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

by Patrick E. Andrews

  But the Indians paid a horrible price before their assault broke up. The close-packed horde made an easy target for L Company. The men didn’t even have to aim as they simply pointed their rifles in the right direction and blasted away with each of Captain Riker’s commands to fire. The disciplined fusillades were enough to break up the warriors’ attack.

  The Sioux warriors returned to their original position to join the medicine man who waited for them. A strange, eerie silence settled over the scene. The dead Indians were strewn across the open space. Downed horses were scattered among the corpses. The moaning of a few wounded could be heard. Several of the injured struggled weakly in an effort to crawl back to their brothers.

  Tommy Saxon and Harold Devlin stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Their unfortunate friends, cut down by Sioux bullets, lay at their feet and elsewhere along the line. The eight dead soldiers sprawled in the undignified positions in which they’d fallen, ignored by the living, whose total concentration was on the battle they waged in sweating desperation.

  Tommy was panting as if he’d just run a mile. Unable to speak, he breathed hard, swallowing constantly with nervousness as he licked the salty sweat on his lips.

  “God above!” Harold exclaimed. “How many more of them must we kill before they stop?”

  Mack Baker looked at him. “They ain’t gonna stop, Devlin! Are you stupid or crazy or both? Them son of a bitches is gonna keep coming until we’re all dead. Ain’t you figgered that out yet?”

  “Shut up, Mack!” O’Malley snapped.

  “Shut up yourself, Acting Corporal,” Baker said bitterly. “It’s about time the babies around here figgered things out. We’re here to die.” Mack pointed to the army dead. “Look at them poor soldier boys. It’s our turn next!” He started to sob, but with anger, not fear. “And I’m gonna kill me a whole bunch o’ them redskin bastards before they cut me up!”

  Once more the ground rumbled.

  “Load!” Riker shouted. “Aim!” He waited. “Fire! Load! Aim! Fire!”

  Corporals Bakker and Mateaux, along with Holihan and Braun, collapsed in the hail of incoming bullets. This time the men got off four volleys before blasting the Sioux into another withdrawal.

  Riker wiped at the sweat streaking down his face as he counted his men. Including the first sergeant, he now commanded a total of eighteen riflemen. So far he’d lost a dozen in less than an hour. The captain figured that he and the others had another sixty minutes to go—if they were lucky.

  Across the stretch of open country, the medicine man was giving a big talk to his warriors. He shook the lance wildly, his shrill voice barely audible across the distance. Suddenly he whirled his horse around to face the soldiers, pointing his weapon straight ahead.

  A group of Sioux galloped out to the attack.

  “They’re coming in waves, sir,” Robertson said.

  The first group came in hard and fast, losing heavily but still retaining numerous warriors for more fighting, as they turned to the side and galloped out of range of the Springfield rifles. Their rapid shooting took out Corporal O’Rourke and Privates Nero and Schwartz.

  The second bunch was a repeat of the first, but their shooting was much more deadly. A total of five soldiers—MacTavish, Black, Franklin, Patterson, and Albertson—died in the fusillade fired by the warriors.

  The third and final band came in on the heels of the others. Although smaller than the previous groups, they suffered no casualties. But before they galloped off to the flank to return to their medicine man, their combined fire had killed Donegan, Asztalos and Raleigh.

  The last nine men of L Company now stood alone.

  Once more the bizarre stillness settled over the scene. The Indians, still in overwhelming numbers, were once again assembled across that awful field. This time the old medicine man did not address the warriors. Instead, he rode slowly forward toward the soldiers. He held his lance over his head in both hands. He did not stop in the usual place. The ancient warrior continued to draw close to L Company.

  Mack Baker started to raise his rifle to his shoulder.

  “Stand steady!” Robertson bellowed at him.

  “Hold your fire!” Riker ordered.

  The venerable Sioux religious leader still did not stop. Holding the lance, he glared at the soldiers as he approached. He finally stopped when he was within hailing distance. For a long minute he sat there, the lance held aloft. Then abruptly he hurled it down, making it stick in the ground.

