Wolf Mountain Moon: The Battle of the Butte, 1877 tp-12

by Terry C. Johnston

  “Major Casey?” Miles called out, using the captain’s brevet rank.

  The officer stepped forward and saluted. “Your orders, General?”

  Miles pointed to the tallest point of the ridge with that short peeled shaft of cottonwood. “You see that cone, Major?”

  “Yes, sir. High ground if ever I saw it.”

  “To take the top would be a tough climb for the men, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, it would be, General.”

  “Those slopes are crawling with Sioux,” Miles explained, not taking his eyes off the butte.

  Casey straightened his back like a ramrod. “General—if it’s to be done, I request the honor of leading A Company into the attack.”

  Miles turned now to look at the captain. “A Company it will be, Major. Push as far up the side as is humanly possible. It’s up to you to take some of the pressure off our gun emplacements.”

  “Very good, General! With your compliments,” Casey replied, moved back one step and saluted as he slapped his heels together.

  Miles and the rest watched the captain hurry off to gather his officers, who then formed up their men at the top of the knoll and quickly told them of the task at hand. The sky was continuing to lower minute by minute as the clouds scudded out of the west, and the wind was coming up as Casey eagerly moved out at the head of A Company. Their neat formation quickly became a ragged square as the sixty-some men pushed around the base of the high knoll and onto the long, narrow neck of the plateau that gradually rose toward the cone.

  Of a sudden Casey and his officers stopped, whirled about, and cried out in warning.

  As a group the entire company dropped to their knees, hunched over as the arrows began to whisper down among them. Miraculously no man was seriously hurt as the officers carefully peered up from beneath their sealskin caps, rising immediately to order the men to their feet again. Every one of them yanked the arrows from a man next to him, the iron points barely penetrating the thick buffalo-hide coats and layers of wool. Some men had been grazed, scratched, or poked—but none complained of serious wounds as Casey bawled for them to strike out again.

  In those long, thick, heavy buffalo-hide coats and leggings the men of A Company lumbered on across the uneven, broken ground and slick snow, that shifting square of soldiers crawling forward at an insect’s pace like some dark many-legged creature inching over the clumps of sage and crusty snowdrifts.

  Again the officers sang out as the arrows arched into the air, calling for the men to halt and hunker there at the base of the butte where the slope began to rise more sharply. Just above them more warriors clustered suddenly, yelling, taunting, shaking their weapons in the falling snow. A few knelt to take aim with their carbines.

  Half sliding, half falling to one side as he struggled back to his feet, an angry Casey bellowed the order for his first ranks to fire a volley up the side.

  A dozen men stepped forward by rank and closed file.

  “Sergeant! Fire on those Indians! Push those red buggers back!”

  “Clear that slope of the bastards!” an old noncom hollered as he waved the next rank up to fire their volley.

  Waving his pistol over his head, Casey repeated, “Sweep that slope clean of the bloody demons!”

  Slowly, three short paces at a time, the warriors fell back and A Company continued to move forward a foot at a time. Men stumbled, spilled, sprawled across the sharp slope, then pulled themselves out of the snow clumsily in their heavy winter gear. Throwing open the trapdoors on the Springfields the best they could with their bulky mittens, more often than not each soldier spilled at least one or sometimes two .45/70 cartridges into the deep snow before they got a fresh round chambered and the trapdoor locked down.

  On the heights the racket of cries and shrieks and taunts grew in volume. For the first time that morning the warriors recognized that the Bear Coat was not just defending his position but was instead beginning to take the offensive. Shouts of derision and dismay were hurled down on the soldiers, no matter where they were on that battlefield.

  “Lieutenant Bailey!” Miles cried out as soon as Casey moved his company away from the knoll and began their ascent.

  “Sir!”

  “My compliments to Captain Butler. Tell him he is to bring his company and McDonald’s D up to this knoll.”

  “Yessir.”

