by Dee Brown
Just before dawn he arose again. His carbine stock was damp, and against his face he could feel a mist which had collected in the valley, almost blotting out the stars. For a moment or so he stood in the dark silence, orienting himself. He walked across the frosted grass until his boots crunched in sandy gravel, and then he turned downstream. A minute or so later a shape loomed against the graying sky.
“That you, Major?” He recognized Jack Donovan’s voice, and could almost see the scout’s huge mustache. “Sky’s lighting some over that ridge.”
As Forsyth turned to look, Donovan added quickly: “They won’t come that direction.”
Forsyth fell in beside Donovan, who had turned back toward the mule herd. Suddenly the scout stopped; he grasped Forsyth’s arm, halting him in mid-stride. “Listen, Major,” he whispered.
Forsyth heard something like wind popping a guidon and then saw a blur of motion. Both men cocked their Spencers, dropping low in an effort to find the horizon line through the grayness. Hoofbeats broke the silence, and a second later they saw the lead horseman moving over the crest of a rise. He wore a feathered headdress.
The two men fired simultaneously, and Forsyth bellowed an alarm toward the camp: “Indians! Turn out! Indians!” He began running backwards, firing again, counting the riders, and was relieved to see no more than a dozen. They were headed for the mule herd, rattling dried hides to frighten them into a stampede. One raider was beating on some kind of a drum. All of them were yelling furiously, and it was light enough to see that they had cut away some of the mules and were swerving off out of range of the guards.
Forsyth was gratified to find that the men in camp had followed his orders like trained soldiers. They were standing beside their mounts, each with his horse’s lariat around his left arm, rifle grasped in both hands. “Saddle up and stand to horse!” he shouted, and then noticed that two men were without horses.
He was giving them a tongue-lashing for their careless picketing when McCall appeared on the run to report that five mules had broken their lariats and been swept away by the raiders. “Add two horses,” Forsyth replied harshly. He was pleased, however, at how quickly the scouts were bridling and saddling.
Meanwhile Lieutenant Beecher and the men guarding the pack mules had brought the animals in, herding them close behind the line of horses. “All supplies safe, including our extra ammunition,” Beecher reported. “Indians panicked the whole bunch, and if Martin Burke had not held their ropes by brute strength more would have stampeded.”
“I think I got one of the scoundrels,” Burke said as Grover rode up on his horse. “One dead Sioux,” Grover confirmed. He was scanning the horizon, his head turned to one side, listening. “The others are holed up in them rocks over there. Waiting for their brother tribesmen and the Cheyennes, I reckon.”
Forsyth heard the sound then—a faint bugle call. He was wondering if there could be regular soldiers in the area, when the bugle call was followed by a rumble that was like thunder that did not fade away but increased in volume. Although the sun was not yet over the horizon, the light was much brighter now, and through drifting mists he could see hundreds of Indians charging up the valley, riding in a very broad front, the unshod hoofs of their ponies drumming on the grass. The bugle sounded again—the clear sharp notes of a cavalry charge.
“One of them white runagates with the Arapaho,” Grover said. “Blowing that bugle!” He pulled his horse over beside Forsyth, his dark eyes bright as he looked expectantly at the major.
Forsyth calmly lifted his field glass, sweeping it along the charging line of warriors. Some wore warbonnets; others had braided their scalp locks with eagle feathers. They were armed with lances, rifles, bows and arrows. They’ll ride us down if we try to stand here, he thought. He knew that every man in the command was awaiting his decision.
“To the island,” he ordered, “and hitch horses in a circle! Sergeant McCall, lead out;”
“Your horse, sir!” Sigmund Schlesinger shouted. Forsyth turned and caught the reins from the boy, who stood waiting beside his own mount. “Move out, lad!” Forsyth shouted hoarsely. After a quick glance at the onrushing Indians, he stepped forward to give Burke and the mule-herders a hand. Burke was slapping one of the mules with his sailor hat, but the animal refused to budge. “Turn loose all mules except those carrying ammunition!” Forsyth ordered. “We’ll drag them over by their ropes if we have to.” In a matter of seconds they had those with ammunition packs in motion.
