham. He doubted he could make the stand of timber more than a quarter mile off, where his companions had disappeared in shadow, but he had to try.

  Halfway there his boots scoured too deep through the soft snow. He realized he had run off the crust of icy snow onto the exposed underbelly of a deep drift burying a hidden ravine. The snow gave way beneath him like a yawning, spongy bed of moss. After five feet of slow descent, Donegan broke through, sliding uncontrollably through the icy shelf—plummeting down the side of a ravine. Staring wide-eyed at a two-hundred-foot drop below his boots.

  Frantically digging with his heels and the butt of his Henry, Donegan slowed his precipitous fall, bounced off a small boulder with his left shoulder, catapulting him better than ten feet into the air. As he hit the icy slope on the exposed southern slope, Seamus careened out of control again. No way to prepare for the rocks he was hurled against. His stomach shoved up around his tonsils as he slammed onto a narrow ledge. Light shot across his eyes, meteors of pure, red heat. The black velvet of blessed darkness threatened, like slow-moving molasses creeping over his mind.

  Donegan shook his head, sensing the cold at his cheek. He opened his eyes when the wild shrieks echoed overhead, up the slope.

  Holy mither of Mary!

  His side ached. Must be a goddamned rib.

  The shouts drew closer, directly overhead. Seamus jerked up as the snow fell on him.

  One of the bastirds is coming down!

  Pulling his rifle up, he cocked the Henry, checking the load. Then quickly patted the pistol belt around his waist. The mule-ear on the regulation holster had held the pistol during his headlong descent down the slope. In his pockets he had another hundred rounds of ammo. Heavy, but damned comforting right about now.

  They followed my tracks to the hole, he thought, looking around quickly. Then he scooted back against the inside of the rock ledge with the southern exposure. More snow tumbled down from the underside of the snow ledge. He tightened the latigo strap holding his hat beneath his chin.

  More yelling. Taunts. Savage cries of anger. Finally the thump and crash of rocks the warriors tossed down, trying to dislodge the white man.

  By Jesus—they can’t see me!

  At least, Donegan knew he couldn’t see them when he looked up. Looked up and got himself a face full of snow. Hearing what sounded like a body sliding down the hole in the snow ledge.

  ’Bout time to dance, Seamus, me boy. One of them red h’athens coming down to dance.

  Seamus worked to make himself small, pushing himself into the ledge wall as he spotted the buffalo-hide moccasins inching toward him. The moccasins dangled, then plopped on the rock ledge four feet away.

  “Arrggghhh!” Donegan growled, shoving the muzzle of his Henry toward the wide-eyed Sioux.

  Unprepared for the surprise of finding the white man so close, the warrior misstepped going back. His arms flew up, reaching for a handhold on the ledge, a root, grasping for the white man himself. Donegan put his hand out, but only to snatch the rifle from the lip of the ledge as the warrior tumbled off backward, screeching louder than ever.

  Donegan flung himself back into the shadows of the snow ledge, listening to the warrior’s body bounce on the jagged rocks two hundred feet below his tiny sanctuary. He glanced down at the rifle as more snow showered from above.

  Henry! Some poor bastard gave up more’n this rifle to—

  Another warrior was on his way down.

  Seamus pulled the Indian’s Henry up, levered a shell into the chamber and inched out of the shadows.

  The warrior hung against the snow ledge a moment before dropping onto the rock ledge three feet below him. There was a mo
ment there as he dropped that seemed suspended in time. Two men staring at one another above the yawning chasm. One painted and hungry for blood. A hand filled with a bloody skinning knife and the other holding a tomahawk.

  The second man had him a red cheek where a jagged chunk of granite had scoured a bloody gash along it. This one pulled the trigger before the warrior ever touched the rock outcrop where he stood.

  In a way, it looked damned pretty to Donegan, if he’d really had time to consider it. How the Sioux hunter had never touched foot on the rock ledge but continued his descent to the rocks below without a sound over the echo of the Henry. His dark mouth opened and moved frantically as he fell out of sight into the shadows below. No sound but the keening wind.

  Donegan pushed himself back into the lee of the snow ledge. Waiting. Watching for more snow. More moccasins. Another to try to dislodge him. Like a snowshoe hare or alpine marmot nested in the snow and waiting for the wolves to leave the entrance to its den.

  He huddled there and waited. Thinking on all sorts of things. About her.