  Miles lunged out with his arm, staying the young aide-decamp. “Tell the captain that together they will be replacing Major Casey’s A Company protecting these heights.”

  “Very good, General.”

  “Go!”

  Seeing the young officer on his way, Miles turned, as in afterthought, staring to the northwest, gazing down into the bivouac area they had abandoned not all that long ago at first light. “Kelly, Donegan!”

  Both of the scouts trudged over as the snow began to fall a little thicker, and the wind cut a little crueler as it blustered across that high ground.

  “I’ve called up those two companies from down in the bottom. Which means we’re going to be short of a rear guard if I don’t do something, fellas,” Miles said quietly when the two civilians had reached his side.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Kelly replied.

  Miles looked into Donegan’s face now. “Tell me what you think, you old horse soldier. Wouldn’t cavalry play havoc with my rear?”

  “Soft on the backside the way it’s going to be—bleeming right they would, General.”

  “Just what I was thinking,” Miles grumbled, then slapped the peeled branch across his other palm again and again as he struggled with it. “All right, I’ll dispatch a company over to that high ground across the river, to the north—there.”

  Donegan followed where he was pointing, then nodded in approval. “Very good, sir: no horsemen would dare charge through that throat of land if you can put some riflemen on the front part of that ridge.”

  “Exactly! I’ll seal up my back door and protect my rear!” Miles exclaimed with satisfaction as he turned quickly to watch Adjutant Baird urging his mount back up the short slope of the plateau. “No need to dismount, Lieutenant.”

  “Sir?”

  “Another ride—this time to Lieutenant Cusick detailed down with the wagons. Tell him I need his F Company to take their entrenching tools from the supply train, ford the ice, and dig themselves some rifle pits on the front slope of that ridge over there.”

  Baird looked in the direction Miles pointed the stick. “Across the river. Dig rifle pits on the front of that near slope. Understood, sir.”

  He snagged hold of the adjutant’s reins and stepped up to the lieutenant’s knee. “And tell Cusick that his men must burrow in and not let anything cross the river,” Miles emphasized. “They are protecting … Tell the lieutenant that F Company is all we have for a rear guard now.”

  Baird blinked, then saluted as his horse sidestepped nervously, jerking the reins away from Miles. Its ears stiffened, eyes wide with all the shrill whistling and the crackle of gunfire, sensing the tenseness of its rider. “Yes, General. Cusick’s men are now our only rear guard.”

  “On the double, Lieutenant!”

  “I’l1 tell him, sir. On the double!”

  Donegan watched the young adjutant yank the reins to the side, wheeling his horse around to spur it away, down the side of the plateau, kicking up balls of snow and clods of red earth. Near the supply train Baird reined up and began relaying his orders to those soldiers of the Twenty-second Infantry. A few of them turned, glanced up the slope at the knoll where Miles stood, then wheeled again to dive into the supply wagons, where they pulled out the leather scabbards containing their eight-by-three-inch steel entrenchment tools. No shovels for the work at hand.

  As he watched a moment more, Seamus said a little prayer for those foot soldiers who had their work cut out for them. Not only would they have to hack rifle pits out of some frozen, rocky, sandstone-encrusted soil … but they would have to cover their own backsides while they acc
omplished it.

  Alone on the far side of the river, F Company would now be expected to protect a vulnerable rear flank.

  * The Powder River.

  † The Little Bighorn River.

  # The Bozeman Trail.

  @ Bighorn Mountains.

  ^ Colonel Henry B. Carrington, marching north to build and garrison three forts along the Bozeman Trail: Sioux Dawn, vol. 1, The Plainsmen Series.

  *Wolf Mountains.

  Chapter 31

  8 January 1877

  When Casey’s men hit the steepest of the snowy slopes right below the tall butte itself, it was immediately clear to everyone watching that those soldiers would never make it to the top of the cone.

  Not in those bulky buffalo coats and leggings, they weren’t. Not on that slippery ice. And not with the legions of warriors doing everything in their power to make as much trouble as they could for the soldiers below.

