Despite the thickly falling flakes, ahead of him the snow lay trampled by the prints of many boots so that Baldwin was able to avoid the deep drifts for the most part. He eased the animal back to a fast walk as it struggled beneath the weight over its withers, about all he figured he should expect out of the horse, and certainly the fastest he wanted to travel with the wobbly, unwieldy, clumsy weight of the ammunition crate balanced precariously across the front of the saddle and his lap, one arm looped over it, locking it down in the only way he could secure it.
From time to time Frank glanced up to take a look at the soldiers pushing up the first rise of ground toward the Indian positions, but for most of the ride he concentrated solely on the few yards of icy terrain right in front of his horse’s nose, especially as the creature began to show signs of weariness from fighting the deep snow and struggling beneath the shifting weight rocking back and forth across its withers.
Then he was close enough to the back of the skirmish line … and recognized the dark carcass in the snow.
An officer’s horse.
The snow trampled all around it.
Frank passed by the carcass close enough to see the hole in the head, the glistening, frozen blood. A gust of wind laid a dusting of new snow in the open, glazed eyes as he moved around it. Frank shuddered and looked away.
Twenty yards away Butler’s skirmish line stumbled forward ahead of him. They had their bayonets fixed, and they were yelling like demons. Just like banshees ripping out of the maw of hell as they lunged and fell, picked themselves back up, and kept crawling up that icy slope, scrambling for a foothold, something, anything.
He hammered his heels and calves against the mount’s ribs. Then he realized his heart was in his throat. His teeth clenched all this time. How hard it was to open his mouth, to work his jaws, so tight was the unprotected skin from the cold wind and whipping snow without that blanket mask.
“Am … ammunition!” he cried into the wind, the word torn away from his lips the instant it was uttered.
At first they didn’t hear him, so he called out again as the horse lunged within ten yards of their rear.
“Ammunition!” he got the word out at once, the sound of it again whipped off his tongue by the brutal slash of wind.
But, quite unexpectedly, one man turned, his wool mask dangling loosely, his breath puffing from beneath it in explosions of frost. The man stumbled back a step, surprised, then righted himself as he took a step forward—back toward Baldwin. Suddenly the soldier stopped, turned, shouting to the others.
“Ammunition! Ammunition!”
Another soldier turned so quickly, his legs got caught up in his long buffalo coat, spilling him into the deep snow. He leaped out of the drift as quickly as he had gone down. Now there were two of them yelling at the others close enough to hear over the howl of the wind, yelling over the crazed hollering they were all doing as they flung themselves against the ridgeline.
Bullets sang around them now. And the horse snorted, ears perked, frightened. Frank hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of being frightened.
The third man recognized him. “It’s Lieutenant Baldwin!”
Then a fourth soldier turned around, there beside the first as Frank urged the reluctant horse through the deep drifts. Right above them the small arms and carbines of the enemy crackled like a pine-pitch fire.
“He’s got ammunition, boys!” another old soldier croaked in a broken voice as he jammed the butt of his Springfield down into the snow, weaving in the strong wind as he hung on to the muzzle of the weapon. “By God—Baldwin’s got ammo!”
At that moment they all seemed to turn as a whole, more than half a hundred of them with their Long Toms at the ready, long, sharp, spearlike bayonets, or those with trowel bayonets fixed for their gallant charge. The first of them began to stumble Baldwin’s way as his horse sidestepped away from the rush into a depression.
The animal stumbled, pitching to the side, then got its legs back under them both. But Baldwin could hold the crate no longer, his arm gone numb with the cold, more so with the cramping of the muscles as he lunged out with the rein hand. Frank felt it slip beneath his fingertips, felt the crate going, but there was nothing he could do except watch it tumble into the snow.
No matter now. They were around him in a dark circle of cheering, throbbing, swirling soldiers, each one diving in to rake up a box of cartridges, yelling at the others, bumping and falling and some of them even laughing.
