Wind River

by Charles G. West

  As he advanced toward the rapidly diminishing circle of blue uniforms, he was aware of the rising frenzy of the warriors as they sensed the annihilation of their hated enemy. Several soldiers broke from the circle and attempted to run for their lives but there was noplace to escape as the warriors now completely surrounded the hill. Little Wolf’s eyes were on Custer alone. Making his way up the hill, now on foot, he readied his arrow and thoughts of Morning Sky, Spotted Pony, Buffalo Woman, Black Feather and Black Kettle flashed through his mind. He could feel the blood pumping furiously in his heart as he neared the summit.

  Custer fell to one knee. He had been hit! One of the soldiers quickly went to his fallen commander and struggled to help him up again. Little Wolf stopped and calmly sighted his arrow, then released it. The flight was barely a few seconds but it seemed to him that it was in the air a long time before it buried deep into the white shirt, and the man fell back to the ground. Within seconds the final handful of soldiers were lying dead around their leader. The air was filled with the victory war whoops of his brothers and the hill was overrun with warriors. Within minutes women and children, swarming over the fallen soldiers, scurried up from the river to witness the massacre.

  Little Wolf stood over the body of Custer, spellbound by the lifeless form of the devil who had dwelt in his mind for so long. He who would annihilate a people had been annihilated instead. Custer was dead. At once a great weight seemed to disappear from Little Wolf’s soul. He stood motionless, looking down at the insignificant corpse of one who had been such an evil force in his life, while the women and children of the village stripped the bodies of everything useful. Off to the side, he heard a Sioux warrior say to someone, “Look at him. The golden cougar is no more. Longhair is dead.” In that instant Little Wolf recalled his vision of long ago when the great bear conquered the cougar that stalked him. But there was no time to think about it further, for there was still fighting beyond the bluffs where the first group of soldiers had taken a stand. He climbed on his pony to join in the assault. As he did so, he stepped around the body of one of Custer’s scouts. The man was not a Pawnee. He was a squat stump of a man, a civilian scout, Little Wolf guessed. If there had been time to think about it, he might have remembered him as the third man with Squint Peterson and Tom Allred, when they trailed Little Wolf that day on the Little Missouri.

  * * *

  They could hear the gunfire in the distance and, from the sound of it, there must have been a tremendous battle taking place. At first, Squint figured Custer’s and Reno’s men must evidently be slaughtering all life in the Sioux camp. But as the gunfire continued and increased in volume, he began to worry. Turning to Tom, he said, “I don’t like the sound of that. I believe our boys have run into something they wasn’t expecting.”

  “Peterson! Any way we can get out of these damn gullies any quicker?” The strain in Benteen’s face was evident as the frustration of being slowed down by the rough terrain along the bluffs began to wear away his patience. There was a hell of a lot of action going on up ahead and they were bogged down in a series of ravines and deep gullies that slowed the horses to a walk.

  “No sir,” Squint replied. “I’m leading you the shortest way out. If we don’t head away from the river, we ain’t ever gonna get out of here.”

  They had not encountered any hostiles on their approach to the Sioux camp, only rough country. Now, when he could well imagine his troops were needed in support, Benteen was forced to be late to join the battle. Even before his fears were justified, Benteen had an eerie feeling about the assault on the Sioux camp. He had been in silent agreement with Major Reno—Custer should have waited for General Terry as he was ordered to do. Finally reaching the open prairie again, he ordered the battalion into a canter. They had not traveled a mile when they were met by Custer’s bugler, riding toward them at a gallop. Benteen halted the column briefly while he took the message from the wide-eyed trooper. The message read, Benteen. Come on. Big village. Be quick. Bring packs. P.S. Bring packs.

  Benteen looked up at the bugler. “What’s going on up there, son?”

  “Sir,” the bugler stammered, his speech broken with a heavy accent. The man was obviously a foreigner. “Major Reno charge across river. Many Indians shoot from other side.”