  A bullet smashed into a wheel on the Napoleon gun carriage, sending splinters over the Irishman and the chief of scouts.

  “Kelly!” Miles hollered. “You and Donegan—front and center!”

  Loping to a stop before the colonel, Seamus could see that Miles’s red face glowed from more than the bitter cold.

  “Casey’s going to get himself bogged down,” the colonel growled, clearly impatient with his inability to drive the warriors back.

  Donegan declared, “If he ain’t already stopped dead in his tracks, General.”

  He glared right into the Irishman. “I hired you on to guide for Kelly—and scouting is all I ever expected you to do, Mr. Donegan.”

  But just the way the colonel had said it made Donegan think there was a bit more on his mind. “If you’ve got something what itches you, better you scratch it here and now.”

  Miles cleared his throat. “You feel like taking a ride up to Major Casey?”

  Seamus licked his cracked lips. “To tell him what?”

  “Move him south along the base of the ridge.”

  Gazing across that six hundred yards or more, Donegan asked, “How far, General?”

  For a moment Miles held the field glasses on the slopes of the jagged ridgeline that extended south by east from the knoll and ran all the way past that tall cone. He turned back to Donegan. “I want him to push along the side of those buttes until he gets himself past that high pointed one.”

  “There’s no mistaking it, General,” Kelly observed.

  “Until he gets past that big one,” Seamus repeated the order. “All right.”

  In the colonel’s eyes shimmered deep appreciation. “You’ll go?”

  Seamus looked at the other civilian. “Unless Kelly wants to ride.”

  “Have at ’er, you ol’ horse soldier,” Kelly cheered.

  “And one other thing, Donegan,” Miles interrupted, suddenly snagging the Irishman’s arm. “Tell him I’ll have support coming his way.”

  “Who, General?”

  “Major Butler’s company.”

  Seamus nodded. “Butler—good.”

  “And McDonald too,” Miles said with finality. “You tell Casey I’m sending him all that support so he’ll have every chance to press his attack there where the enemy is gathering in their greatest numbers.”

  “A battalion ought to make the major happy,” Donegan replied.

  “Another hundred men ought to help him drive those red buggers off the heights, for good!” Miles roared.

  In his clumsy buffalo-hide overshoes, Seamus had all he could do to keep his footing as he trotted along the shallow slope of the plateau toward the supply train where the stock was corralled when he suddenly became aware of just what he was setting off to do. More than that, it struck him what task Casey’s men—along with those of Butler and McDonald—now had staring them in the eye.

  Reaching the horses, he quickly snatched up the reins to Miles’s own big animal, led it away from the rest, then stuffed his buffalo-hide-wrapped boot into the hooded stirrup with no room to spare. Rising quickly, Seamus settled uneasily upon the McClellan saddle, memories washing back over him of past days, past battles fought from a McClellan.

  He grumbled a little under his breath as the horse sidestepped beneath a strange rider, trying to find a good place for his tailbone. Pushing back against the cantle, he shoved down on the stirrups as the horse twisted its head nervously, aware that this was not to be an ordinary ride.

  “Easy, fella,” Donegan cooed, leaning forward against the animal’s ear.

  At least the stirrups felt long enough for what short ride he figured to make of it. He didn’t plan on having his butt banging that ungodly cavalry saddle seat for very long either. He’d ride flat out if the horse was up to it, through the snow and the bullets, taking the weight of it all in his knees, leaning out over the animal’s withers.

  “Hep, hep-a!” he urged, kicking the horse in the flanks, moving it out of the corral, where two companies of soldiers had forted up with the wagons.

  Raising himself off the saddle, Seamus eased the animal into a lope, working up into a gallop with a little more urging. It seemed eager to run, perhaps eager to gallop if only to get away from the mules and the clatter around the supply train, to be unfettered.

