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

by Patrick E. Andrews

  The blow knocked Larson to the ground, but he was immediately on his feet again. Something in his fear-crazed mind now told him to get back to his unit. Reversing his direction, he now ran toward the Indians, who were almost on top of him. They thought it all was a great game as they pulled on the rawhide reins and spun their mounts.

  Another Sioux counted coup, sending Larson to the ground again. But this time as he got up, the third Indian to reach him swung a tomahawk that hit him with a violent blow between his shoulder blades. Larson went down, wiggling and thrashing in his death throes, with a broken neck.

  Back in the formation, the men watched as the Indian stopped his horse and dismounted. Quickly and expertly, he scalped the soldier, holding up the bloody trophy with a howl of triumph.

  The men had but a few seconds before another Indian charge occupied their attention. This time, the fourth squad came under fire. Luckily, they sustained no casualties as the Sioux turned back again after this fourth assault.

  The squad reloaded, the clicks and clacks of the receivers slamming shut sounding flat and loud in the late afternoon. Riker kept turning as he watched for the next attack. The fifth squad, ready at a moment’s notice to reinforce any side of the square, also surveyed the distant horizons.

  But the Indians had pulled back.

  Leaving the four dead men sprawled where they fell, Riker got his men moving again in the original northwesterly direction. Maintaining the square, they marched nervously and agitatedly, waiting for more Indians to appear. Time meant nothing to them; they all were consumed with fearful anticipation of the next attack. Even their hunger and thirst went unnoticed in the anxiety of the moment.

  The sunset was forming in the west when Riker caught sight of a thick copse of trees to their immediate front. Knowing the Indians would not occupy it for an ambush in wide-open terrain, he ordered the men to move toward it. Traveling in the dark was dangerous. It would be almost impossible to maintain any sort of contact or unit cohesiveness at night. And the men needed a rest desperately.

  “Mr. Worthington!” Riker called out. “Take the point, please. We’ll bivouac in those woods.”

  “Yes, sir!” the lieutenant answered.

  Twenty minutes later, after moving across the terrain at a trot, the soldiers, breathing hard, hacking, spitting and snuffing, moved into the trees. Several sank to the ground, the sudden exhaustion draining away their reserves of strength.

  But First Sergeant Robertson was having none of that. “On your feet! Nobody told you to bunk out!” he yelled furiously. “Squad leaders! See to your men, goddamn it! Do I have to play corp’ral as well as do my own job?”

  A defensive position was quickly arranged and the soldiers, knowing they would be on a fifty-percent alert, settled into the routine they were beginning to know so well. They removed their blanket rolls and haversacks, setting them up as rifle props while they arranged their individual positions among the trees.

  While the men adjusted their places for the night, Captain Riker stood in the middle of the perimeter. “Go on with your work, men,” he said. “But listen to me.”

  Most, curious as to what their commanding officer had to say, stopped all their activity to listen.

  “We lost four men today,” Riker said. “Three of them died fighting, and nothing they or we could have done would have altered their deaths. But the fourth man brought about his own tragedy.”

  Harold Devlin, upset, uncharacteristically spoke out. “His name was Larson, sir.”

  Riker’s voice remained calm. “I know his name. And I know yours too, Private Devlin.” He slowly walked around the circle of soldiers. “In fact, I know all of your names. Military protocol and custom does not permit officers to mingle socially with the enlisted men. But that does not mean you are not individuals to me and that I do not care to learn about you and know who you are.”

  Harold felt better knowing that the officer who had such legal authority over him also knew him as a living, breathing person.

  “I am sincerely sorry when one of you is lost or hurt,” Riker went on. “Larson’s death was brought on by blind panic. If he had stayed in formation and obeyed his orders like a good soldier, he would be with us this very minute. His actions should be an excellent lesson to all of you. What do you think would happen if everyone suddenly broke loose and started running away in blind fear?”

  Tommy raised his hand. “We’d all get killed, sir.”

