War Cry

by Charles G. West

  Satisfied to stay behind, Kincaid positioned himself at the top of the swale where he could look in both directions. Will disappeared between two large boulders that capped a rock field that covered half of the slope. Reaching a ledge that stood about fifteen feet above the canyon floor, he paused and dropped to one knee while he listened to the sound of the wind rattling the leaves of the few trees on either side of the narrow passage. After a few moments’ time, he caught the sound of voices on the wind, and knew at once that his suspicions were verified. Intent upon gauging the strength of their numbers, he left the ledge and moved carefully down to take cover behind a clump of bushes. From there he was able to see both sides of the narrow passage where the canyon began. At first, he saw no one, but as he scanned the steep sides of the canyon, he saw a warrior rise from behind a hummock and move to another location closer to the canyon floor. Then, one by one, his sharp senses caught sight of a slight movement here, the sound of a low voice there, until he was confident that there was a force of hostiles sufficient to stage a deadly ambush.

  I’ve seen all I need to see, he thought, and started to slowly withdraw from the bushes. He went back to the ledge and reached up to get a grip on the edge of a rock. In that instant, a bullet ricocheted off the rock just above his hand, sending a shower of granite bits to sting his face and arms. At almost the same time, he heard the report of the rifle. Within seconds, the canyon erupted into a fury of shouts and gunfire. With no decisions to make then, Will took off, running as fast as he could, skirting the ledge and scrambling up the steep slope. Luckily, the warriors had no real idea where he was and were shooting in the general direction pointed out by Bloody Hand.

  From his position halfway up the slope, Bloody Hand had turned his attention away from the valley beyond the turn for a few moments and happened to catch sight of the soldiers’ scout about to climb up on a ledge. Roaring out his rage, he had time for one shot before Will scrambled out of his view. Already concerned by the shooting he had heard from Brave Elk’s warriors, he now knew that the ambush had been discovered. There was no choice but to attack in hopes of killing as many soldiers as possible before they could escape. His first concern, however, was to find the scout he had seen behind him, and any others who were with him. Signaling frantically to his warriors below, he motioned toward the ledge where he had last seen the white man. At once, Will had a dozen angry hostiles on his trail.

  Behind him, he could hear the frenzied war cries as the Indians discovered the obvious marks left in the side of the slope by his moccasins, sliding and slipping as he had hurried to escape. It was a life-or-death foot-race at this point, and he wasn’t sure he could outrun the competition. Knowing that he was going to have to find a place to try to hold them off, he looked right and left as he gasped for breath. Feeling he was too winded to run much farther up the slope, he was about to drop behind a dead tree when Kincaid suddenly appeared leading Spades. Like a pony express rider, Will leaped to get a foot in the stirrup and swung the other leg over as Spades followed Kincaid’s sorrel over the top of the ridge and down the other side.

  Up ahead, Kincaid’s horse slid and almost stumbled as it reached the lower part of the ridge where a saddle joined it with the hill next to it. Behind and above, Will could hear the sound of mounted warriors already on their trail. “Easy, boy,” he cautioned when he reached the patch of loose gravel that had almost tumbled Kincaid’s horse. Spades took the area in smooth stride, never faltering. Across the saddle they raced to the next slope before Kincaid took a game trail down between the hills, heading back in a general direction toward the valley and the patrol.

  Still riding at a measured pace down the middle of the valley, even after hearing gunfire, Lieutenant Bordeaux called his patrol to a halt when he saw his two scouts suddenly emerge from the sparse tree line at the base of the hill and race toward him. One look and he immediately formed a mounted skirmish line and gave the order to prepare to fire, for it figured that hostiles were not far behind. After a few moments, more than a half dozen warriors appeared at the base of the hill and pulled up short when they saw the line of soldiers with carbines raised. Bordeaux ordered his men to hold their fire since the Cheyenne were out of their effective range. The hostiles paused, apparently considering the odds, then turned and retreated toward the bend in the valley. Bordeaux waited for Will and Kincaid to report.

