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

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “They’ve got us hemmed in tight, Sergeant,” Riker replied. “There’ll be no crossing of the river.”

  “That’s a sort of blessing, sir,” Robertson pointed out. “If we can’t get over there then them redskins can’t get over here.”

  “They can get over here, but they’ll have a hell of a time swimming across that current,” Riker said. “But the fact remains, we’re pinned down tight here and can’t move.” He looked over at the men on the defensive perimeter. They seemed forlorn and bedraggled. “It appears our troops are evolving into ragamuffins, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir,” Robertson said. “I made a quick inspection while you was down to the riverbank. Their clothes is torn and a lot of ’em have used up the last of the thread in their sewing kits. And, like I told you before, most of their shoes is worn out. And I’m talking about their extry pairs, sir.”

  “Yes, you’ve told me,” Riker said, a bit irritated with Robertson’s persistent habit of repeating reports. “However, if things go to hell here, that won’t make much goddamned difference, will it?”

  “No, sir,” Robertson replied calmly. “I reckon it won’t. And I think it’s a pretty good assumption that things is surely going to hell.”

  “At least we’ve got plenty of ammunition,” Riker said. “That might not do us no good either, sir,” Robertson said. “It’s starting to look like them scattered bands o’ Sioux are getting together.”

  “Yes. I suppose the news of our existence has now been sent among the whole tribe,” Riker said. “It’s logical to assume that every warrior wants to be in on our demise.”

  “An Indian is a professional soldier, sir,” Robertson remarked.

  “Why, Sergeant Robertson,” Riker said, “that’s a compliment.”

  “Just ’cause I fight ’em don’t mean I don’t respect ’em,” Robertson said. “I reckon I respected the Johnny Rebs in the war.” Then he added, “But I still hated the raggedy son of a bitches.”

  Riker had to grin. “And now we’re the raggedy sons of bitches.”

  “I’d say that’s right,” Robertson said. He gestured at the company. “Any orders, sir?”

  “Tell the men they can brew up some coffee,” Riker said. “The Sioux know exactly where we are. A little smoke isn’t going to worsen the situation.”

  “Yes, sir,” Robertson said. “They’ll appreciate that.” Over in the second squad, the men welcomed the chance for coffee. O’Malley, however, got them together for a short meeting because of the ration problem. “Boys,” he announced. “We’re running short on coffee, so I’m gonna put something to you. Instead o’ one or two of us settling down to boil some up, let’s make a squad mess outta it. Ever’body chip in what they’ve got, no matter how much or how little, and we’ll ration it out. Maybe that way we can always have at least a cup in the morning before we get back to Fort Keogh. It might be weak, but it’ll be better’n nothing.”

  “Sounds an excellent suggestion to me,” Harold Devlin said.

  “Sure,” Tommy said. “I’ll go for that idea.”

  Mack Baker also agreed. “That’s the way us old soldiers always does it.”

  Tim O’Brien had a further suggestion. “What about Mournful Melech? He ain’t got any messmates.”

  “Sure,” Tommy said. “He’s a nice feller. Let’s ask him to be in our mess.”

  “It’s all right with me if it’s all right with you,” O’Malley said. He stood up and hollered at the trumpeter. “Hey, Mournful. You want to join our mess and throw your coffee in with ours? It don’t matter how much you got. You’re welcome to join and share.”

  Melech came over and pulled a cloth bag of beans out of his haversack. He looked very old standing there in his ragged uniform with his thick locks of graying hair sticking out from under his field hat. “Thank you very much.” Tommy also had another proposal. “What about Mike Mulligan?”

  “Piss on him!” Mack Baker hissed.

  “He could mean a few more cups of coffee,” O’Malley counseled them.

  “Shit!” Baker said. “If you fellers want, go ahead.”

  A brief discussion took place as the constituency of the second squad took another vote. The result was O’Malley calling over to Mulligan. “Hey! Come here a minute.” Mulligan, as usual by himself, wearily got to his feet and walked to the squad. “Whatayez want?”

  “We’re pooling our coffee; want to throw in?” O’Malley asked.

  “Why should I?”