  “That is absolutely correct, Private Saxon,” Riker said. “So you all now know the consequences of not doing as you are told when you are told to do it.” Mike Mulligan, emboldened by this uncharacteristic and informal talk, asked, “Are we gonna run out-a bullets, Cap’n?”

  Mack Baker laughed. “If we do, you can run over to the Indians and steal some for us, Mulligan.”

  “Shut up!” Robertson roared. “Goddamn your eyes, the captain is talking to you!”

  “That’s all right, Sergeant,” Riker said. “Yes, men, we are getting short of ammunition.” Then he lied. “But if you fire only when ordered to, we’ll have plenty. But remember! We cannot afford to waste any, so there’ll be no plinking or individual shooting. That is most important.” He took another look at his troops. “Now, you corporals take charge of your squads and continue settling in while Lieutenant Worthington and I have a meeting with the sergeants.”

  The senior ranking men squatted down in the center of the formation, whispering to each other so they wouldn’t be overheard by the men.

  “I’m going on a scout,” Riker said. “We can’t just blunder around out here blind. With some luck, I might be able to locate one or two of the Indian camps and plan a route to avoid them for as long as possible. If we could have a day or two without fighting, we can last that much longer.”

  “I’ll go with you, sir,” Worthington volunteered.

  “No, Mr. Worthington,” Riker said. “You stay here in command. Sergeant Robertson will assist you. I’m going to take three experienced privates with me.” He looked at Robertson. “Do you have any suggestions for the job, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir,” Robertson said. “Private Callan from the first squad, Private Baker from the second, and Tomlinson from the fourth.”

  “Get ’em for me, Sergeant,” Riker said. “I want them ready to go as soon as it’s good and dark.”

  “One thing, sir,” Robertson reminded him. “When you return here, remember to answer loud and clear when any of the sentries challenges you.”

  “I shall, Sergeant,” Riker said with a wry grin. “I know how trigger-happy these youngsters can be. You make sure they know we’re going out and are coming back in.”

  “Yes, sir,” Robertson said. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay awake ’til you’re back inside the position.” He motioned to Sergeants Donahue and McCarey. “Go round up Callan, Baker, and Tomlinson.”

  The three men, informed by the sergeants of their mission, reported to the company commander with grim expressions on their faces. This was no new game for the veterans. They were already prepared for the dangerous work ahead. Carrying only their rifles, they had shucked all nonessential gear, including their hats. The only accouterments they sported were the canvas cartridge belts with their personal knives and bayonets attached. Baker had tied his bandanna around his head Apache-fashion.

  Riker, attired like the rest of his patrol, gathered them around to give them a quick, urgent account of the purpose of their mission.

  The main reason we’re going out there in the dark is to find and note the locations of any Indian encampments,” Riker said. “From the way the Sioux have been coming at us, I am of the opinion that there are several small groups scattered about rather than one large one.”

  “And thank God fer that, sir,” Callan said. An ex-sergeant, he’d recently been broken down for insubordination to Lieutenant Worthington. His reduction in rank had brought about the promotions of Marteau to corporal and McCarey to sergeant.

  “It is of vital im
portance that we succeed,” Riker said. “By noting the physical placements of the hostiles, we can chart the safest route possible through them. It may take us all night, and we’ll probably be close to exhaustion in the morning, but we’re all old soldiers and know what must be done.”

  “And we can do it, too, sir,” Mack Baker added.

  “Yes, sir!” Tomlinson said.

  “Exactly!” Riker said, with a grim smile of appreciation for their fighting spirit. “Now, let’s get on with this job.”

  The four infantrymen moved out of the trees and across the open country in the dark. They walked slowly and deliberately to avoid making unnecessary noise. All had fought Indians before and knew that the warriors, with their closeness to nature and animals, had spiritual instincts that gave them uncanny senses of perception. A soldier did not stumble upon those people unless they wanted him to.

  The slowly moving patrol traveled for an hour across the gentle rolling swells of the flatlands. Finally they noted a dancing light on the horizon. They immediately squatted down.

