Sergeant Dolan said: “Mounted men to the rear, sir.”
Gorman twisted in the saddle.
His trained eye at once took in the slow pace of the Indian ponies. Feed for his own mounts was low and they had been on half-rations for days, but there was still some go in the beasts. He made a rough count of them. Not much more than a dozen. He’d go after the bastards and swamp them. Those would be the only horses they had. And Cheyenne without mounted men were no good at all. From then on his task would be an easy one. He saw himself going back to the general and reporting that he had wiped out a large band of the hostiles.
“Mount up,” he yelled. “Carbines away. Revolvers out. By God, this is where we show ’em, boys.” The boys looked a little doubtful, for they had had enough of freezing to death in this wilderness and they were as hungry as the horses. But they sheathed their carbines smartly enough and drew their revolvers, checking them and settling themselves in the saddle. “Form line. Forward, yo. Trot. Goddam you there, trot that horse, man. Follow me. Come on, lads, we’ve got ’em.”
Slowly the line came around. Too slowly, something in Gorman’s brain told him, but he was intent on nailing that handful of mounted Indians. The Indians came on. They were yelling shrilly now, brandishing their weapons above their heads, as if eager to meet the troops face-to-face. By God, Gorman thought exultantly, they’re going to be swamped. He was going to finish the job he had started back there on Goose Creek. He’d ride this handful into the ground, ignore the men fighting on foot on the ridge to the east and go after the fleeing people. The remnant left of the mighty fighting Cheyenne would be pretty subdued in the spring.
The Indians rode straight at the troop.
Gorman roared: “Charge!” and drove home the spurs. His heavy cavalry mount struggled to increase the pace, but waded into a drift so that the snow was up to his belly. Gorman used the spurs frantically. Men from behind him ploughed into the drift; men cursed and horses whinnied. The shooting started. The Indians seemed to fade away from the front of the troopers and then suddenly, even though their horses were tired, they were on the flank, coming in close, firing point-blank. The men on the flank under Sergeant Dolan poured fire at them. Two Indians toppled from their mounts into the snow. Then the rest fled.
“After ’em, sergeant,” Gorman yelled, reining his horse around and floundering out of the drift.
The sergeant may not have made out the words, but he caught the tone of the urgent shout. He and the flank of the troop wheeled away after the fleeing Indians, firing and yelling. The horses made the turn fairly quickly and thundered after the Indians who made frantic and pathetic attempts to escape on their tired horses. They showed brilliant horsemanship, weaving this way and that to escape, yet always staying together as a body as though they obeyed a single brain, but it was plain that it was not good enough. Their horseflesh was worthless and the soldiers would ride them down.
The flank troops were a couple of hundred yards from the main body that had turned to follow them when it happened.
The fleeing Indians turned their horses along a narrow way of escape between two steep-sided ridges, the leading soldier no more than a dozen yards behind the rearmost Indian. This soldier suddenly threw up his hands and fell out of the saddle a thrown lance protruding head through his back and haft through his chest. Missiles rained down on the soldiers from either side, spears, axes, arrows, anything the Indians had to throw at them. Men tumbled from the saddle, horses fell screaming and kicking and, in a second, Indians on foot seemed to swarm into view, leaping down from the ridges in a terrible haste to get to the helpless soldiers below. Men were dragged howling from the saddle and hacked to pieces under the horrified eyes of the main part of the troop which was hurrying as fast as it could go through the snow. Men fell brained by primitive war-clubs, skulls were smashed by stone hatchets, arms broke under savage blows, men fled in terror from death and ran into death. The snow was red with blood. Irishmen, Polaks, Northerners, Southerners, Englishmen, Dutchmen, they died shoulder to shoulder, violently and quickly.
Gorman, spurring desperately, was sure in that terrible moment that he had something like a couple of dozen Cheyenne suddenly under his hand. The horror of what he was watching didn’t deter him. Here was victory.
He was close now. Some of the murderers turned to face the oncoming troops as they thundered up. Blood splattered them, the blood of the men they had butchered. Gorman fired and fired. An Indian pitched over dead. His men were all around him, firing, killing. This was a terrible victory, but it was victory just the same. He rode a man into the ground and found a ferocious joy in the fact.