  “They’ve got a right lively party planned for you,” Will told him. “I couldn’t spot every Injun hiding back there around the bend, but I would guess there’s at least thirty-five or forty. If it hadn’ta been for Kincaid, I mighta been part of the entertainment.” He paused a few moments while Bordeaux thought it over. “I expect they’ll be comin’ after you pretty soon now, since they know we discovered the ambush.” When Bordeaux seemed slow in making a decision, Will nudged him a little. “There’s way too many for you to fight head-on. I expect you’ll be lookin’ for a good spot to get ready for ’em.” He paused again. “Back yonder way,” he suggested, gesturing toward the hills behind them.

  “I suppose you’re right,” the lieutenant conceded, and gave the order to fall back.

  As Will had predicted, there wasn’t a great deal of time available to find a suitable position to withstand an assault. By retreating, they were able to have some choice in the selection, picking a ravine with a trickle of a stream and a reasonable field of fire on three sides. The most vulnerable side was the hill above them where the ravine ended. Will volunteered to take that position, figuring he could move up the ravine and keep the Indians from getting in too close. Due to the need for every rifle possible, only two men were assigned to take care of the horses. That left fifteen to hold off a force of thirty-five or forty hostiles.

  Again, as Will had advised, it was not a long wait before the attack began. Bloody Hand, seeing the defensive position the soldiers had taken, sent Brave Elk with six warriors to climb the hill above the ravine. The Cheyenne war chief then decided upon a frontal attack on the ravine, hoping to overpower the lesser force with his superiority in numbers. He soon realized the folly in that thinking. Though outnumbered, the soldiers laid down a devastating field of fire with their carbines. Brave Elk’s probe at the rear of the troop was met with much the same reception, thanks to Will’s Henry rifle and the two troopers with him. Reluctant to sacrifice his warriors’ lives needlessly, Bloody Hand pulled his men back out of range of the carbines and surrounded the ravine, planning to wait the soldiers out until hunger and thirst forced them to make a run for it.

  “Looks like some of them Injuns has got theirselves some army rifles,” Kincaid observed when a rifle slug kicked up dirt at the rim of the ravine. “Sounds like a Springfield to me.” It was soon followed by other shots from the front and sides. “They got a little more range than these Spencers we’re using.”

  “I think they’re plannin’ to keep us pinned down in this gully until we run out of water or ammunition, or both,” Bordeaux said. “I guess they don’t know we got a stream here.” He turned to give the trickle of water a long look. “I swear, it ain’t much, is it?”

  “As long as the horses can get enough to drink, it’ll do,” Will replied. “I expect you ain’t figurin’ on staying here long, anyway.”

  “Hell, no,” Bordeaux responded. “As soon as it gets dark and these horses are rested up, I plan to break outta this damn hole.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Will said. “I hope they’re satisfied to keep their distance, ’cause there ain’t nothin’ but open ground on three of our sides. The back door is the only way out and that’s up a pretty steep hill.”

  “And if they put some of their warriors up on that hill,” Kincaid opined, “they’ve pretty much got our back door shut tight.”

  Bordeaux took their comments under serious consideration. What he was hearing was not encouraging at all, and he realized that his intention to break out of the ravine might be too risky and he might take too many casualties. “Damn!” he suddenly swore. �
��Maybe we shouldn’t have backed our asses into this hole.”

  “If you hadn’t, those Indian ponies would have run us down and we’da had to fight ’em on open ground,” Will said. “And there’s too many of ’em for us to come out ahead.”

  “We’ll see what happens after dark,” Bordeaux said, still of a mind to try to slip out of the ravine.

  As the afternoon wore on, there was nothing to do but watch and wait. At odd intervals, the Indians grew tired of waiting and sent a few random shots ricocheting off the rim of the ravine just, Will supposed, to let them know they were still there. The lieutenant expressed hope that the Cheyenne would become bored with the game and withdraw. Will figured there wasn’t much chance of that. There was a common misconception among many of the officers that Indians were easily bored and prone to lose interest in a situation that showed no quick results. It was not a notion that Will shared, and he felt sure that these warriors were not about to turn away when the odds were so greatly in their favor. He expressed that opinion to Bordeaux, but the lieutenant was convinced that to stay until morning would surely see the ultimate destruction of his troop.