  “Has Colonel Custer engaged the enemy yet?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Benteen turned to Tom. “All right, Mr. Allred, let’s move ’em out.”

  * * *

  The scene that greeted Captain Benteen was one he was not expecting. When he arrived at the bluffs of the river, what was left of Reno’s battalion was fighting for survival, having been backed up into the ravines. The arrival of Benteen’s fresh troopers was enough to cause the hostiles to fall back for a while, but even with the reinforcements, the soldiers were still vastly outnumbered. Benteen gave orders to establish a perimeter defense that stalemated the attacking hordes before them, but it would be only a matter of time before they were overrun. In the chaos of retreating troopers and flying lead, Benteen searched for Major Reno. He found him, frantically issuing commands to his junior officers in an effort to deploy his outnumbered troopers.

  “Marc! What happened?”

  Reno appeared to be in a daze. He stared at his fellow officer for a long time before answering, the grime and sweat of the battle etched on his face. “We ran into a buzzsaw, Fred. I swear, I don’t know if any of us are going to get out of this alive. There’s thousands of hostiles out there. I don’t know how long we can hold them off. It was suicide! We charged into the river and there was a solid wall of hostiles on the other side. They were in the gullies, in the grass, everywhere. They all had rifles, they just—”

  “Where’s Custer?” Benteen interrupted.

  “Overrun!” Reno almost shouted. He turned and pointed toward a ridge. “He fell back to that hill. We tried to reach him once but there were too many hostiles between us. It was all I could do to save as many of my men as I could.”

  “Well, we can hold this position for a while longer. Maybe we can try to rescue what’s left of Custer’s men.” He summoned his junior officers around him to come up with a plan. “Gentlemen,” he began. “Colonel Custer may already have been completely overrun. We can spare one company of men to try to break through to him. I’m not going to order anyone to do it. I want a volunteer.”

  There was a moment of silence. Even the constant roar of gunfire around them seemed to pause for a moment. Finally someone broke the silence.

  “I’ll go.” It was Tom Allred.

  * * *

  “Dammit, Tom, I thought you’d been in the army long enough to know not to volunteer for nuthin.” Squint fussed over his saddle pack in preparation to mount.

  “You don’t have to go,” Tom replied quietly.

  “Well, the hell I don’t. Somebody’s got to look after you. Andy Coulter’d probably take my scalp if I let somethin’ happen to you.” He filled his pockets with extra cartridges. “Besides, it was mighty damn nice of you to volunteer this whole damn company. I know these boys is pleased to git a chance to stick their fannies out there in the middle of them Injuns.”

  Tom refused to be riled by the scolding. “Squint, Andy’s up there.”

  “I know it, son.” He and Tom exchanged glances and Tom knew Squint had not forgotten that for a moment. “Well, let’s git on with it.”

  When his men were ready and mounted, Benteen stopped him for some last-minute instructions. “Tom, don’t push it. If you can work your way through to the ridge, fine. But I’m not calling on you to sacrifice yourself or your men. Understood?”

  “Understood. Don’t worry, I’m not in any hurry to die.”

  “Good luck then.”

  It was the middle of the afternoon when Tom and Squint led the company down along a deep ravine toward the hill where Custer’s surviving troopers were last seen. They met only sporadic fire until they reached a point near the head of the ravine, some six hundred yar
ds from Custer’s embattled defense. Suddenly they were swarmed upon from three sides by a screaming wave of painted Cheyenne warriors. Tom’s horse was shot out from under him and he barely managed to roll out of the saddle before the beast pinned him to the ground. In less than thirty seconds, Squint was there to pull him up behind him on the Appaloosa. With his men falling on either side of him, Tom yelled for the company to fall back and take cover.

  “This ain’t gonna work, Tom!” Squint shouted over the roar of gunfire around them. “Them Injuns is thicker’n hairs on a beaver.”

  “We’ve got to do something,” Tom shouted. “We can’t stay here. I want to make one more try to break through.”

