Sioux Uprising (Edge series Book 11)

by George G. Gilman

  He went out of the sick bay, closely followed by Booth. The orderly held back for a few moments, but received no encouragement from the still-eating Edge and he left, too. He neglected, by design or otherwise, to remove the bottle of French brandy. So, when Edge had finished the meal, he topped it with another drink. After that, he rolled and smoked a cigarette and tested his weight on his legs. He was far short of the peak of physical fitness, but as he paced the small room he could feel his muscles reacting to the effects of food and exercise.

  From the window, at one end of the headquarters building, he saw a mounted trooper receive a dispatch pouch from Major Schmitt. The planks were placed across the trench and the rider clattered across. He half circled the perimeter and galloped off into the trees behind the fort.

  From close to the window, the half-breed could see that a guard of twenty men were positioned in the northern arc of the trench. He looked across their heads and narrowed his eyes to survey the seemingly endless wilderness which held the men’s intense concentration. Heat shimmer severely shortened the range of vision, but he guessed there would be ample warning of a Sioux attack.

  He stretched out on the cot. Less than a minute later, when the orderly knocked and entered with a bowl of hot water and a fresh army-issue shirt and pants, he discovered the half-breed was soundly asleep. Having no wish to test the man’s amazingly fast reflexes again, he placed his burdens on a dresser and withdrew. Edge came close to waking, sensed he was alone again, and sank back down the curve into a deep sleep.

  It was midday when the bugle call snapped him into full awareness. He rolled off the cot and reached the window in two strides. More than a score of troopers, some in shirt sleeves and others struggling into tunics, were running across the compound to reinforce the men already in the trench. Three of them staggered under the weight of the component parts of a Gatling gun, which they started to set up at a central point on the northern perimeter. As the last man thudded down into the trench, the bugler abruptly ended the call. The sounds of the rapid-fire gun being snapped together were all that disturbed the stillness.

  For the advancing Sioux were holding their peace.

  They were still more than three miles out across the wasteland, stretched out in a line almost a mile wide. How many ranks there were was impossible to tell, for the heat shimmer drifted across the arid terrain in waves, shrouding the Indians as effectively as an autumn morning mist.

  “Major’s compliments, sir,” the orderly said in a rush as he opened the door. “He’d appreciate it if you’d join him on the compound.”

  The man was fully-dressed in uniform now, and carried a Winchester. Edge turned and nodded in acknowledgment. His own rifle rested in a corner, with a knife still firmly stuck in the stock. He wrenched it free with ease as he followed the orderly down a corridor and through a doorway into the full, dazzling harshness of the noon sun.

  Schmitt and Booth, with a lieutenant, formed a small group in front of the headquarters building. As the orderly ran to take up a position in the trench, the major finished a surveillance of the enemy through binoculars. His face was tense as he handed them to Edge.

  “Your estimate was a little short,” he accused.

  Edge took the binoculars and raised them to his hooded eyes. He focused on one end of the line of advance and the lenses brought a group of vividly-painted braves into seeming touching distance. He swept the glasses along the entire line and counted six chiefs, two of them Cheyenne. One of the Sioux chiefs was Black Hawk, his broken leg bound and splinted, stretching out stiffly from the side of his pony. There were at least ten rows of mounted braves behind the leading line. Dust and shimmer clouded the rear.

  “I reckon three thousand I can see,” Edge said as he handed back the binoculars. “That’s three times as many as I saw last night, major. Weren’t no Cheyenne out at the twin-peaked butte.”

  “Waiting to join up with the others,” the lieutenant said nervously.

  “Didn’t have to wait long,” Edge put in, shading his eyes to stare out at the Sioux.

  “Know anything about Indian fighting, mister?” Schmitt asked.

  Edge spat into the dust and began to reload the Winchester from the diminishing stock of shells in his pants pockets. “They’re like everybody else,” he answered wryly. “Kill ’em and they don’t get up.”