“Crazy Horse is mine now!” one man called as he scooped up a mitten filled with snow and glittery copper cartridges.
“Lemme at them red bastards!” another shouted.
Butler was suddenly there beside the horse, holding up his hand to Baldwin. His goddamned bare hand! “Lieutenant Baldwin?”
“Yessir, Captain!” Frank said, saluting, yanking off his horsehide gauntlet into the frighteningly cold windchill.
Butler’s mouth moved wordlessly a moment as he shook Baldwin’s hand. “T-thank you, Lieutenant.”
“For the Fifth, Captain,” Baldwin replied, feeling the tug of sentiment rise in his throat like a filmy knot.
Some of these men might well have followed Frank into Gray Beard’s village on the Staked Plain to rescue those two little girls. Or they might have fought another high-plains blizzard to stay on Sitting Bull’s trail if he had asked that of them. They were all Miles’s men. The Fighting Fifth, by God!
Frank ripped his sealskin hat from his head, waving it aloft in a wide circle, shouting.
“The Fifth never gives in, Captain! The Fifth never gives up! Have at them, men! Follow me and have at them!”
Captain Butler turned away suddenly, dragging his bare hand under his dribbling nose, his eyes misting from the cold blast of air that scoured every face. Baldwin surged ahead suddenly on that weary horse—yanking on the reins, waving, urging them all to follow, rallying them from above on the back of that rearing animal as they shoved cartridges into their pockets, some stuffing them into their mouths.
They threw themselves against the heights. Against the rocks and snow and icy bluffs. Against Crazy Horse’s finest.
“All right, you doughboys!” Butler cried as he waved his men onward, trudging ahead beside Baldwin’s prancing horse. “By God, let’s go finish this fight!”
* Reap the Whirlwind, vol. 9, The Plainsmen Series.
Chapter 36
8 January 1877
It wasn’t just those rifle cartridges that gave Butler’s men a boost when they were preparing to pitch into the Sioux and Cheyenne with little more than their bayonets.
Seamus realized it was the sudden appearance of Frank Baldwin himself. Perhaps the fact that the lieutenant’s personal effort beyond the call of duty reminded them that they were not alone in charging this hillside. Reminded them that Miles and the gun crews and the rest of the corps were with them.
No matter that the ammo case split apart, landing on its corner in the snow and splitting open against the red sandstone shale that dotted the crumbling slope. There were enough cartridges there to rally an entire battalion.
In excited knots of frantic, lunging fever, the men dropped to their knees in the deep snow to retrieve the individual cartridge boxes, yanking off gloves and mittens with their teeth as they cried out, stuffing that bare flesh down into the snowdrift to retrieve two or three of the brass cartridges as if they were life itself.
Life itself for now.
In the midst of the scramble Butler turned and stepped away from Baldwin and his horse, shouting to rally the men.
The other officers and noncoms took up that call. “Let’s go finish this fight!”
For a moment longer Seamus regarded the bearded soldier on the horse—recognizing him as one of Miles’s staff for this Tongue River campaign—then turned slightly to see just what that horseman named Baldwin was studying to the north. Off in the middistance came four animals, long-eared, most likely mules. Two riders pulling the other two along, that p
air with crates on their backs. They trotted as fast as they could through the ground snow being blown into ever-higher snowdrifts.
“Captain Butler!” Baldwin called to the man preparing his outfit to continue their climb. “Look, sir!”
Butler stopped short and turned. “What the devil are they?”
Baldwin shouted, “More ammunition, sir!”
The captain shook his head in relief. “Bring ’em on, by Jove! Now we will see this job through!”
“Permission to deliver ammunition to the other companies?”
Nodding to Baldwin, Edmond Butler said, “By all means, Lieutenant. By the great Jehovah, this is our day!”