  And just when he realized his feet were starting to freeze, Seamus ventured a look. The sun had fallen from overhead and was in the last quarter of the western sky behind him. He figured it had been over an hour since the last screech he had heard come from the ridge overhead.

  With less than two hours left him before the sun fell from the sky. What with him alone and on foot. No telling how far left to go until he reached Fort C.F. Smith. No choice but to crawl back atop the ridge the way he’d come down. Up through the snow ledge, a handhold at a time.

  On the top Seamus lay exhausted on the cold crust of trampled snow where a dozen warriors had stomped around the hole angrily, trying to flush their white quarry unsuccessfully. Finally his heart slowed. His breathing grew more regular.

  He rose shakily, squinting into the gray distance of the horizon that blended like a smooth pond of dirty rainwater into the lowering sky of dusk. Then he looked down at the Henry rifle he had taken from the warrior as spoils of his victory.

  Sour bile snagged his tonsils. He swallowed hard, forcing it back down. Remembering the sight of that narrow ring of rocks clustered at the base of Massacre Hill after the hostiles had retreated and Ten Eyck led his men down to the bodies. Remembering the sight of what was left of that tiny group of brave defenders who had held their lonely position while the rest retreated up the hill to die with Fetterman and Brown.

  Donegan breathed deep of the coming night-gloom and lengthening shadows, staring mesmerized at the name scratched crudely on the Henry’s stock.

  Remembering the two civilians who had ridden over Lodge Trail Ridge with Capt. William J. Fetterman’s doomed command. Issac Fisher and

  JAMES WHEATLEY

  Troy, Ohio

  Chapter 6

  For the better part of two hours Seamus Donegan waded through old snow and new, beginning to shudder as badly as Leonard Grant had their first night out from Fort Phil Kearny. Trouble was, Seamus realized he had no one to start a fire for him come nightfall.

  Keep walking, he told himself, fiercely clenching his chattering teeth. Just keep walking.

  The snow slapped against the wide brim of his hat with tiny, moist sighs as the sky lowered, nudging the sun down upon the peaks of the Big Horns. And with every step, he dreamed of the warmth come of a woman’s desire for him. That, and whiskey—whiskey potent and red as a bay horse raised on Kentucky bluegrass. Women and whiskey, the only things in life worth living for. Worth dying for.

  Women and whiskey kept Seamus Donegan climbing those hills toward the mouth of the Big Horn canyon.

  Off to his left the winter sun had just settled behind the peaks. A cruel wind tumbled more insistently off those same granite spires. He’d have to find himself a place to roost for the night. No food to speak of. Damned little whiskey. But he figured a belly full of gumption was enough to see him through a sleepless night. That, and the sulfur-head matches he had packed in every pocket, coated with lard so they wouldn’t be soaked.

  Up top of that rise, you’ll see the next stretch of country, Seamus, me boy, he confided to himself. See what your next move is … where you can find a place to spend the lonely hours. Come nightfall.

  Leaning against a stunted cedar near the skyline, Donegan blew the way the big gray would after the climb. An afternoon filled with many long ascents. About done in, he squinted into the lengthening gray of distance before him, glad for once there hadn’t been any sun to speak of all day. Otherwise, he’d have snow-blindness to contend with as well. A burning agony that felt like hot grains of sand rolling beneath his lids.

  That’s all you’d need, boy. Talk about being useless as a priest in a St. Louis whorehouse—

  He blinked again, doubting what he saw … blinked to be sure it wasn’t the changing light, nor the beginnings of snow-blindness that made his eyes swim at the enormous distance stretching from his feet.

  No, the objects were there, shimmering dark like liquid shadows against the graying snow. Creeping from his right to left a good three hundred yards from him. And headed into valley there before him as well.

  His empty belly lurched, complaining as he slid back into the cedars, making himself small, no small task for a man pushing better than 230 pounds along the skyline. Seamus settled in a clump of cedar, checked the loads on both Henrys. After adding nine shells to Wheatley’s rifle, he looked up to find the party of two had been joined by another pair of riders. Yet something about the way they sat their horses in the dimming light began to work on him.

  At a hundred yards, Donegan was certain. Certain enough to gamble stepping out of his cedar sanctuary and waving an arm to the four horsemen. One of the riders stopped, pointing in Donegan’s direction. The remaining three stopped, turning their horses along the edge of the slope. Then kicked their animals into a snowy fury as they yelped.