  “This is the army, you son of a bitch,” O’Malley said calmly. “Soldiers look after each other. When bunkies is short on stuff they share so’s ever’body can have something.”

  “I ain’t got any coffee,” Mulligan said. “Can I join in anyhow?” Then he laughed. “Let’s see how you look after me, huh?”

  “We asked you,” Harold Devlin said. “It didn’t matter whether you could contribute to the communal larder or not. So you may become part of the group.”

  “You’re a generous bastard, ain’t you?” O’Malley snapped.

  “Yeah! Just a minute, Devlin,” Baker protested.

  “It’s the only decent thing to do,” Devlin insisted. “The rules were that anybody could join in no matter what their coffee supply.”

  “He’ll get coffee when he ain’t chipping in!” Tim O’Brien pointed out.

  “Devlin is right,” O’Malley said, finally relenting. His position as squad leader made him look at things differently than if he’d been a rifleman. “We asked him, so he has a right to join.”

  Mulligan grinned. “Tanks. I’m in.”

  But O’Malley was a seasoned soldier with a seasoned soldier’s jaundiced view of people with highly individualistic styles. He stood up and walked over to Mulligan. “Gimme your haversack.”

  “What for?”

  “Gimme it!” O’Malley insisted.

  “You go to hell,” Mulligan said. “Yez can take yer coffee and shove it up yer asses!” He turned around and started to walk away.

  But O’Malley went after him, pulling the haversack off his shoulder. He opened it and turned it upside down. Among the extra socks, the shirt, and the worn-out pair of shoes that fell to the ground was a quarter of a bag of coffee.

  “Looky there!” Tommy Saxon said, shocked. “He lied to us!”

  Harold Devlin frowned. “That’s a despicable thing you’ve just done, Mulligan.”

  O’Malley, like the others, was infuriated. He grabbed Mulligan and dragged him across the crude bivouac to Schreiner. He gave the acting section leader a quick report on what had happened about the coffee agreement.

  Schreiner wasted no time in taking them to the first sergeant. He explained the situation to the senior noncommissioned officer in his butchered English.

  Robertson’s expression was calm, but his voice was icy cold with rage. “You are a stingy, lousy son of a bitch, Mulligan. For the first time in your useless, miserable existence you’re with a group of men you could form a true, life-long friendship with, but you’re too stupid and evil to realize it.”

  Mulligan stood stony-faced, saying nothing.

  “O’Malley, keep his coffee, but he don’t get to share, understand?” Robertson said. “If I catch him drinking coffee, I’ll take it out on you.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “As for you,” Robertson said, jabbing at Mulligan with his finger, “go collect the canteens and fill ’em down by the river. And I hope them Indians on the other side put a goddamned bullet into your thieving, lying skull!”

  Mulligan went to his task. Everyone waited for the sound of shots, but the Sioux contented themselves with a few shouts at the timorous soldier who filled the canteens at the river’s edge.

  The morning drifted by. By noon, Mulligan had filled and refilled all the canteens in the company several times, but still had not been shot at by the Indians on the other side of the river. When he’d finished the final time, he went back to his place in the bivouac and sat down by himself.

&
nbsp; Early in the afternoon the Indians edged closer to the company’s position.

  The Sioux made no overt motions, simply milling about at a distance. At first there seemed to be between seventy-five and a hundred of them. But from the way they moved about, disappearing off the horizon and reappearing, it was impossible to make an accurate estimate.

  An hour later, things looked a bit worse. Sergeant Robertson, using the field glasses that had once belonged to Lieutenant Worthington, spent a careful quarter of an hour observing the hostiles. “I’d say two hunnerd of ’em now, sir,” he reported to Captain Riker.

  “You know what they’re doing, don’t you, Sergeant?” Riker asked in a whisper.

  “They’re waiting for some o’ their pals to join ’em, sir,” Robertson said. “I reckon ever’ damn warrior in the Sioux nation wants to get in on this kill.”

  “Under these circumstances, I don’t have too many decisions left to make, do I?” Riker remarked.

  “You sure don’t, sir.”