  As darkness descended upon the prairie, Bordeaux pulled his pickets in a little closer and ordered his troopers to prepare to mount. As quietly as they could manage, the patrol started toward the mouth of the ravine, leading their horses. The back way out was already deemed too severe a climb to make without causing a lot of noise. Anticipating such a move, Bloody Hand had sent part of his force close in to within about fifty yards of the ravine on foot. Crawling under cover of darkness, some had advanced even closer to the mouth of the gully, where the soldiers would try to exit. Unfortunately, Will Cason’s prediction was swiftly confirmed. The first of the cavalry horses to clear the mouth of the ravine were shot down by Cheyenne warriors who had crept to within a couple dozen yards with a blistering volley of rifle fire—some of it from repeating rifles. The night became ablaze, lighting the darkness around them with the constant flashes of muzzles, causing the soldiers to fall back to the natural breastworks of the gully and take up defensive positions again. Lucky to escape with two horses as the only casualties despite the fury of fire that Bloody Hand’s warriors had unleashed, Bordeaux now fully realized the desperate position he was in. “At least we can hold them off,” he confided to Will. “Maybe if we make it too costly for them to try to overrun us, they’ll decide we ain’t worth the casualties.”

  “Maybe,” Will said, flinching slightly when a stray bullet kicked dirt up between them. “They know they got us outnumbered, and figure we’ll eventually run outta ammunition.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “What we need is to even the odds with a lot more soldiers.”

  “Well, now, why didn’t I think of that?” Bordeaux replied with more than a hint of sarcasm. “We’ll just call for reinforcements.”

  Ignoring the sarcasm, Will asked, “Any chance you’ve got a bugler on this detail?”

  “Barnhart’s a bugler,” Bordeaux answered.

  “Other than blowin’ that bugle, is he a pretty good man?”

  Bordeaux shrugged. “As good as any of them, I guess. Why?”

  “Might not work worth a damn,” Will said, “but at least it’s somethin’ to try.” He went on to explain what he had in mind.

  Bordeaux responded, somewhat skeptical, but with no plan of his own and his situation looking to worsen the longer they stayed pinned down in the ravine. He looked at Corporal Kincaid, who had stationed himself privy to the conversation. “You think it’ll work?”

  “I ain’t paid to think,” Kincaid responded, “but it’s better’n settin’ here waitin’ for them to get up the nerve to rush us.”

  “Get Barnhart over here,” Bordeaux ordered.

  Barnhart came when summoned, hunkered over as he ran to keep from exposing himself over the rim of the ravine. Grim faced, like his comrades, he reported to the lieutenant. Bordeaux nodded toward Will, who did the talking. “You got your bugle with you?” Barnhart replied that he always had it with him, even though it wasn’t usually called for on a patrol of this size. “Well, we’ve got a little proposition for you, if you’re willin’. You might get your ass shot full of Injun lead, but, hell, ain’t none of us gonna live forever.” He went on to explain what he had in mind. Barnhart listened without apparent enthusiasm, but in the end he agreed to give it a try.

  “Watch your ass,” Bordeaux cautioned as Will and Barnhart removed everything that might rattle or make any discernible noise from their saddles.

  “I always do,” Will replied. “Come on, Barnhart.” He started up the back side of the ravine, leading Spades. Passing two troopers stationed there, he continued up through the scattering of trees on the steep hillside, his eyes constantly scanning the darkness before him, with Barnhart close behind. Suddenly a rifle fired. It was off to his left about twenty- five yards, and he froze for a few seconds until he determined that it was aimed at the ravine and not at him. Glancing back to make sure Barnhart was still with him, he then continued the cautious climb up the hill. Forced to pause twice more when shadowy figures moved across the slope before them, they finally crested the hill and hurried down the other side, confident that they were in the clear.

  Feeling it safe to mount then, they rode up the neighboring hill to the top, where they dismounted again. That was as far as Will planned to go. There was nothing to do then but wait out the night. “Might as well make yourself comfortable,” Will said. “We’ve got a couple hours before sunup. Sleep if you want to. I’ll be awake.”