In a matter of heartbeats the line had begun inching forward once more, this time rallied, resupplied, and stronger for it. But the terrain was still just as much an enemy as the Sioux and Cheyenne awaiting them on the top of the ridge. Snowdrifts, clumps of cedar and buckbrush, narrow slashes of erosion jagging down the side of the butte—all of it broke apart Butler’s smooth skirmish line into little groups of no more than a handful of soldiers here, a half-dozen soldiers there.
But they were all heading in the same direction: up into the face of the enemy.
For the next twenty harrowing minutes the Indians massed on the heights—screaming in a rage more than ever, firing down at the soldiers who had now come closer than they ever had before to reaching the tops of those bluffs. Every now and then a man cried out as the gap between the enemies narrowed, as the two sides lunged close enough to see the eyes of their foe.
A warrior fell with a painful bellow, and immediately others dragged him back from the edge, another man stepping up to fill the hole.
Below, a soldier called out, going down noisily—begging for help from those nearby. Or another fell silently, not making a sound, nor uttering a word, as he sank slowly, slowly into the snow turned red and mushy with the soldier’s warm life spilling out this winter day. A soldier here and there knelt by the fallen, to stay by the wounded until the day was won and the hospital stewards reached the battlefield.
On pushed the rest, up the rugged slopes, past the pitch and heave of this broken ridgeline, around the pine and cedar, over the sagebrush and shale, firing as they went, stopping to kneel, reloading now that they had a few more bullets to make a fight of it.
Now that the warriors began to step back. Back. Back some more from the edge as the soldiers crawled the last few yards to the top of the ridge—stumbling over the first of the breastworks abandoned by the Sioux and Cheyenne. Some fell, scrambling back to their feet as they continued to pursue the retreating red lines.
By now Baldwin had urged his horse to the right to join McDonald’s men with more ammunition, rallying them against the last of the warrior holdouts refusing to leave their rocky fortress, an enemy reluctant to retreat.
In their eager enthusiasm at gaining the summit, most of McDonald’s and Butler’s men trampled right on past the fire rings where the enemy had warmed themselves.
Only a few soldiers looked down in their advance upon that trampled ground to notice the crimson smears, the pools of mushy red snow—realizing for the first time just how much damage they had inflicted on the enemy. So much damage that the enemy could no longer stand their ground.
Now that the soldiers had gained the heights—the day was decided.
Into the whirling ground blizzard the Sioux and Cheyenne disappeared down the far slope. They still screamed in fury at the soldiers as they caught up their ponies, loaded their wounded and dead, then slipped away into the thick veil of that frigid Montana snowstorm—perhaps daring the white men to follow their retreat.
Seamus prayed Miles would not.
These soldiers of his—at least the three companies making this courageous charge on the bluffs—they had had themselves more than enough fight for one day. They deserved to hunker around a fire and eat a warm meal, wrap themselves in a blanket or two. They deserved to savor the delicious reward of victory this day.
Just for the present, if only for today.
Because Donegan knew how fleeting a battlefield victory could be in this matter of war with Indians. For the most part the army had been winning each engagement with the hostiles across the last ten years—yet this war remained unwon.
When? he wondered as a few of the men began to raise a cheer on the heights, slapping one another on the back and dancing a jig there in the trampled snow atop the ridgeline. Some were waving arms and rifles and muskrat or sealskin caps to signal their victory to those comrades down on the plateau with Miles and his two field pieces.
When would these dirty little battles ever be over and this whole bleeming war a thing of the past? When would the Indians quit running away to lick their wounds, preparing to fight another day? When would it no longer be necessary for the army to poke, and prod, and probe into the wilderness to locate the roaming villages? When would he himself be forced to find another way to support his loved ones?
To find something else a simple man with big hands and ready courage could do to feed his family.
Seamus looked south beyond the far slope of that narrow ridgeline, seeing the last of the warriors disappear into the thickening veil of the blizzard—knowing they had families hidden away in some valley to the south, perhaps not all that far away. Families, wives and children, to protect.
And then he realized.