  The major grimaced. He had spent a great part of his army life on isolated posts with the minimum of contact with civilians. He was not used to - and did not like -Edge’s lack of respect for his rank.

  “Just like that, uh?”

  Edge pushed the final shell in through the gate and showed his cold grin to the major. Then he glanced across the heads of the troopers again. “Naturally, it’s easier when there aren’t so many of ’em coming at you.”

  Schmitt cleared his throat, conscious of the gaze of the captain and lieutenant, who obviously expected him to bawl out the arrogant civilian. But with the Sioux drawing closer by the moment, he realized this was neither the time nor the place to waste anger on a man fate had decreed to be his ally. “Unless I receive orders to the contrary, I intend to do all in my power to hold this position mister,” he rasped.

  Edge turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees, his expression showing his dissatisfaction with what he saw. Open ground on three sides and dense timber on the other. In the middle, a comparative handful of men with only the trench and insubstantial timber buildings for cover.

  “Very noble,” the half-breed commented.

  “Are you with us?” Schmitt asked.

  Edge looked at Booth. “I owe the captain,” he replied. “For a couple of drinks, a few hours sleep and a meal. Guess men have died for less.”

  Neither Schmitt nor the junior officers could think of an answer for that, and Edge broke away from the group and crossed to the trench. He dropped down into it and found himself between the orderly and the sergeant who had carried him in from the plain.

  “Ordered to stay, uh?” the squint-eyed non-com muttered, nestling his cheek against the stock of his Winchester.

  “Nobody gives me orders,” Edge answered, leaning forward against the heap of earth and sighting along his own rifle.

  “So why didn’t you take off through the timber?” the orderly asked. “Have your pick of the horses. Don’t reckon any of us will need ’em anymore.”

  “Guy out there I want,” the half-breed said as the three officers split up and took their battle stations - Booth on the left flank, the lieutenant on the right and Schmitt in the centre.

  “Only one?” the sergeant asked wryly as the Sioux advance halted, a few yards out of rifle range.

  The soldiers waited, bodies tense, fingers curled around triggers, tanned faces pale and sheened by sweat. The dust raised by the Sioux ponies settled and it seemed, in the utter silence, that the men in the trench could hear the settling of each tiny mote.

  “Ain’t greedy,” Edge muttered against the stillness.

  “You can take as many of these cookies as you want, mister,” the non-com whispered, swatting at a buzzing fly. “Plenty for everybody.”

  Edge drew the Sioux knife from his pants’ waistband and thrust it into the dirt. “Obliged, but I wouldn’t want to get toothache,” he answered.

  “Uh?”

  A piercing whistle shrilled: and signaled an explosion of full-throated war cries as the Indians heeled their ponies into a charge.

  “I want revenge, and that’s supposed to be sweet,” Edge rasped as he narrowed his eye behind the backsight. He squeezed the trigger and a brave was toppled from his pony, pouring blood from a head wound.

  The sergeant, like the other soldiers, was waiting for the order to fire. “That him?” he yelled as Edge pumped the Winchester’s action.

  “Ain’t that easy,” the half-breed answered and fired again, hitting a pony, which rolled and bucked its rider into the path of the trampling hooves following. “But I reckon I can stand the pain for as long as it takes me to
get a drilling and lead filling.”

  “Fire!” Schmitt roared.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Sioux chief leading the first attacking wave of braves issued the same order to his followers simultaneously with the cavalry major. The war cries of the Indians were almost drowned out by the sharp crackle of more than a hundred rifles, and in the next instant became mingled with the screams of the wounded.

  The attackers were shrouded in a billowing clouds of dust and appeared as merely black shadows in the swirling grey. But the men in the trenches had the satisfaction of seeing several loose ponies spurt ahead as they became unburdened of dead or wounded riders.

  Three of the defenders slumped forward across the earth and then slid down into the foot of the trench, one of them pouring blood from a hole where his left eye had once been, another crying for his mother as he tried to staunch the flow of scarlet from the side of his neck and the third screaming and swatting at flies which zoomed in to feed on his bullet torn cheek.

