Gunsmoke at Powder River (The Long-Knives #4)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Melech’s persistence in spending his spare time chasing after music jobs finally bore fruit. He got a job in a band that played in a beer garden. Although it didn’t pay well, the salary was going to be enough eventually to get them out of that awful neighborhood.

  But the good luck came too late to hold off the bad.

  It was typhoid that killed poor, fragile Hannah. It swept through the slums in a three-month orgy of killing that took away the old, the weak, the very young, and the unlucky. When Hannah died, Melech felt the weight of unbearable guilt and grief settle over him.

  It was his fault they had come to America, and his fault that he hadn’t made enough money for a decent place to live, so all logic dictated it was his fault that Hannah was dead.

  Uziel Melech didn’t have the physical courage to commit suicide. He almost hanged himself twice, but couldn’t do it. He finally figured it was a message from the Lord God of Israel that he was surviving in order to suffer. If that was what his punishment was, Melech was more than eager to accept it. He sought out the most miserable existence he could find. After weeks of pondering what he must do, he almost decided on giving up music as the worst thing that could possibly happen to him after Hannah’s death. But before returning to the handcart, Melech remembered seeing a poster at an army recruiting center during his days in the streets. It pictured a soldier blowing a bugle. At the time, Melech had thought it the worst thing in the world—even worse than being a peddler of secondhand clothing—to take the great art of music and reduce it to military signals. He thought it so debasing that he found the lithograph repugnant.

  Melech went down to the building and enlisted in the army.

  Now, stuck in the wilderness with an infantry unit after ten years, Melech was into his third hitch of playing music that was reduced to simple bugle calls telling soldiers when to awaken, eat, sleep, or even when to enter battle.

  Robertson’s voice broke through his sad reverie: “Melech!”

  Melech rolled over and sat up. “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “Go wake Sergeant McCarey and Sergeant Donahue,” Robertson said. “Tell ’em to get their men up and moving. We’ll be leaving immediately without eating.”

  “Yes, Sergeant!”

  The noncommissioned officers wasted no time in getting their sections and squads up on their feet. Since the soldiers had spent the night fully dressed, all they had to do was don their blanket rolls and haversacks.

  When Tommy Saxon stood up, he glanced out to where he had seen the Indian trying to sneak up on him. He peered out into the flat terrain. Suddenly his eyes caught sight of a slight mount with a clump of grass growing out of it. It was the same one that Lieutenant Worthington had made him move away from because it blocked his line of sight.

  Tommy squatted down and peered at it. There was his Indian. In the dark it had looked like a war bonnet. His face reddened and he decided not to mention it to anybody.

  “What for are you looking?” Schreiner asked him. “It is time for to fall in. Move, Saxon!”

  “Yes, Corp’ral,” Tommy said, going over to join the squad.

  In five minutes the entire company was drawn up in two ranks. After the inevitable report by First Sergeant Robertson to Captain Riker, the commander put the men at ease to give them a talk.

  “Today is going to be a crucial one, men,” Riker said. “I believe every soldier can understand how important it is for us to rejoin the main column. If we push on, we should make it early this afternoon. I won’t fool you men. There is a good chance we’ll be under fire again today. You all know about the Indians that tried to sneak up to the second squad during the night.”

  Tommy lowered his head and looked at the ground.

  “And we all heard the drums and chanting off in the distance last night,” Riker continued. “I am sure the veterans in the company informed you newer men that meant the Sioux have some big plans afoot. There can be no doubt we are included in their war-making scheme. Therefore, we will remain in a tight two-column formation during the day’s march. The first section will be on the left and the second on the right. Lieutenant Worthington will take the point and set the pace. We will stick close to the river and use it to guard our backs in case of attack. If there is trouble, stay calm and follow orders without hesitation. I must emphasize that last point. It is of utmost importance that you obey the noncommissioned officers, Lieutenant Worthington, and me in a quick, vigorous manner.”