  “Sleep?” Barnhart replied, astounded by the suggestion. “I’d be afraid to close my eyes long enough to sleep. I thought we were done for back on that slope when that rifle went off right beside us. Damned if I can sleep with these hills crawling with those devils.”

  “Hell,” Will said, “they’re all surroundin’ that hole where the lieutenant is.” He hadn’t realized that the private was that afraid. He hadn’t heard a peep from him when they were sneaking through the circle of Cheyenne warriors. “You gonna be able to blow that thing when I tell you to?”

  “I’ll blow it,” Barnhart replied, “even though it ain’t gonna do nothing but tell the damn Injuns right where we are.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Will said. “You just blow it when the time comes.”

  The hours passed slowly, and judging by the sounds of random shots throughout the night, there was no all-out assault by the Indians. At a little before dawn, however, things became quiet, and Will suspected that the Indian war chief was moving his warriors in preparation for an attack. I reckon now’s the time, he thought, and reached over to poke Barnhart with the toe of his boot. The bugler had drifted off to sleep in spite of his protests before. “All right, boy, let’s hear that bugle.”

  Barnhart gave it his all, piercing the still morning air with the clear notes of the cavalry charge. Will prodded him to keep it up, and within seconds, they heard the sound of a rifle volley as Bordeaux ordered his men to fire into the air as Will had requested. As an added touch, Bordeaux had the men raise a cheer as well.

  Kneeling on a grassy hummock beside the valley, Bloody Hand jumped to his feet, astonished by the reaction in the ravine. He could hear the continuous blare of the bugle, which he judged to be no farther away than the second hill beyond. And it sounded as if it was now moving even closer. Being an astute leader, he quickly assimilated the facts as he saw them. He could not be certain, but it was obvious that the soldiers had been waiting for reinforcements. They had fired into the air when they heard the bugle, which seemed proof that they had done so to guide the other soldiers to them. Suddenly circumstances had changed. He could wait to see if a superior force was about to descend into the valley before making a decision. His warriors, however, were spread out in the open valley with no cover but the darkness, which was rapidly fading away. The worried look in Brave Elk’s eyes reminded him that his future success as a war chief depended upon his ability to protect his warriors. “W
e will fight another day,” he suddenly decided and sent Brave Elk to recall his braves. Within a quarter of an hour, the Indians had vanished into the hills.

  “Get ’em ready to ride!” Bordeaux ordered Kincaid. “I wanna get the hell outta here before they find out we fooled them.” A second cheer rose from the ravine, this one legitimate, as the cavalry in the form of Will and Barnhart galloped up to the rescue. Wasting no time for further cheers, the patrol filed out of the ravine and hastened to retreat back up the valley with no one wounded and two horses carrying double.

  On ponies fresh from an overnight rest, Bloody Hand’s warriors fled to the safety of the hills beyond the valley. Only one warrior stayed behind. From the cover of a grassy draw on the far side of the valley, Brave Elk scowled in anger when he saw the two white men ride up to join the retreating soldiers. One of them, a soldier, continued to blow the bugle. The other was the tall scout that had been the cause of trouble before. “It is him,” Brave Elk muttered, “the same white devil. There are no soldiers.”

  Bloody Hand was beside himself when he heard Brave Elk’s report. He went into a rage worthy of his reputation upon learning that he had been tricked into letting the soldiers escape. It was too late to turn back to pursue the patrol. His warriors had already scattered. It would take too long to regroup. In addition to that, the soldiers had a good hour’s start by the time Brave Elk had caught up with him. And it was especially galling to him that the same white scout always seemed to be the one constant thorn in his side. “Okohome! ” he spat. “He is like a coyote! He turns up everywhere to cause his mischief. One day I will have this coyote under my knife.” He remained there, fuming with frustration, this one white scout having become a symbol to him of all the hatred he possessed for the soldiers, and the desire to kill him in close combat was beginning to overshadow his sense of caution. “I am going to follow them,” he suddenly blurted.