  “Looks like we’ve found the first one,” Baker remarked.

  “Right,” Riker said. “Let’s close in a bit and see what size it is.”

  Nerves raw with apprehension, the seasoned patrol renewed their calculated trek forward. Drawing closer, they could hear the faint sounds of chanting and the irregular staccato of an Indian drum.

  Tomlinson, in the rear of the quartet, stifled a chuckle. “Sounds like that Injun on the tom-tom is drunk.”

  Riker, continuing on, listened carefully. After a few moments, it was very easy to tell that everyone in the camp was intoxicated. Shouts—some joyful and some angry—burst out now and then to interrupt the singing.

  “I bet they ain’t got guards out,” Baker suggested.

  “Hell, no!” Callan said. “They’re getting drunker’n English lords after a foxhunt.”

  “We’ll close in on them as much as possible,” Riker said. “But stay on the alert just in case there’s a teetotaler somewhere.”

  Baker grinned. “You figger there’s a Good Templar Chapter in the tribe, sir?” he asked referring to the soldiers’ temperance societies.

  Riker smiled back. “Could be. And they’re the ones that will catch us.”

  But when they were finally able to close in on the encampment, the patrol noted it had been located within a grove of trees. When they sneaked inside the dense vegetation, they halted.

  “Hold up,” Riker said. He went forward to make a final check on the situation. In five minutes he returned to the three soldiers. “No guards,” he reported without surprise. The Indians were notorious for their lack of vigilance and discipline at certain times. “Let’s get up closer.”

  When they reached a vantage point, the infantrymen could see that the entire group of warriors was roaring drunk.

  “I can’t catch no sight of women or kids,” Baker whispered. “And better yet—no damned dogs.”

  “It’s a war camp,” Tomlinson said. “They ain’t even got theirselves to home yet.”

  “Right,” Callan said. “Them darlin’ lads has just stopped to take a wee nip o’ the white man’s firewater.” Riker agreed. “It’s loot from the main column.” He looked at Baker. “Taken from your quartermaster teamster friend, no doubt.”

  Baker grimaced. “The dirty bastards!”

  “Look, sir!” Callan said. “Over to the side.”

  Riker glanced in the direction indicated. There was a stack of familiar-looking government crates. The sight of the wooden boxes immediately raised the spirits of all four soldiers. The patrol knew they contained .45-caliber cartridges for Springfield rifles.

  Riker felt a surge of want for the ammunition. He knew he couldn’t pass up the opportunity. “Those Sioux are going to be passed out before dawn. The four of us should be able to lug at least two of those crates back to the column.”

  Baker did some fast calculating. “You’re talking two thousand rounds of ammunition, sir!”

  “That ought to be enough,” Riker said.

  Callan wasn’t that happy. “We’re still outnumbered a couple o’ hunnerd to one. All the bluddy bullets in the world ain’t gonna save us if them heathen bastards catch the comp’ny.”

  Tomlinson shifted the chaw in his mouth. “At least, by God, we can kill more of ’em afore they does us in.”

  “Let’s settle down and wait,” Riker said.

  The hours of darkness went by slowly. The celebration in the camp grew louder and wilder as a couple of altercations broke out among the thoroughly drunk Indians.

  “God!” Callan said. “If the whites can’t whip ’em with guns, they’ll do it with whiskey.”

  “That or smallpox,” Baker added.

  Tomlinson laughed. “Or syphilis.”

  The final effects of the liquor were hours in coming, but when the passing out started, it went fast. The warriors, a proud race of fighters and hunters, could not resist the effects of civilization’s liquor. They turned into staggering, vomiting wretches toward dawn. Those who were moving did so slowly, with no perception of what went on around them.

  “Let’s go!” Riker said.

  It took less than thirty seconds for the four men to step inside the camp, grab the roped handles on each end of two crates, and haul them back into the woods. After adjusting their loads, they began the return trip to their own camp just as dawn was pinking the eastern sky.