  Both men fired until they emptied their weapons, then reloaded and continued to fire. There were targets everywhere. They hardly took time to aim. Squint was as brave as any man when it came to facing certain death, but he failed to see the logic in getting himself killed when it served no purpose. And he could see no purpose in exposing themselves to all that enemy fire. Meanwhile, a small band of hostiles had managed to work its way around to the side and were now zeroing in on the troopers’ exposed left flank. It was time to abandon the mission and save as many as possible.

  “Tom, Custer’s done for. Ain’t nothing nobody can do about that now. And the rest of us is soon gonna be buzzard bait if we don’t get the hell out of here.” His tone was unmistakably authoritative. It was not a simple suggestion.

  “You’re right,” Tom replied reluctantly. “All right!” he yelled to his men. “Mount up and withdraw. And do it smartly, dammit! Sergeant Porter, your men will form the rear guard. The rest of you men watch your flanks and let’s get the hell out of here!”

  They withdrew in orderly fashion, retreating gradually, fighting as they went. Halfway back to the battalion, they were suddenly attacked by a small band of Cheyennes that had worked in behind them. Tom dropped off the back of Squint’s horse and jumped up on the horse of a fallen trooper. As he did, a rifle ball smacked into the fleshy part of his upper arm, causing him to yell out, more in surprise than pain. When he looked back, Squint’s saddle was empty. In a panic, he looked left and right, desperately searching for the big scout. Then he saw him, fighting with two Cheyenne warriors on the ground. Before Tom could get to him, Squint was successful in freeing his right hand long enough to pull his pistol and dispatch one of the savages while fending off the knife blows of the other with his left. Tom pulled his revolver and put a bullet through the skull of the hostile. Squint looked startled for an instant as the Indian’s face suddenly split, showering his sleeve with blood.

  When he turned to see who had saved him, he froze in his tracks. Directly behind Tom, a Cheyenne warrior rose up, rifle raised, poised to shoot. It was too late to save Tom, as the hostile was ready to pull the trigger, but Squint could at least kill the bastard who killed Tom. He quickly raised his pistol, but the hostile did not fire. Instead, he hesitated. Squint took aim, being careful not to hit Tom. The hostile was dead in his sights but Squint still did not pull the trigger. It all happened within a few seconds, time enough for Tom to react. Seeing Squint raise his pistol and point directly at him, he could guess he was about to be attacked from behind. He whirled, firing as he did. The hostile fell to the ground.

  “Jesus!” Tom exclaimed, his heart in his throat. “Why didn’t you shoot?” It appeared to him that Squint had simply frozen.

  Moving quickly now, Squint rushed to the fallen Indian. “Because he didn’t shoot,” he yelled as he turned the hostile over on his back. “It’s Little Wolf.”

  “What?” Tom gasped, still confused. “Little Wolf?”

  Squint was hurriedly checking over the prone figure before him. “He’s only wounded. You just creased his skull. He’s out colder’n hell though. Here, gimme a hand and we’ll put him on his horse.”

  Tom, still unable to understand Squint’s concern for the wounded man, pulled at Squint’s shoulder. “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here. The rest of the company are getting ahead of us.” He cocked his pistol and shoved the barrel down against Little Wolf’s head.

  Squint knocked his arm aside and hissed, “He’s your brother!”

  “He’s a damn Indian!”

  “He coulda kilt you but he didn’t!” Squint shot back in anger.

  “Leave him then. We’re all going to be dead if we don’t get out of here.”

  Squint looked at his young friend, oblivious to the fighting around them. “I can’t leave him hurt. Somebody might finish him off.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m leaving. He’s just another damn hostile as far as I’m concerned.” He mounted and rode off toward the battalion.

  Squint wasn’t sure what he should do. He didn’t want to leave Little Wolf out there alone, but he couldn’t stay with him. For want of a better idea, he lifted him up across his saddle and grabbed the Medicine Hat by the reins and galloped off after Tom.