  The men, their empty bellies growling, were eager to start the day’s activities. Hot meals and rest waited for them when they reached the main bivouac.

  “Remember,” Riker said. “We whipped the Indians once and we can sure as hell do it again.” He paused and gave his command a careful but quick gaze to gauge their mood. He knew the rapid marching was going to take its toll soon. “Comp’ny, atten-hut!” he commanded. “Left face! Sling arms! For’d, march! Route step, march!”

  The day warmed and brightened perceptibly as the sun climbed in the broad Wyoming sky. The weather, which had been temperate and comfortable, showed an inclination to become hotter and dryer. The men lowered the brims of their field hats to protect their faces from getting burned. Those who hadn’t put bandannas around their necks did so when their bunkies warned them that their necks were reddening. By ten o’clock, the heavy blue army shirts were soaked in perspiration. With the river close by, water discipline wasn’t necessary, so the contents of canteens were consumed with gusto.

  Although Riker’s plan was to keep moving without stopping, he was forced to allow a couple of breaks for the men to refill their water supply. This was done a section at a time, with one of the units always standing guard in case of a surprise attack. There would be no mess call, and the troops consumed hardtack crackers while on the move, even though the brick-hard squares were difficult to bite into without being soaked in coffee. The soldiers broke off bits and laboriously chewed on them as they would have hard sugar candy.

  The morning passed uneventfully except for an alarming tendency for the columns to spread out as fatigue set in. Riker was forced to slow the eager Worthington’s pace and to put the shorter men at the front so the longer strides of the taller troops wouldn’t force them to trot to keep up. The day grew hotter, beating down on the struggling little unit like a blast furnace. Dog-tired and not talking, the infantrymen slogged on, enduring the discomfort in numb patience.

  “Enemy to the right!” Robertson’s voice exploded. All eyes snapped in that direction as a half dozen Sioux warriors rode into view. They were soon joined by others. The Indians made no overt moves, only riding slowly along, keeping pace with the walking troops.

  “Close it up!” Riker commanded. “The command to halt has not been given. Keep moving!”

  Robertson joined him. “It looks like them Sioux are on the way somewhere, sir,” he remarked.

  “I was getting that impression, too,” Riker said. “They’re not behaving as if they came out here looking for us in particular.”

  Robertson shrugged. “It won’t make any differ’nce one way or the other. They found us whether they meant to or not.”

  Riker looked at his men. They were spread out again.

  “Mr. Worthington!” he bellowed. “Slow the goddamned pace!”

  Robertson knew that the lieutenant had a wild side to him. “Should I take the point, sir?” he asked. Then the sergeant added diplomatically, “I figger you and the lieutenant would want to have a conference.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Robertson. Thank you,” Riker said. Robertson ran up to the front of the column. Worthington left his post and walked over to where Riker strode along. “Did you want to speak to me, Charlie?” he asked.

  “Yes!” Riker whispered furiously. “What the hell’s the idea of running these men?”

  “What are you talking about?” Worthington asked, surprised. “You told me to take—”

  “I told you to set a pace,” Riker said: “I didn’t tell you to go so fast the column would
break up.”

  “Charlie—”

  “Use your goddamned head, Fred,” Riker said. “You have a tendency to act without thinking. And I’m getting damned sick and tired of it.”

  Worthington wisely said nothing else.

  Riker went on. “It doesn’t appear this bunch was out looking for us. But here we are and there they are.”

  “Well, they were going somewhere in that war paint,” Worthington said. “Now that they’re here, we’ll just have to wait in order to see what they’ll do.”

  The Indians reversed their direction of travel, going back a bit. Then they turned around and maintained their horses at a walk, keeping pace with the infantry. Riker knew they were warming for an attack.

  “Company, halt!” he commanded. “Right, face! Company, load! First rank, kneel!”

  Now L Company was formed in two ranks with the first kneeling in front of the second. With their backs close to the trees along the river, they were in a defensive position in which they faced danger from three sides. The nature of the trees along the bank precluded the Sioux from surrounding them.