  “Get the men up on line,” Riker said. “Make sure that each of them has one round locked and loaded.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The men, tense, irritable, and apprehensive, stood at the tree line, watching the growing throng of Indians in front of them. With nerves strained, there was no talking among them as they waited for the inevitable.

  It began with the sudden thunder of hooves that could be felt in the ground.

  “On your feet!” Riker commanded in a loud voice. “Line sergeants and trumpeter man the rear to watch the river. Everybody else to the tree lines. Any position—squat, kneel, lay down, stand up. But load!”

  Robertson found a good firing place beside a pine that was near the company commander. “We’re gonna have to hit ’em at least three times before they close in on us.”

  Riker only nodded. “Aim! Fire!”

  A scattering of the attacking Sioux, still at a distance, either went down with their horses or tumbled off their mounts to the ground.

  “Goddamn your eyes, you bastards!” Robertson shouted in fury. “Fight like infantry! Kill ’em, goddamn it! Aim at their horses’ chests!”

  “Load! Aim! Fire!”

  This time the volley struck hard, hitting so many of the attackers that several of the Indians farther back rode into their falling comrades, the horses going down and throwing the riders.

  “Load! Aim! Fire!”

  Again the Sioux suffered heavy losses from the deliberate, disciplined fire of the army riflemen. The momentum of their attack was broken.

  “Fire at will!”

  Now, as individuals, the men of L Company aimed and fired as fast as the single-shot rifles permitted. With improved proficiency, the bullets slapped in an uneven but rapid staccato, killing more of the hostiles until they turned away and galloped out of range.

  “In the river, there are Indians!” shouted Acting Sergeant Schreiner.

  Riker slapped Robertson on the shoulder. “Check that out!”

  “Yes, sir!” The first sergeant went to the bank where Schreiner stood with Donahue and Mournful Melech. He laughed at the sight of the Sioux swimming across toward them. “Them dumb bastards don’t know their pals out front have been beat back.”

  Donahue also chuckled. “Must be part o’ their battle plan, huh?”

  “Well, shit!” Robertson said. “Don’t just stand there. Shoot the son of a bitches.” He took careful aim at one of the Indians bobbing toward them. He fired, the round making the man’s head explode in a crimson spray.

  Then Schreiner got one and Melech another. Robertson claimed one more when the other Sioux, realizing something had gone wrong, turned and tried to get back to the opposite side. All ended up floating away with the current, their skulls blasted by the .45-caliber slugs.

  When Robertson returned to the front line, he was grinning. “There ain’t no more Sioux on the other side, sir,” he reported to Riker. “They was trying to sneak up on us. We got ’em all.”

  “The ones out front here have pulled back,” Riker said. “I don’t think we’ll see them again today.”

  “No, sir,” Robertson the veteran Indian fighter said. “But they’ll spend the rest of the day and all night mulling over what happened.”

  “Correct,” Riker remarked. “And that means they’ll try to get us again tomorrow.”

  Robertson slowly shook his head. “Sir, there ain’t no way we’re gonna be able to keep this up again. When they attack again, we’re gonna end up dead meat.”

  Chapter Sixteen – The Night Walkers

  Captain Charles Riker and First Sergeant Gordon Robertson stood together at the edge of the tree line watching the Indians gathering up their dead.

  “How many do you reckon we got, sir?” Robertson asked. “I been trying to figger it out, but it’s kinda hard to tell. Some of ’em may have been able to ride away and fall outta sight when they died.”

  “I estimate the hostiles’ casualties at no less than a dozen.” Riker said, after some reflection. “And not more than twenty.” He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly to help ease away the tensions left over from the previous battle. “We’ve stung them bad. They’re not whipped, but they’ll certainly be more careful tomorrow.”

  “The Sioux are madder’n hell, sir. They’re really gonna work themselves up tonight,” Robertson said. “By morning they’re gonna be ready to come all the way into here. And it don’t matter if we shoot a hunnerd of ’em off their horses.”

  “That’s their nature,” Riker said.

  “Some old war chief is gonna stand up and make a real fiery speech,” Robertson said. “He’s gonna tell them young warriors they’re nothing but a bunch o’ women for not pushing the attack all the way today.”