  Now damning caution, they moved as rapidly as possible, pausing only to change hands when the heavy burdens caused cramping and discomfort. Traveling almost twice as fast as they’d done the previous night, they finally sighted the trees where the company was camped, after forty minutes of the backbreaking hike.

  “Oh, shit!” Mack Baker exclaimed.

  A war party of ten Sioux appeared on the horizon a hundred yards away. Evidently heading for the war camp, they were cold sober and alert. There was no need to issue orders. The patrol dropped the crates and prepared for an attack.

  It wasn’t long in coming.

  The Indians, surprised and happy at this unexpected sight of four white soldiers, rode forward to start the fight. Yelling and firing, they rapidly closed in.

  The patrol couldn’t wait for them to get closer. They had to put out a swarm of bullets as quickly as possible. The accurate shooting of the veterans brought down two of the Sioux right away. The others veered off sharply, but kept in close enough to maintain pressure on the infantrymen.

  Baker, excited, laughed aloud. “By God, we got enough ammo here, ain’t we, boys?”

  The heavy recoil of the Springfields slammed time and again into their shoulders as they maintained the steady rate of fire for which the infantry was famous. The Indians, taking a couple more casualties, knew they could not lose this one, so they became bolder. They also increased their fire as they moved in closer to bring the battle to an end.

  Tomlinson caught a slug in the jaw. It blew away the bottom portion of his face, spinning him around and dumping him on his back. With none of the others able to give him aid, he choked to death on his own blood as the fighting continued.

  The Sioux did not know about the infantry camp in the woods a half mile away. When Lieutenant Worthington and the second squad appeared, the Indians did not even notice them until the extra firepower slammed into the backs of four more of their number.

  Riker, glad to see the pressure taken off, reacted quickly. “Grab the crates!”

  He picked up one while Mack Baker and George Callan grabbed the other. The trio went as fast as they could toward Worthington and the other men. When the two groups finally joined up, Riker handed off his crate to Tommy Saxon and Harold Devlin.

  “Get back to the camp!” he ordered. “Follow Baker and Callan!”

  The Indians were thoroughly confused by then. They could not figure where the other soldiers had come from or if there would be more arriving. They thought they had killed all the troops in the battle back at the Powder River.
Looking in confusion at one another, they milled about aimlessly for a few moments.

  Riker formed up the squad and began a retrograde movement back to the safety of the trees. Worthington, filled with battle ardor, took his time. Firing deliberately spaced shots with his Colt revolver, he moved slowly backward.

  Riker had started to yell at him to catch up, when the lieutenant suddenly doubled over and fell to the ground. He struggled back to his feet and turned around, staggering toward the squad. His face bore a surprised expression and he smiled an apology.

  “Fred!” Riker instinctively hollered.

  The second bullet struck Worthington in the back of the head, coming out the front and popping his eyeballs out of their sockets while blowing his nose off.

  At that point, the Indians were not sure of the true situation, so they pulled back and rode away, heading for reinforcements at the war camp.

  Riker led the second squad back to the woods to join the rest of the company.

  Chapter Thirteen – Riker Goes Hunting

  All the loops in the men’s canvas cartridge belts were now stuffed with government-issue .45-caliber cartridges. The remaining ammunition was carefully packed away in the first crate while the second was broken down and passed among the troops to be used as firewood. The split boards were either stuffed into haversacks or tied on the outside. The column could not always be certain they would be near trees or be able to police up buffalo chips for cooking, so the remnants of the wooden box might come in handy during times when cook fires might be needed. Also, in the case of a rain that wet down natural fuel supplies, the remnants of the crates made excellent kindling.

  Before the men began the day’s march, Lieutenant Worthington and Private Tomlinson were quickly buried and given a brief ceremony. Although it was obvious the Sioux knew the column’s location, Riker still would not permit the playing of Taps from Melech’s bugle. The sound might serve to encourage any other straggling war parties to investigate the source.

  When that silent, sad chore was finished, First Sergeant Robertson assembled the men to resume the hike that would, they hoped, reach the safety of Fort Keogh.