  Suddenly a couple of the warriors kicked their horses’ flanks and charged forward, galloping toward the troops.

  “Hold steady!” Riker hollered. “Do not aim without the order being given! Do not fire without the order being given!”

  The soldiers stood fast as the Indians who advanced came to a stop. One cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Soldiers, you die!” Then he and his friends turned and went back to join the others.

  Robertson, standing in the middle of the rear rank, hollered out, “If they make a run at us, remember to aim for the horses’ chests!”

  A couple of minutes passed, then suddenly the group of warriors exploded into action. Shouting, they all charged forward in a tight mass.

  “Steady,” Riker said. “Steady! Steady!” He waited as the warriors closed in. “Company, aim!”

  A few more seconds passed. Now the troops could make out the facial characteristics of the Indians and note the individual patterns of war paint.

  “Fire!”

  The Springfields belched smoke and .45-caliber slugs zipped across the open space and smashed into the line of attacking Indians. Three of the horses went down, tossing their riders to the ground, and two other Indians fell from their mounts. One of the warriors who had lost his horse was able to get to his feet and leap up behind a friend as the attackers drew off out of range.

  “There, by God!” Riker shouted, pleasantly surprised that the men were showing more accuracy. “You’ve let ’em know they’re up against the United States Infantry.” The men cheered and quickly reacted to the order to once again load. Feeling confident, they waited for the next charge. In less than a minute, the Sioux tried again. The results were the same. A crashing volley knocked down some more Indians and horses, and they again pulled back out of harm’s way.

  “That’s doing it, men!” Riker yelled.

  Worthington, standing next to the captain, leaned close to his ear and spoke softly. “Our ammunition is going to go after a while. We can’t keep this up forever.”

  Riker nodded. Once more he shouted a command. “Fix bayonets!”

  The men pulled the edged weapons from their scabbards and attached them to the ends of their rifles. “Be brave and fight hard,” Riker said.

  “No one has even shown them how to use those goddamned things,” Worthington said.

  “They’ll have to rely on instinct,” Riker said. “But it won’t matter much one way or the other.”

  “I guess not,” the lieutenant said. “But I’m going to take a lot of those heathen sons of bitches with me.” For one wild moment, Riker thought of making a break for the cover of the trees. But he realized it would do no good. The Sioux would simply split the company farther apart and kill the men piecemeal. It was better to stand together and deliver deadly, coordinated fusillades for as long as possible.

  Now the Sioux were completely out of sight. A quarter of an hour passed with nothing else happening. Worthington, fidgeting, scanned the horizon for some sign of the Indians. “Should I go take a look out there, Charlie?”

  The last thing Riker wanted was for Worthington to pull some rash act that might bring certain ruin down on them. “Stand fast, Fred. I want you here with the troops.” He looked over at Robertson. “Sergeant Robertson! Take two experienced men and make a scout forward.”

  “Yes, sir! Baker! Donegan! Front and center, move!”

  The three, in a pathetically small skirmish line, advanced out from the main group. They moved slowly, gingerly, anticipating the sudden appearance of the Indians. The trio went a hundred yards before turning and coming back.

  “Sir,” Robertson said reporting in. “The Indians are gone. They’ve pulled out.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Riker said.

  “I know, sir,” Robertson said. “There was enough of ’em to eventually wear us down.” He shrugged. “Maybe they had something more important to do someplace else.”

  “Just like us,” Riker said. “Let’s form back up and keep this march on the move. The main column is only two hours away.”

  “Pardon me for saying so, sir,” Robertson, said. “But in this situation, they might just as well be on the moon.”

  Chapter Eleven – A Grim Discovery

  Whatever fatigue the men had been feeling earlier was completely dissipated by the battle. The overwhelming fear and excitement of the fighting, combined with the noise and slamming recoil of the Springfield rifles, invigorated Company L both spiritually and physically. When they formed up to continue their march back to the main column, they were as talkative as excited schoolgirls, although there was no gaiety in their chatter—only a sense of relief that they were still alive.