The battles would go on, the villages would continue to flee into the wilderness, the warriors would continue to fight until they could see nothing but misery for their families, nothing but pain for their women, and nothing but hunger for their little ones by continuing the fight. When there was no more buffalo, no more game to hunt … when there was no more peace for the camps no matter the season … when there was nothing but death and despair and hunger and constant harrying off the reservations—then the warriors would have no other choice but to protect their families the best way they could.
Only then would the warriors bring in their wives and children to the food and blankets and protection of the agencies.
Just past noon that Monday, after a five-hour engagement, the last shot rang out, muffled by the blizzard that had descended upon the valley of the Tongue River. Miles gave Pope the order to cease his bombardment of the Indian retreat.
“They’re out of range now,” the colonel said with a mix of satisfaction tinged with resignation. “Your job is done for the day, Pope.”
But Miles turned to Dickey and Ewers, whose companies had spent the battle protecting the guns and the plateau. He ordered them in pursuit of the enemy.
“Take out their rear guard if possible,” he commanded.
Ewers asked, “To their village if need be, General?”
With a wag of his head a weary-looking Miles said, “Follow them as long as the two of you deem it practical with this hellish weather closing down on us. We’ll have camp ready below for your return.”
Seamus watched more than a hundred men march out on the double, plunging into the ground blizzard, trudging on the trampled backtrail of retreat, grunting with exertion as the snow billowed around them, led after an undefeated enemy by a handful of officers on horseback. It did not take those two companies long to disappear into the storm.
The Irishman wagged his head at the futility of their mission: to chase on foot after Indians escaping on horseback.
“I hope they’ll turn back before long.”
Seamus turned to find the old soldier coming up to stop beside him. “The fight’s over,” Donegan replied. “Now all Miles has to do is stay alive until he gets back to the Yellowstone.”
“Sounds like you ain’t counting yourself in.”
“I’m not,” Donegan admitted. “Heading south.” The man’s thick brows beetled up. “Follering them Sioux?”
Shaking his head, the Irishman replied, “Got a family waiting for me down to Laramie. I ain’t seen ’em in too damn long already.”
The soldier asked with disbelief, “Going th
rough Crazy Horse country?”
“I made it once already. I figure I can do it again.”
“Man can do anything,” the soldier agreed, “if he wants it bad enough and sets his mind squarely on it.”
“My heart’s set on it.”
“C’mon, then,” the old soldier said, turning Seamus away from the ridgetop. “If you’re leaving come morning on such a fool’s ride south, then let’s feed you some proper victuals this last night you’ll spend with the Fifth!”
Wooden Leg hung back for the last of the fighting, with those last warriors to abandon the ridge with Crazy Horse.
Some wanted to stay and fight the soldiers hand against hand … but once the ve-ho-e began to break over the lip and land on the top of the ridge in ones and twos, it was plain to see that their battle was lost.
The final few warriors gathered just south of the steep slope of Belly Butte and fired into those first soldiers to pursue them across the top of the bluff. With more and more of the white men pouring over the breastworks, firing their guns so hot and so fast that they just surely had to have all the ammunition in the world, Crazy Horse and Hump, Little Big Man and Little Wolf, began to shout for everyone to pull back.
“We will fight these soldiers another day!”
That cry burst from every throat.
“Another day!”
Down below on the southern slope where the young boys held on to the last of the war ponies, Wooden Leg found his horse. Sweeping the crusty snow off its back, he flung himself across its foreflanks. Turning once, he saw that the chiefs had fanned out on foot across the south slope—the last to retreat—assuring that all the wounded had been gathered up and carried from the ridge. Just since leaving the top of the butte, the clouds had tumbled in. Overhead, the storm had grown so thick that the cone of Belly Butte had disappeared in the blinding white swirl.
Sick at heart with another retreat, Wooden Leg sawed the rein and kicked the pony into motion. It snorted as it leaped away, perhaps in more of a hurry than Wooden Leg to be far from this terrible place.
Wolf Mountain Moon: The Battle of the Butte, 1877 tp-12 Page 39