The Indians were no more than three hundred yards away now, still charging at a gallop. Forsyth jerked his horse’s reins and started leading it on a run toward the island. Although half the scouts were already across the stream bed, the stragglers had abandoned their military formation. “Get across, boys!” he shouted. “You’re moving like a flock of scared quail.” He was surprised to find Jack Stilwell lagging at the rear.
“Sir!” Stilwell cried, “some of us would like to make a stand here under the river bank!” In a blur of motion, Forsyth recognized Harrington, Clark, Farley, Gantt—all excellent marksmen. He was raising his hand to wave them on to the island when Grover swung down from his horse. “They’re right, Major! I’ll join on with ’em. The hostiles can’t see us down in that long grass bending over the bank, and when they slow their ponies for the drop-off, we’ll have ’em clean in our sights and close as shaking hands.”
Forsyth took the reins of Grover’s horse and hurried on, plunging into the island brush just as the bugle sounded again. The Indians opened with a rattle of rifle fire that was as coordinated as any commander could expect from mounted troops in motion. Mixed with the firing was a crescendo of war cries—savage and exultant.
Beecher and McCall meanwhile had ordered the men to form their horses in a circle, tying them to saplings or bushes, and using them for cover. Some were already beginning to return the Indians’ fire. Forsyth issued no orders, but took a position in the center of the circle where he could observe the action on all sides.
The charging Indians were at a momentary disadvantage, having to swing their front sharply leftward and then slow down at the eroded river bank. There it was that Grover and the others in the thick grass poured a deadly volley into their ranks at close range. Half a dozen painted warriors fell from their ponies, and the massed formation turned to wild disorder. From somewhere in the rear the bugler was blaring recall, but it was evident to Forsyth that the attackers had quickly reverted to their old way of fighting, every warrior for himself, riding in at high speed, circling, feinting, firing rifles and shooting arrows in wild recklessness.
In this flurry of disorganized attacks, the Indians hit a few of the scouts’ horses; some animals broke their ties and fled, others fell to the ground. The scouts began unsaddling, using saddles and packs for cover. Forsyth now shouted his first order: “Start digging, boys! Dig with whatever you have—tin cups, plates, knives. Pack-and-saddle breastworks won’t cover you. Work by twos. While one man digs, the other one keeps shooting.” A bearded scout named Chance Whitney dropped down on his knees and began digging with his bare hands, pulling the knotted grass roots out of the sand by main force. Forsyth tossed him a knife.
“My horse took off with everything I own,” Whitney said apologetically. “We ought’ve throwed our mounts down and tied their legs.”
“Too late for that now,” Forsyth answered. He bent over and slapped young Schlesinger on the back. “Two feet deep at least, lad, and long enough for you to lie in.”
A dozen Indians charged almost to the horse line; the scouts responded with fire that was too hurried and too elevated as they swerved away. “Steady, boys, steady!” Forsyth cried. “Aim low. Don’t throw away a shot. Don’t shoot unless you see something to hit. Our lives depend on how we use our ammunition. Keep digging, keep digging!”
By this time the main body of Indians had formed into a circle, completely surrounding the island, gradually tightening the ring, concentrating fire upon the scouts’ horses. On all
sides the animals were rearing and plunging, screaming with pain, or falling dead in their tracks. Each circling Indian rode on the outer side of his pony, hanging by one hand and a loop of mane, firing under his mount’s neck. They kept shooting continually, swinging away to reload, then rejoining the circle to fire again.
But the scouts were taking their toll of horseflesh, too, sending pony after pony tumbling, and sometimes bringing down the unhorsed riders before they could take cover. Gradually the circle broke, deflecting right and left as the warriors gathered up their dead and wounded and retreated out of range.
To Forsyth who was still learning the ways of Indian fighting, they seemed totally disorganized, but he suspected they would soon return. He urged the scouts to take advantage of the lull by digging their holes deeper, piling up banks of damp sand, and moving their dead animals into positions where they would serve as breastworks.