  “White soldiers!” he shouted. “Hear me!” His elderly voice cracked with the effort of hollering. “Your medicine is strong. You are brave! Today you no die! But when we see you again, we kill you!”

  Pulling on the reins of his horse, the old man rode slowly and with dignity back to the warriors.

  “Goddamn my eyes!” Robertson exclaimed under his breath. “We just been saluted!”

  Riker stood dazed. Sweat ran from the brim of his field hat and coursed down his face in heavy rivulets. For a moment he was speechless.

  Robertson uncharacteristically nudged him. “They’re leaving us go, sir. Goddamn my eyes! Those son of a bitches is gonna leave us go!”

  Riker suddenly remembered a similar thing happening to him by the bridge that ran over Cub Run during the Battle of Manassas. Only it had been a Confederate officer saluting with a saber rather than an Indian with a lance.

  “I’ll never understand Indians as long as I live,” Robertson said. “They got us nailed to the wall here, but there’s something in that damned spirit belief of theirs that’s telling ’em to leave this fight.”

  “I suppose the old man had a vision or something,” Riker surmised.

  The men stood in silence for a while, looking at the Indians, who made no more moves. Robertson glanced at Riker. “We’ll have to leave our dead, sir. We can’t hang around here long or some o’ them warriors is gonna tell that old medicine man to stuff it and come in here to finish us off.”

  Riker nodded. “Yes, Sergeant. We shall have to leave our dead.” He took a deep breath and shouted, “Company, fall in!”

  The men numbly formed up, dressed to the right and waited.

  “Left face! Sling arms! For’d, march! Route step, march!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two – Fort Keogh

  The sentry, with binoculars hanging around his neck, was entering his second hour on post. He was stationed in the observation tower constructed on the top of Fort Keogh’s post headquarters. He leaned against the railing, enjoying the warmth of the morning sun. The dawn had been a cold, drizzly affair, but the clouds had gone away and the day promised to be bright and balmy.

  Yawning, the soldier almost drifted off into a brief nap, but snapped awake in the knowledge that he was in full view of the entire garrison. If some officer or NCO caught sight of him asleep, he’d spend the next month in the guardhouse. Shaking his head to rid himself of drowsiness, he cursed the slow movement of time in such a boring routine. The soldier raised his eyes and glanced outward over the open country. A slight movement on the horizon caught his attention. The guard grabbed the binoculars for a better look. After several moments of intense gazing, he leaned over the railing of the tower.

  “Corp’ral of the Guard! Post Number Two!” he yelled in an anxious voice. “Corp’ral of the Guard! Post Number Two!”

  Within moments the noncommissioned officer the sentry had summoned made an appearance. Looking up, the corporal angrily shouted. “What’s got ye worked up then, McGillicuddy? It sounds like ye kin see Crazy Horse and the whole bluddy Sioux nation chargin’ at us.”

  “There’s some soldiers approachin’ the fort,” McGillicuddy answered. “They’re maybe a mile away. I been watchin’ ’em for near a quarter hour.”

  The corporal, as aware of missing men as any other member of the garrison, quickly ascended the ladder to join the sentry. He grabbed the field glasses. After a moment of viewing, he slowly shook his head. “Sure now, and may the good saints preserve us! It’s Captain Riker and a
few of his men.”

  “Now how do you suppose they got away from them heathen Indians?” McGillicuddy asked.

  “That’s not fer us to worry about, lad,” the corporal said. “But tidin’s like this can’t be left waitin’!” He dropped the binoculars and slid over the rail to go down the ladder two and three rungs at a time.

  Out in the countryside, Captain Riker now could see that he and his men were within sight of Fort Keogh. The garrison’s flag was barely visible in the blurry distance, shimmering just over the horizon.

  “Hold it up. Form up in two ranks,” he commanded. “Sergeant Robertson, take the position of right guide, if you please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The seven other men fell in behind the first sergeant. The right file was made up of Acting Sergeant Schreiner, Trumpeter Melech, and Private Callan. Acting Corporal O’Malley and Privates Saxon, Devlin, and Baker were on the left.