  That roar off to his right was the Rodman gun. Pope must be putting his gun crew back to work, perhaps this time to soften up the snowy heights before Casey and the rest went in afoot. Good thinking that was.

  But far ahead, low on those slopes, he watched as the black smears became figures, and the figures became men struggling through the snow: slipping, falling down, struggling back up on their hands and knees, attempting to fire a round now and again every few yards they gained.

  What if Miles’s offensive did not work? What if Casey and the rest got bogged down in the snow below those cliffs—trapped the way Captain Alex Moore’s men had been trapped on the Powder River last winter*—caught there like sitting ducks, where the warriors would have a field day with them before Casey could withdraw, leading what men he had left still alive? What then?

  To fort up with the wagons?

  What chance did they stand doing that? Not with this outfit already short on rations … not here in the dead of winter with the thermometer reluctant to rise anywhere close to zero. If Casey’s offensive failed, then that’s exactly what they’d have to do: retreat and fort up. Every man waiting to freeze to death, to starve, or to be picked off by a tightening noose of Sioux and Cheyenne.

  What ghost of a chance would any of these men have of making it back to the mouth of the Tongue River alive if this offensive of Casey’s failed?

  The heights still bristled with Indians, hundreds of them—all parading back and forth, yelling, blowing their whistles, hurling arrows down among the soldiers.

  Every soldier had hoped the two guns would frighten and demoralize the warriors. In the past, artillery had always been successful in accomplishing that. It took the fighting steam right out of the warrior, confused him, and sometimes broke his spirit, his willingness to press on.

  But today—that three-inch Rodman and the twelve-pounder simply weren’t accomplishing much of anything beyond making a lot of noise and kicking up a lot of snow when the shells sailed on over the ridgetops. The Indians were still on the heights, and it seemed as if there were more of them than before.

  Especially the closer to the base of the buttes he got with Miles’s horse.

  Into the back of Casey’s A Company Seamus slowed, swinging out of the saddle even before the horse came to a complete stop. “Major Casey!”

  “Here!”

  “Donegan—company of scouts!”

  The major was close enough now that he started to salute, then instead held his hand out to the Irishman. He anxiously looked out on Donegan’s backtrail across that gently rising, open ground as if expecting more than just one lone man.

  Casey swallowed hard. “You’ve come to help?”

  Seamus quickly looked left and right at the soldiers, old and young, as the
y peered at him expectantly. Their cheeks were rosy—a few already frostbitten, gone milky white. Most eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. What eyes weren’t filled with fear were filled with questions.

  “I have come to help,” Seamus answered, dragging a mitten under a runny nose. “The general sent me with word.”

  Casey grinned, his eyes coming alive as he cheered, “We’re to pull back off this godforsaken slope?”

  “I’m afraid not, Major.”

  Over the grumbling of the soldiers in the background, Donegan went on to explain what Miles wanted A Company to do in traversing the side of the slope.

  “Back there,” Seamus said, turning—finding the soldiers coming—pointing at them. “Take a look. That’s Butler’s company. And McDonald must be right behind him.”

  “Butler and McDonald?”

  “Yes, Major. They’re coming up to give you the strength it will take to hold the base of this ridge.”

  Casey wagged his head. “Don’t you mean the strength I need to take the ridge and drive off the enemy?”

  In that instant Seamus looked up at the top of the bluffs, saw the odds staring down at them … and suddenly realized that there was no better place to be than at the center of the action. If he failed here, it would be a quick death. Better than having to retreat, fort up, and die of starvation, or freeze to death.

  There was but one choice now.

  Donegan looped the reins over the front of the McClellan, then slapped the colonel’s horse on the flank twice to send it on its way. He watched a moment more, the muffled hoofbeats carrying it down the long slope onto the gentle descent of land that stretched toward the river, the corral, and other animals. The big stallion knew where it was going.

  He turned back to the officer.

  “I’m with you, Major Casey—no matter what now. But I gotta tell you: I don’t think we’re ever going to get your men up this ridge.”