A stillness had fallen over the island, broken only by occasional taunting cries from the Indians and the steady scratching sounds of digging scouts. A voice whined behind Forsyth: “You don’t know anything about Indians, Barney. If we get licked we’ll be burned at the stake for sure.” Someone else said: “He’s telling you truth, Barney. Don’t let’s stay here and be shot down like dogs. Anybody want to try for the opposite bank with me?”
Forsyth spun around, his pistol out. “Stay where you are!” He kept his voice calm. “I’ll shoot down any man tries it. Out of mercy. The surest way to a stake burning would be to leave this island.”
Both Beecher and McCall had joined him in the center of the defense circle, their revolvers at ready. “Addleheaded fools,” Beecher said. “Get back to your digging if you want to stay alive.” The lieutenant’s body tensed suddenly as he brought his weapon up, firing at a mounted Indian who had dashed out of the high grass and headed for the west bank.
A rifle shot from the bank knocked the warrior from his saddle, and then Forsyth saw Sharp Grover crawl out of his hiding place. After a quick glance around, the chief scout started running toward the island. When he reached the circle, he reported to Forsyth: “I had my eye on that one for a while, Major, and I figger there’s more skulking around here in the grass. Thought you ought to know.”
“I’ve noticed some of their horses coming over to join ours after they lost their riders.”
“Some of them riders are still around, maybe listening to us right now. If we don’t clean ’em off this sand bar, they’ll crawl in on us. Give me a dozen men and we’ll do the job.”
Forsyth called for volunteers. With Grover leading, they spread out and disappeared in the grass to start a sweep toward the cottonwood at the north end of the island. A few shots sounded, and in less than five minutes they returned. One of the men, Pete Trudeau, was carrying a scalp. “Eight or ten others got away,” he said apologetically.
Forsyth eyed the scalp with disgust. “Did you have to do that, Trudeau?”
“Old Pete was lucky he didn’t lose his,” Grover answered for him. “I knew that Sioux. His name was Bad Heart.”
Martin Burke laughed and said: “Makes no difference whether his heart was good or bad. It’s quit working now.”
Shaking his head, Forsyth glanced to the west where the Indians appeared to be preparing for another charge. He ordered the scouts back to their rifle pits, and added: “Sharp, don’t you think you’d better start digging a hole for yourself?”
The scout did not reply immediately. His head was angled; he was listening for something. “First thing we better do is call our sharpshooters in from the river bank,” he said. “Hostiles know they’re hid in there now, and the boys won’t stand much chance in another attack.” He walked to the horse line and whistled. A reply came back immediately and Grover motioned them to come over.
The seven men came out of their hiding place warily, crouching low against the bank, and then dashing for the island. Tom Murphy and George Culver came in first, just as a galloping band of Indians opened fire from the riverbed. The two scouts leaped over a downed horse, taking cover behind it. “Cheyennes!” Murphy yelled.
“Look out, Tom,” McCall warned him. “That horse will kick; he’s not dead.”
“Rather be kicked by a horse than hit by a bullet,” Murphy answered, and fixed off a shot.
The Cheyennes wheeled away, some of them shaking long lances decorated with red cloth streamers. Beyond them Forsyth saw what he had dreaded, but expected. The main body of Indians was coming down from the high ground to join the new arrivals, their mounts advancing at a steady trot. At the same time the lance-bearing Cheyennes, as if vying with the warriors who had already tasted battle, swung back to charge straight across the river.
“Here they come again!” Sergeant McCall shouted.
Forsyth saw Culver rise up, and was about to warn him to get down when McCall leaped up to pull him down. A rattle of fire from the Cheyennes swept the west side of the circle, and both McCall and Culver hit the ground. As the attackers veered away, McCall sat up, gingerly feeling his neck. He reached for Culver, turning him over quickly. A bullet had smashed through Culver’s forehead. “He’s dead.”
“And you’re wounded, Sergeant,” Forsyth said.
“Bullet grazed my neck.” McCall tightened his bandanna against the bleeding wound and began reloading his carbine.