  “Company, atten-hut!” Riker said. “We may be starving and ragged, but by God we’re still L Company. Sharpen up and let’s show them what real infantrymen look like. Right shoulder arms! For’d march! Hut! Two! Three! Four! Left! Right! Keep in step, men. Hut! Two! Three! Four!”

  Minding the cadence, L Company marched across the open country toward the post. A quarter of an hour later, Captain Charles Riker brought the remnants of his shattered command into the garrison. They passed through the quickly formed post guard that stood at the fort’s entrance. The sergeant of the guard brought his men to present arms.

  Riker returned the salute as he and his riflemen continued on their way across the cantonment area. Exhausted, starving, ragged, and as threadbare as tramps in their worn, ripped uniforms, they marched with backs straight and heads erect, keeping in step as if they were passing in review. Riker finally brought them to a halt in front of their regimental headquarters, where the colonel in command stood ready to greet them. The old officer looked at the survivors of the column. “God in heaven, Captain Riker! I thought you and your men were dead.”

  “Sir, I beg to report L Company has returned from detached service with General Leighton’s command,” Riker said with a sharp salute. “One officer and eight enlisted men present and accounted for.”

  The colonel’s voice was a whisper, and he was so shocked he momentarily forgot protocol. “I can’t believe I’m standing here looking at you.” He returned the salute as if in a daze. He recovered slowly before he could properly respond. “Captain, dismiss your company.”

  “Yes, sir!” Riker performed a faultless about-face. “First Sergeant!”

  Robertson left his post as right guide and marched up to a point in front of the company commander, saluting with a flourish. “Sir, the first sergeant reporting as ordered.”

  “Dismiss the company.”

  “Yes, sir.” Another salute and Robertson turned to face the men. “On my command, fall out and return to the barracks.” He took a deep breath. “Comp’ny! Fall out!” The men broke up the formation and turned away to walk slowly back to their billets. The campaign officially ended for them at that moment.

  They returned to the barracks they’d left weeks previously. The company quartermaster sergeant, who had stayed behind, stood in the doorway. His mouth was open and there were tears in his eyes. “Is this all o’ yez, then?”

  “That’s it, Flanagan,” Robertson said. “We’ll be drawing our bedding after the men dump off their gear.” Robertson led the men into the billets. He went directly to his own room at the end of the squad bay. The men tramped in after him. The extent of their losses became poignantly apparent as each went to his bunk. The unoccupied beds, empty and forlorn, had once been resting places of men who now lay scattered along the bloody route that Riker’s column had followed.

  Tommy Saxon pulled off his haversack and blanket roll, dumping them on the floor. Then he sat on his locker box and stared numbly at the floor. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands together as he suddenly began to pray.

  George Callan and Charles O’Malley also discarded their field gear, but instead of throwing it down, the two old soldiers began to unroll it and pack it away in its proper place on the shelf above their bunks. Acting Sergeant Karl Schreiner went one step further. He opened his locker box and pulled out a fresh uniform to change into when he got a chance to clean up.

  Trumpeter Mournful Melech and Mack Baker, took off their equipment and laid it down on the floor by their bunks. Then they sat down. Harold Devlin followed their example, but when he sat down he began to tremble.

  “Amen,” Tommy said, ending his prayer of thanksgiving. He glanced at Harold, noticing his friend’s anguish. “Is something the matter, Harold?”

  Harold tried to answer, but he suddenly began to cry. Uncontrolled weeping wracked his body as he sobbed loudly in the barracks room.

  Robertson, who had changed into another uniform, came out of his room. He had heard Harold weeping. The first sergeant walked over to the young soldier. He sat down beside him, saying nothing for a long time.

  “It’s over, Devlin,” Robertson said in a soft voice. “Now let’s pull ourselves together. We’ve got to go down to the supply room.” He stood up and pointed to Mack Baker. “You’re barracks guard. Watch the weapons while we’re down there drawing our bedding.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Mack responded.