  “And one of those fighters will talk about our volley fire,” Riker said. “They’ve never experienced attacking massed infantry before. All their fights in the past have been skirmishes with fast-moving cavalry. Concentrated firepower is new to them. But the Sioux are a determined people—unfortunately for us—ferocious enough that they may be willing to sustain high casualties to wipe us out.”

  “There’s a real certainty that we’ll cost ’em plenty, sir. No doubt about that. The British infantry squares at Waterloo whipped Napoleon’s cavalry,” Robertson said. “His horsemen couldn’t penetrate ’em.”

  “I’m afraid we haven’t enough men to form the necessary depth for such an effective formation, Sergeant,” Riker said. He frowned in puzzlement. “Where did you hear about the Battle of Waterloo?”

  “From Lieutenant Worthington,” Robertson answered. “He used to talk about Napoleon a lot.”

  “I suppose he did,” Riker said. He recalled the lieutenant’s almost insane love of battle. Riker also remembered the shots that had blown the man’s eyes out of their sockets. The captain shuddered a bit.

  “Anyhow, some old man is gonna whip up the warriors at the council fires tonight,” Robertson said, returning to the original subject of the conversation.

  “Yeah,” Riker said with a nod. “He’ll shame them into making a big effort to wipe us out.”

  “Which they can do,” Robertson stated flatly. “Even if the old man don’t, there’s all them women that lost men today—all twelve or twenty of ’em. They’ll be weeping and wailing and cutting themselves. They’ll be wanting the others to go out for revenge.” He took a deep breath. “It means pure shit for us, sir.”

  “Yeah.”

  Robertson took a closer look at his commanding officer in the dimming light. He noted the pensive gaze in Riker’s eyes. “You got something in mind, sir?”

  “I don’t want to die in these trees,” Riker said. “And I certainly don’t want to get all sliced up tomorrow and have my scalp hanging in some warrior’s lodge.” Robertson snorted. “Hell! Who does?”

  Now it was Riker’s turn to study his companion. The sergeant had been through some of the Civil War’s bloodiest battles. He’d also fought in hundreds of skirmishes
in the war against the Plains Indians. Crude, bullying, and uneducated—but incredibly brave in a rather stupid way at times—he was the perfect image of the professional soldier-leader who worked at the small-unit level. He was facing certain death when the sun next rose, yet he discussed the possibility of the event in a matter-of-fact tone. Not only did he ignore the frightfulness of his death, he also gave no thought to the uselessness of it. Or the more appalling fact that the people he was dying for—the entrepreneurs and sharpers—couldn’t care less about him. In fact, the very people for whom he was fighting to get land looked down on professional soldiers, particularly the enlisted men. It didn’t matter if the citizens were rich railroad barons or simple homesteaders. All sneered openly at the soldiery.

  “We’re walking out of here,” Riker finally said.

  “Sir?”

  “As soon as it gets dark, we’re going to resume the march,” Riker said. “We’ll go out far enough into the open country to avoid stumbling across the underbrush by the river, but we’ll keep it in sight to guide us.”

  “I don’t know about that, sir,” Robertson said in a hesitant tone. “You said before it wasn’t a good idea fer the men to march at night. It’d be too hard to control ’em.”

  “Do you have any alternate suggestions, Sergeant?” Riker asked.

  “No, sir. But if they catch us out in the open like that—in the dark o’ night with the whole comp’ny stumbling around—not able to see good—”

  “Then they’ll massacre us,” Riker said. “Which is exactly what they’re going to do tomorrow if we stay here.” Another, more logical aspect of the idea slowly dawned in Robertson’s mind. “Yes, sir! And if them goddamned Indians is pissing and moaning about today’s battle, they won’t be out tonight anyhow, will they?”

  “Let’s hope they won’t,” Riker said. “But if some of them are, so what?”

  “Yes, sir! So what?”

  “We won’t be able to follow the regular march routine, of course,” Riker pointed out. “This scheme is going to call for a change in our habits. Special circumstances call for special actions, right, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir,” Robertson said. “What do you want me to do, Captain?”