Grover meanwhile was trying to locate the other five sharp-shooters who had crossed from the river bank during the surprise attack and were somewhere in the brush outside the defense circle. He had crawled beyond the line of horses and was calling the men’s names. In a minute or so, Jack Stilwell appeared, his auburn hair tangled with briars. “We’ve been trying to bring Mr. Farley in,” he explained, “but he’s too bad wounded. Maybe Hutch will want to be with his pa.”
As Hudson Farley crawled out of his sand pit and started to follow Stilwell back through the brush, Gantt, Clark, and Harrington came in on their hands and knees. Frank Harrington was covered with blood from head to foot. “Harrington, you’d better see Surgeon—” Forsyth cut his words off, his attention fixed now upon the Indians who had halted across the river.
“Got an arrowhead over my left eye,” Harrington said, “but I can still see good out of my right.” He also was watching the Indians. “I reckon the surgeon and me are going to be too busy holding off them rascals to fool with it.”
To Forsyth’s surprise the Indians did not make another mounted charge. Suddenly as though by silent command, the mass of warriors divided, half of them turning downriver, the others upriver, gradually increasing pace to a gallop, and then one after another they leaped from their ponies and raced on foot toward both ends of the island.
Seconds later rifle fire was exploding from everywhere, filling the air with the pict-pict-pict sounds of bullets in flight. But not a living target was in range. “Major, you’d better get down,” Dr. Mooers called repeatedly. Forsyth kneeled, shouted to his men to hold their fire until they saw something to shoot, and then he felt a bullet burn into the top of his right thigh. He glanced down; his trouser leg was darkening with blood. He fell forward deliberately, hugging the ground.
Mooers cried: “The major’s been hit!”
“Just a scratch,” Forsyth retorted.
“I’m going to widen my pit anyway,” Mooers said. “To accommodate both of us. Some of you boys give me a hand.”
So intense was the agony in his leg Forsyth could not speak for a moment, or he would have ordered the volunteer diggers back to their pits. The bullet must have struck a nerve, he thought, and then realized that although the enemy fire was growing heavier, most of it was blind shooting, too high to be effective. He held his breath until he could speak, then in a steady voice ordered one of the men in front of him to slow his rate of fire. “Be careful of your ammunition, boys, or this may be our last command.” To ease the pain in his thigh he drew up his left leg. A second later he felt the jar of another bullet against the bone below his left knee. Mooers’ bearded face suddenly appeared
above him. “You’ve been shot again,” the surgeon said accusingly; he and two other men began easing Forsyth into the surgeon’s widened pit. He heard Grover’s flat-toned drawl: “Varmints are getting our range, Major.”
The rifle fire and the eerie yelling was almost continuous. From across the circle someone called: “Bill Wilson’s been hit bad.”
“I’ll see to him,” Mooers shouted back, “as soon as I can stop the major’s bleeding.”
After a moment the voice replied: “No use, Doc. Wilson’s dead.”
Inside the surgeon’s sand pit, Forsyth managed to get into a sitting position with his back braced against one of the damp walls. While Mooers bandaged his lower leg—the shinbone was painfully shattered—Forsyth could see the last surviving horse tugging and straining at its lariat. A moment later a stream of arrows brought the animal down; its legs thrashed viciously as it added its hoarse gasps to the moans of the other dying horses.
From out of the tall grass came a comment in clear English: “There goes the last damned horse anyway.”
“Who said that?” Forsyth demanded almost involuntarily.
Sharp Grover answered from the adjoining pit: “Likely enough their bugle player, Major. White runagates are with that Arapaho bunch.”
Wincing from pain, Forsyth shifted his position so that he could scan the circle of defenders. “How many casualties, Surgeon?”
“Counting you, at least a dozen.” Mooers began daubing antiseptic on Forsyth’s thigh wound. “When they quiet down a little, we’ll probe for that bullet.”
Forsyth clamped his teeth together. Feeling pressure against his right leg, he reached down and found his watch. He was surprised to see that it was not yet ten o’clock. His head felt dangerously light and he knew that even though Mooers had slowed the flow of blood from his wounds he would have to exert a strong effort of will to remain conscious much longer.