  Robertson walked to the door and turned around. “All right!” he said in a loud voice. “Company formation outside. Let’s go!”

  The men obeyed, going out to the company street to form up and be marched to their supply room. After drawing bedding, they returned and made up their bunks in the proper military manner. A trip to the bathhouse followed that. After they were cleaned up and wearing fresh uniforms, they went to the mess hall.

  The other troops from the post were already in line when L Company marched up. Suddenly and spontaneously, they stepped aside to let the survivors of Riker’s column proceed them in to eat. Someone applauded and the clapping was picked up by the others.

  After messing, the men spent a quiet evening in the barracks. They talked little, preferring to nap a bit and settle in with their own thoughts. Finally, an hour after dark, Mournful Melech suddenly stood up. Wordlessly, he began to change into his full dress uniform.

  “What’re you doing, Melech?” Mack Baker asked.

  Melech didn’t answer. He put the plumed helmet on his head, picked up his bugle, and walked out of the barracks. He strode purposefully across the garrison to the headquarters building, where he ascended the ladder to the lookout tower.

  The sentry on duty there frowned in puzzlement. “What the hell are you doing up here, Melech?”

  Still Melech said nothing. Instead he turned and faced the south where L Company’s dead were scattered down the Tongue River and across the wilderness to the Powder. He put his bugle to his lips and played Taps for them.

  The notes were long and sad, drawn out by the grief of the trumpeter who made this last gesture to dead comrades. When he’d finished, he left the tower and walked back to the barracks.

  L Company, including First Sergeant Robertson, were outside by the door when he returned. They said nothing as he walked through them and went into the billets. After a few moments, they turned and joined him inside.

  ~*~

  During the weeks that followed, L Company became minor celebrities on the post. After throwing away their worn uniforms, they were issued fresh sets from the post quartermaster’s stores to augment the ruined clothing. Although it was a time of relaxation for them—the colonel saw to it that they performed only light duty, and excused them from guard, fatigues, and drill—their company commander was soon ensnared in an insidious paperwork trap.

  The first battle he did was with the quartermaster. All lost and destroyed items of government property had to be listed and accounted for. Not only were the Springfield rifles abandoned with the dead noted, but even personal items of equipment as minor as field hats, trousers, and shirts had to be accoun
ted for and listed in the proper documents. The locker boxes of the dead men were opened and the contents listed either for return to army stores or, if personal effects, to be sent to next of kin.

  When the quartermaster’s administrative needs were met, then the adjutant took over.

  His were the simplest demands. A listing of all the dead men was made from the company roster. Their pay and allowances due would be passed on to the listed next-of-kin or, as in the case of those without families, returned to the finance department.

  Both Riker and Robertson pooled their memories to list the details of each death. The one problem that occurred was the demise of Sergeant Thomas McCarey, whom Riker had killed while the NCO was in the hands of the Indians.

  A preliminary hearing was held. After the facts were brought out, they were watered down with a version that indicated the sergeant’s death was the result of misadventure due to his proximity to the enemy during a battle in which Captain Charles Riker was firing in his direction.

  That was the colonel’s idea.

  By the time the paperwork on the incident wound its way through the army’s various bureaus and reached Department Headquarters, more statements were added in the appendices of the original document, until it appeared that the entire company was firing at the time the sergeant was killed.

  Since McCarey had no family, the entire incident simply died away in the dusty vaults of the military archives.

  Company L soon got back to as normal a schedule as possible for a terribly under strength company. They messed and drilled with K Company while waiting for reinforcements to join them from the recruit depots at Columbus Barracks and David’s Island.

  The final report and summation of the incident of Riker’s column was summed up with a statement that read:

  It is the studied opinion of the official Board of Inquiry that the Indian enemy was unable to break through heavy infantry volley fire without suffering enormous casualties. The hostiles, due to the growing activity of army units in the field, more than likely abandoned the battle against Company L because suffering such heavy losses against a small unit did not make the effort worth the terrible cost to them.