  * * *

  The reception Squint received when he brought the wounded Cheyenne warrior back to the battalion was one of amazement. Captain Benteen was astonished. “Why in hell did you bring that savage back here? We’re fighting for our lives, man! We’re in no position to take prisoners. Shoot him!”

  “Wait a minute, Captain.” Squint had to think fast. “You don’t want to shoot this Injun. This here’s Little Wolf hisself, one of the biggest Cheyenne war chiefs. Why, Custer hisself put a price on his head for capture. You don’t want to shoot Little Wolf. The army druther take him back to Fort Lincoln for trial.”

  The subject of their discussion was only then beginning to show signs of life. Little Wolf groaned and slowly rolled over on his side, still unable to gather his wits, unaware if he was among friends or enemies. At his first movement, several guns were instantly leveled in his direction.

  “Hold on,” Squint pleaded. “Don’t nobody get excited. He ain’t armed. Look at him. He don’t even know where he’s at.”

  Benteen gazed at the wounded Cheyenne with a cold eye. He was more concerned with the ring of savages holding his men pinned down. He had no time to worry about one dazed Indian. After thinking about it for a moment longer, he said, “Drag him out of here and shoot him.”

  Major Reno, who had been a witness to the discussion, raised his hand, stopping the two troopers who moved to carry out Benteen’s orders. “Just a minute, Fred. You know, Peterson may be right. This is the bastard Custer put a price on. He’s the renegade that’s been raiding with the Cheyennes for years.” His eyes were wild as he glanced back and forth between Benteen and their captive. “We may not get out of this mess with our lives. But if we do, somebody’s going to have to answer for this massacre. I’d just as soon have this bastard to hand over to the brass back at Fort Lincoln.”

  Benteen reconsidered. “Maybe you’re right, I don’t know . . .” He was concerned with more important issues, like staying alive. “Just get him out of my way.” He paused a moment, then ordered, “Lieutenant Allred, take charge of the prisoner and make sure he doesn’t get away. If our position is overrun, shoot him.”

  Tom flushed. “Sir, I don’t think I should . . .”

  “Just do it, Tom!” Benteen was rapidly losing his patience. The matter was trivial in the face of their immediate peril. Before returning to the more pressing problems at hand, he paused, just then noticing the blood soaking through Tom’s sleeve. “You better get that attended to. Is it bad?”

  “No sir,” Tom replied. “I think the ball went right through.”

  Two troopers grabbed Little Wolf by the shoulders and roughly dragged him away. Tom reluctantly followed, giving instructions to tie up the prisoner’s hands and feet. His mind was in a turmoil over the unforeseen turn of events that had placed his own brother in his hands. He told his conscious mind that he and Little Wolf were coincidentally birthed by the same woman, but they were not brothers. The man was a savage. He had killed Tom’s comrades. He should not feel compassion for this renegade, this Cheyenne war chief, this
enemy of his country.

  Squint stepped aside to let Tom pass. He said nothing to him, but studied the expression in his eyes. The distress he read there was evidence of the storm raging in Tom’s mind.

  * * *

  Together, Reno and Benteen came to a decision. Custer was finished. Of that they were certain. Since darkness was not far off, they decided to fall back to a better position in the hills. There they dug in and prepared to hold out until General Terry’s forces could reinforce them.

  For two days they held. Even though they were hammered continuously by the hostiles, the embattled troopers dug in and repelled attack after attack. During the afternoon of the second day, one last assault was launched against the encircled cavalry. When it failed, the fighting tapered off to occasional sniper fire. Later in the evening, the entire village of Sioux and Cheyenne left the valley, heading toward the Big Horn Mountains.

  Major Reno and Captain Benteen ordered their troops to remain dug in, ready to repell further attacks. But the battle was over. The following morning, Squint was able to boil his coffee in peace, without the threat of a Sioux sharpshooter adding spice to his bacon. That afternoon, General Terry arrived to rescue the remnants of what was once the proud Seventh Cavalry.