  Gun smoke drifted along the trench, dropping its acrid stench over the men as they pumped a hail of lead towards the rapidly closing dust cloud, spitting death back at them.

  Edge fired, ducked low to pump the Winchester’s action, rose and fired again. On each fleeting occasion that his slitted eyes peered across the mound of earth, the impossibility of defending the fort was made more apparent.

  For only the centre group of Indians were attacking; and probably just the first few ranks of these. The flanks of the joint Sioux-Cheyenne force were moving up slowly and it was highly likely that there was a back-up body of braves covering the centre should the initial attack fail.

  He counted his twelfth shot and crouched down low in the trench, digging fresh ammunition from a carton at the feet of the sergeant. The Gatling began to chatter its own brand of indiscriminate death and a cheer went up from the soldiers as they saw the effect of the spewing bullets spraying along the line of advance.

  “We’re murderin’ ’em!” the orderly shrieked. He opened his mouth to vent a burst of jubilant laughter.

  An arrow hissed out of the dust and splatted into the back of his throat. He was thrown against the rear wall of the trench and slid down into a sitting position. Death drained the joy from his staring eyes.

  “Should have kept your mouth shut,” Edge said to the unresponsive face, springing upright and squeezing the trigger as soon as he had a clear shot.

  A brave had galloped to within four feet of the trench, and leapt clear of his mount, a tomahawk swinging up. The half-breed’s shot took him in the groin. He screamed and slumped across the mound of earth, head hanging into the trench. The sergeant snatched up his fallen tomahawk and thudded it into the back of the brave’s neck.

  “That sure give him the chop!” he roared triumphantly as the severed head dropped into the trench.

  At the centre of the line, four braves hurled themselves from their ponies, revolvers blazing and knives flashing. The Gatling gun was silenced and the blood from its two man crew hissed as it sprayed from gaping wounds on to hot metal.

  A brave loomed up on the dirt mound in front of the sergeant, and he swung the tomahawk again, letting go of the handle. The axe spun once between the brave’s legs. Then the blade sank deep into the Indian’s crotch. His scream seemed to blot out every other sound of the fierce battle.

  “He sings soprano good!” the non-com bellowed.

  As the brave toppled forward, he managed to bring up his revolver and squeeze the trigger. The sergeant gasped, swayed, and crumpled, the Indian falling across him in the bottom of the trench. Blood and a darker liquid oozed from a hole in the top of his head.

  “Ain’t only the high notes he can hit,” Edge muttered, whirling towards a sound behind him.

  The attacking brave thrust forward with a knife. The Winchester cracked and the brave was flung backwards, gouting blood from his heart. Behind his falling body, around the curving trench, more blood spurted, accompanied by the screams of white men and Indians as they fought to the death at close quarters. In the other direction, it was the same. Corpses, in army blue and buck-skin, littered the mound of earth and bottom of the trench in myriad attitudes of death.

  Beyond the fort’s pathetically inadequate defensive line, the charge was over. The dust floated gently to earth, finely coating the inert forms of braves and ponies and thickening the drying blood which had spilled from their wounds.

  The painted face of a brave appeared at the top of the mound immediately in front of Edge. The half-breed had no time to lever a fresh shell into the Winchester’s breech. A revolver pointed at him - single shot and not cocked. He dropped the rifle and swung his arm. He grasped the hair of the Indian and dragged him over the hump of earth. His other hand jerked the knife from the dirt. In the instant before he thrust the knife deep into the gaping mouth of the Indian, he saw through the streaks of warpaint on the face and knew there would be no tongue to hinder the path of the blade - the scar stood out vividly against the sweating skin.

  The half-breed’s own mouth came open in a roar of jubilation, and his triumph seemed somehow heightened by the warmth of Silent Thunder’s blood splashing across his hand. Then the brave’s teeth clamped tight on the blade. He slid down into the trench, his body weight straining against Edge’s grip on the knife. The half-breed refused to release his hold and the steel blade snapped an inch in front of the hilt.