Then suddenly it was all different.
Suddenly there was the smashing and deafening sound of rifle fire almost on top of them. The man next to Gorman fell across Gorman’s saddlebow. The officer pitched him free. The horse staggered sideways abruptly and Gorman nearly came out of the saddle. He looked up and saw the riflemen on the ridge tops, firing down into the mass of soldiers. Something dealt his leg a smashing blow and he knew that it was broken. He clutched at the mane of his horse to stay in the saddle and shouted for the men to carry on forward. The only thing that could save any of them now was to keep on going. His gun was empty and he hurled it into the face of an Indian who clutched at him. Dazed and deafened by the din of firing and shouting around him, tortured by the excruciating agony of his leg, he went on forward.
The rider in front of him pitched out of the saddle, the horse went down, rolling and kicking. Gorman’s mount jumped it and nearly unseated its rider. Then he was clear, riding between the high ridges into the open snow-covered country, a scattering of men with him, lying along their horses’ necks, running for their lives. The firing continued. Sergeant Dolan galloped past him, his face distraught, blood streaming down it.
They had made it. They were alive. Somehow they had gotten out of the shambles back there.
He looked back. There were a dozen men riding hard after him. No more than that left out of fifty.
Then something struck him hard on the back and knocked him forward on to the neck of his horse. He clung there for a moment, but his strength was going rapidly and the motion of the horse was too much for him. He felt himself sliding from the saddle and he hit the ground.
He must have passed out for a second, for a moment later there was Sergeant Dolan looking down at him, his face screwed up with concern. Behind him was the head of his horse.
“Quick, sor,” the Irishman said. “Get up. On your feet, for the luva God.”
In that moment, the young lieutenant was calm.
“They’ve killed me, Dolan,” he said simply. “Ride for your life.”
He laid back and died.
The sergeant didn’t wait. The howling of the Indians was in his ears, lead sang around him. He vaulted into the saddle, whirled his horse and spurred after his men.
He caught them in a matter of minutes and they ploughed on through the snow as fast as they could go for a mile before they stopped because they’d knocked the stuffing out of their animals.
Dolan looked them over and counted them. Eleven men out of fifty. A bunch of starving savages had cut them to ribbons. But he was a professional soldier. In the spring, the army would come back and knock seven different kinds of hell out of the Cheyenne and he’d be there. Good enough that he was alive. He’d survived yet another fight and he had lived through more than he cared to remember. He felt his face with his cold fingertips and found that the blood had frozen there.
A man asked: “What happens now, sarge?”
Dolan smiled grimly and without humor.
“We soldier,” he said, “an’ I’m in command, my fine buckos. We rejoin the command an’ we go lookin’ for Indians.”
“If we find the command,” another man said.
“That’s right, me darlin’,” Dolan told him gently. “Get smart with me an’ I’ll knock your teeth down your throat. Now ride.”
They looke
d back, fearing that the Indians, though their ponies were weak, would come after them. But the snow was without movement. They went slowly on their way, battered, bloody and in deep shock from their terrible experience.
Dolan was thinking: The general’s goin’ to be fit to be tied. God damn him.
Chapter 11
Weak, tired and hungry though they were, the people sang and danced with triumph as they watched the shambles between the ridges, saw the remnant of the soldiers depart, limping back into the south. Slowly the warriors made their way back to the people, the few mounted men hovering to the rear just in case there should be a further attempt by the army. The old woman struck McAllister in the face with her stick and shrieked her delight.
McAllister turned and tramped on.
He walked on through the snow for hours with hunger gnawing at his guts. Maybe he would have run from the crone who guarded him, but where would he run to? How would a man survive in this frozen wilderness without arms? The people now moved silently on all sides, once more back into their sullen walking now the flush of their triumph had passed. They walked till they came to a comparatively sheltered spot and camped as they were out of the wind that had been blowing all day. How long, he asked himself, as he lay down cold and stiff on the snow, could they go on like this? Most of them now had worn out their foot-gear; there was not food enough for a half-dozen of them; not a half of the men were properly armed and the horses were daily giving out. Their clothes were in rags and no more than two or three wore enough to withstand the terrible cold. In spite of the danger he was in, his pity and his admiration went out to them. In their adversity all their best traits were coming out. They helped one another, scraps of food were shared, it was really all for one and one for all. And their courage and determination shone from their overbright eyes, the eyes of those who were on the edge of death. A matter of a few days and they would all be reduced to skeletons.