  “We whipped ’em!” was the statement voiced more often by the excited young soldiers.

  “Ain’t no damn Indian gonna stand up against disciplined infantry,” veteran Corporal Jim O’Rourke of the fourth squad said. “But it still makes me wonder why the bastards run off like that.”

  His good friend Sergeant Tom McCarey was equally confused. “They coulda wore us down after a while. There really wasn’t no reason a’tall fer ’em to skedaddle.”

  Private Daniel Black of the fourth squad thought he had it all figured out. “We whipped ’em good and proper. That’s the plain truth of it, and that’s exactly why they run off.”

  Mack Baker called over from the second squad. “They just stopped fighting, Johnny Raw. Them damned Sioux wasn’t whipped by a long shot.”

  “Yes, they was!” Black yelled back.

  “What the hell do you know about it?” Baker sneered in anger over a recruit disagreeing with him.

  Others voiced their opinions and an argument ranged up and down the column, with the veterans insisting the Indians were not defeated and the younger men arguing they’d been given a good hiding.

  Sergeant Robertson did nothing about the excited talking in the ranks for a while. But after allowing ten minutes of the chattering, he bellowed:

  “Shut your yaps! You’re at route step and the enemy is still close by!”

  The men quickly obeyed, their nervously darting eyes the only sign of their physical agitation. This extra energy generated by the fighting was also reflected in the increase of their rate of march. They pressed on across the rolling countryside in quick, distance-eating strides. Lieutenant Worthington, specifically ordered by Riker to keep a careful, measured pace, was constantly feeling pressure from the column behind him.

  Toward the late afternoon they began to recognize landmarks that showed them they were very close to the main column. The thoughts of hot food and rest raised spirits. It made the jobs of the noncommissioned officers a bit more difficult in maintaining discipline, but even they laughed at the absurd joking and bantering while doing some unnecessary chattering of their own.

  The general mood in the company continued to improve and the
pace stepped up even more, until a cry came from the front of the column:

  “Oh, God!”

  Large birds could be seen in the short distance, circling and diving toward the ground out of sight behind a large section of woods. The veterans knew the meaning of the ominous sight.

  “As skirmishers!” Riker yelled. “Two ranks!”

  The men quickly obeyed with drill-like precision. They’d done this particular maneuver countless times while in training back at Fort Keogh, and the short spates of Indian fighting had increased their skill in the movement.

  Tommy Saxon, confused, leaned toward Mack Baker. “How come we’re doing this?” he asked.

  Mack spat. “You see them crows and buzzards, Saxon? That means there’s dead folks on the other side o’ them woods. And from the numbers o’ them feathered bastards, we’re gonna find a whole lot o’ corpses.” Charlie O’Malley, listening in, said, “And we don’t know for sure who they are.”

  “Could be Indians or could be soldiers,” Baker remarked.

  “Yeah,” O’Malley said. “But we got a pretty good idea, don’t we?”

  “In the ranks, shut up!” Corporal Schreiner hissed. The skirmish line grew a bit ragged as they continued forward toward a thick grove of trees. Riker ordered a halt at that point.

  “Sergeant Robertson,” he called. “Take two men and scout those woods.”

  Robertson signaled to Mack Baker and Al Franklin. “Let’s go, you two.”

  “Damn!” Baker said under his breath as he left the squad to join the other two.

  Keeping their weapons ready, the men watched the trio approach the trees. Moving slowly, the small scouting party reached the copse and moved inside. In only a matter of moments, they reappeared. Sergeant Robertson signaled for the others to join them.

  Tommy Saxon and Harold Devlin instinctively drew closer together. Although there seemed to be no danger from Indians, there was something foreboding in the atmosphere. Though the exact reason for the uneasiness was not identifiable, it was still strong. When they reached the trees, a stench assailed their nostrils from the other side of the woods. It grew more intense as they advanced.