  Of a sudden he wasn’t all that sure anymore. The frantic way they drove their animals toward him, their mouths oooed and hollered as they splashed through the snow. Four of them—he could make a good show of it anyway, make up for the mistake of showing himself. He slid back into the cedars. Cocked both Henrys and knelt. A man ready to make a stand.

  “Ho! Donegan!”

  That surprised him. One of the riders stood in the stirrups and shouted his name amid the cheers of the rest. Besides, he told himself, h’athen Injins don’t use stirrups, you cuddle-headed fool!

  Seamus Donegan rose stiffly, shuddering and shaky from the cold knifing at the marrow of him. He stepped to the edge of the cedars.

  “Donegan!”

  The Irishman stepped out of the cedars, smiling at last. “Who is it wants to know?”

  The riders splashed up the lip of the ridge. Fifty feet away. One held his hand aloft, slowing the rest. “You Donegan … then I’m Thompson. Private James W. Thompson.”

  “I’m Donegan,” Seamus sighed. “Cheeroo! Where the bleeming saints you come from?”

  Thompson brought his laboring mount to a halt feet away from Seamus. It snorted frosty sprays of white gauze around the Irishman. “Why, Fort C.F. Smith, of course. Where would you be heading?”

  He chuckled at first, having almost forgotten where the devil he had been going. Then he burst out laughing long and loud as all four soldiers stared at him like they were watching a lunatic. “Heading straight to hell in the end, sojurs! Same as you. But, Fort C.F. Smith would do just fine for now. By glory, I’m glad I spotted you!”

  Thompson nudged his horse closer, ripping off a mitten and presenting a hand down to the Irishman. “Mr. Donegan, another few minutes and we’d’ve spotted you. One of us would’ve cut your trail. It been them goddamned Sioux cut your trail first, we’d not be standing here talking to you … ready to ride you in to Fort Smith where you’re expected.”

  “Expected?”

  Thompson nodded. “That’s right. ’Bout three hours ago them two sergeants from Phil Kearny stumbled in, half froze from cold, and fright
too. After getting a couple cups of coffee down ’em, they told us there was one more of you left out here—civilian named Donegan.”

  “Bless those spineless beggars,” Donegan growled. “Left me to worry about a band of red h’athens by meself. Many was the time I cursed ’em both straight to the pits of hell. Bless their little souls for telling you I was still out here.”

  “Simmons,” Private Thompson turned, “you’re the smallest. Climb over behind Purdy there.” He looked to Seamus. “Pull yourself on Simmons’s horse. You’re a big load, mister—but that animal will get you to Fort C.F. Smith … since I ain’t found the way to hell myself.”

  “Soon enough for us all, Private,” Seamus said as he clambered aboard the army horse.

  Thompson led off, riding beside Donegan. “Them two from Phil Kearny claimed there was at least a dozen screaming Sioux on your tail when last they saw you. That true, Mr. Donegan?”

  “Could be, Private,” and he grinned, teeth chattering still. “But I wasn’t one to stop and count, you see.”

  “So tell me how you pulled your tail outta that scrape.”

  “Sometime I will,” he replied. “For now, it’s enough to say that Seamus Donegan knows well enough that life ain’t in holding a good hand, but in playing a poor one well.”

  It wasn’t long before Seamus was at the fort, explaining how he had pulled himself out of the scrape to Private Thompson and a growing crowd of listeners, officers and enlisted both. His coffee mug never drained itself before some hand refilled it while Donegan regaled the soldiers of Fort C.F. Smith with his hair-raising tale, basking in the attention. Enjoying the eager faces to talk to.

  A cold, silvery winter moon hung over the Big Horns by the time Seamus Donegan stumbled along beside Thompson toward the low log-and-dirt shack that served as a barrack where he would be assigned a bunk in the midst of rows of snoring soldiers. Seamus sighed contentedly beneath the smelly, scratchy wool of familiar blankets, listening to the varied chorus of sleep-starved troopers.

  After what seemed but a moment of relief, the Irishman squinted into pale, gray light streaking the oily window to his left with a foretaste of dawn. Around him scuffed thick-soled brogans and growling soldiers, roused from their slumber for another day of labor. And a cold day at that. Seamus pulled the blanket against his cheek, watching his breath turn to steamy vapor before his face.