  Edge saw the jagged break and recognized a million-to-one chance of survival. There was no time to check for watching eyes. All he could do was clamp his own teeth around the stump of the blade and force his body to go limp. As he crumpled, he clamped his eyes tight closed. When he hit the bottom of the trench, his head resting against the still warm flesh of a dead brave, he breathed in deeply through his nostrils and trapped the air in his lungs. The blood of Silent Thunder tasted salty.

  Within moments, the last surviving soldier assigned to Fort Wells took an arrow through the heart and spilled his blood into the near river soaking into the bottom of the trench.

  The two flanks of the Indian advance swung around the sides of the fort and moved into the trees. Those braves who had been engaged in the attack rounded up their ponies and followed. The back-up group caught mounts for the superficially wounded. Those with more serious wounds were left to die: for there was no time or men to spare to care for them.

  Edge cracked open his eyes and remained where he had fallen for a full hour after the forest had swallowed up the last braves. Then he rose and climbed out of the trench. At many points along its forward curve, it was filled to overflowing with bodies. There were no longer any wounded: all were dead.

  He found his own Winchester with the knife score in the stock, loaded it and refilled his pockets with shells. There were a great many loose horses around, both Indian ponies and cavalry mounts which had broken free of the corral in panic. He selected a strong-looking army gelding and saddled him with tack taken from one of the bunkhouses. The beef stew was luke warm on a cold stove in the cookhouse and he ate a great deal of it. The food filled him and almost masked the after-taste of Silent Thunder’s blood in his mouth. Then he took his bearings from the sun and rode into the timber, heading on a route which would bring him to the southern fringe of the forest close to Spear Lake. It also veered him away from the wide path taken by the vengeance seeking Indians.

  Edge’s own desire for revenge had been satisfied and he rode without haste. He halted only to rest and water the horse during the remainder of the day. But when night came, he stretched out on a patch of lush grass and slept soundly until morning. It was almost noon on the next, equally hot day, when he rode clear of the timber, a few miles to the east of the lake with the cabin on its shore. Within an hour, he rounded the foot of a hill and saw the sparkle of sunlit water. This part of the country was not in the path of the advancing Indians and the little farmstead looked precisely the same as when he had passed by on the trail of the Sioux raiders.

  Throughou
t the entire trek from Fort Wells, he had found it no strain to keep thoughts of Elizabeth at bay. But sight of the cabin brought a thousand and one memories flooding into his mind. As he dismounted in the yard, with its surface still showing stale sign of moccasined feet and unshod hooves, he sensed an emanation of evil rising from the cabin and hovering above it.

  But he rejected this image and his movements were precisely determined as he hitched the reins to the picket fence and crossed to the door. It was open and there was a covering of new, undisturbed dust on the step. More dust coated everything in the wrecked living room where he and Elizabeth were married. His boots left marks on the floor as he moved between the smashed furniture and entered the bedroom.

  He hesitated in the doorway, seeing the opened cans of blue paint he had bought in Spearville at Elizabeth’s re quest. On one there was a thick skin coating the surface. The other was empty. A brush, with stiffened bristles rested in this. The contents had been applied to one wall.

  Edge found he could smile, as he thought of Elizabeth starting to work on painting the room, preparing a surprise for him on his return from town. But then he felt his lips beginning to grow taut as the smile was transformed into a vicious snarl of hate. His vision misted and he knew the blur had nothing to do with exhaustion this time.

  He shook his head, clearing his mind of useless emotion, and crossed to the panel concealing the secret hiding place. Inside was almost four thousand dollars. And the neck pouch with the razor, his own Winchester rifle and a gun belt with a double-action Colt in the holster. If he still had Elizabeth, none of these things would have been important. Without her, they were everything that mattered to him. He pressed the panel at the secret place and it swung open.

  Elizabeth fell towards him, more beautiful than he had ever seen her - despite the shapeless denim dress and specks of blue paint on her skin. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder and she was only beautiful to him because he saw her when he thought he never would again.