The following day, Strong Bear declared as a day of rest. The man’s word was law to them now. The army had received a trouncing and should hold off for a while. So the hunters went out to find what they could. The one day extended to three; the people warmed themselves at fires. Falling Leaf built one near McAllister and kept him alive.
On the second day, the war-chief came to visit with him.
The man was his usual calm and serene self. McAllister could have liked and admired him under any other circumstances.
“Tell me about the soldiers,” Strong Bear said.
“What do you want to know?”
“How many are there?”
“There are three hundred horse soldiers, or were before you hit ’em back there. As many foot soldiers. Two big guns and many wagons.”
The warrior nodded.
“The foot soldiers will not be of much use in this snow.”
“Your men are on foot fighting in the snow.”
“Ah, but they have reason. They have something to fight for. I have heard that the soldiers fight only for the pay.”
This was one smart Indian.
McAllister said: “You can’t win, Strong Bear. You know you can’t.”
The Indian nodded again.
“I know. I would be a fool if I thought I could. But one does not fight just to win. A man fights sometimes because there is no alternative. It was kill or be killed. It is not easy for men to stand and see their women and children slaughtered like animals. And if we fight now, we may obtain a better peace. Who knows?”
“These people will be dead before you can sue for peace in the spring.”
“Cheyenne do not die so easily. And our ponies will be strong in the spring. By then we shall be with the mighty Sioux and with our northern brothers. Then you will see a big fight.”
McAllister gave a wry grin.
“You forget, brother. I shall be dead then.”
Strong Bear gave him a sympathetic grin.
“This I regret. But there is no other way. The people must have their sacrifice. They have earned it.”
“But,” McAllister reminded him, “it was me who came and warned you. It was me who begged Many Horses to move out so the soldiers would not find him there.”
“You would have had us weak, fleeing. I advocated war. We could have eaten up the soldiers on Indian Creek if all the warriors had painted for war then.”
“Yet I need not have come. I showed then that I was not an enemy. I risked my life at the hands of the soldiers and at the hands of your young men.”
The chief regarded him solemnly for a moment.
“The soldiers,” he said, “would call you a traitor.”
McAllister had known that all along. He had come to the conclusion long ago that the word was meaningless. A man’s loyalties were not as simple as that. It had been on his conscience to save Many Horses and his people and he had no regrets. If he had it to do all over again, he would do it.
* * *
While they camped there, more of the people came to join them. Most of them were on foot, most of them half-starved. Men, women and children came, ploughing their way wearily through the snow, clad in pitifully light clothing, frozen, the dull look of death on their faces. They embraced their kin and the warmth of the fires. They had seen no soldiers, they said.
The hunters dribbled back into camp, many of them empty handed. Others brought small game such as rabbits. One party came in laden with cuts from a buffalo and were greeted joyfully. A party went out to fetch the remainder of the slaughtered animal with horses. That night, they feasted and Falling Leaf managed to sneak some food to McAllister. He ate like a wolf, gulping the food down ravenously. He wondered why he was bothering to keep himself alive knowing what they had in store for him. But he knew he still had hope. He lay trussed hand and foot for three days.
Then, on the fourth day, they cut his feet loose and he was hauled to his feet. His legs and feet were dead and he fell several times when he attempted to walk, but they beat him thoroughly and somehow he managed to get going. He saw Walking Calf mounted on the canelo. The horse looked as if it were on its last legs. The sight almost broke McAllister’s heart. He doubted if the horse would ever be the same again.
There was nothing to do but to keep going and that was what he did, stumbling numbly on, no longer feeling the blows he was dealt, staring at the snow ahead of him, following in the footsteps of the people in front, wondering if he would have the courage to face what they would offer him before very long. Once when he was a boy he had seen a Blackfoot die under torture and it had been a thing that he would never forget.
That night when the people were in camp and cooking their scraps of food by the fires, the wind howling cold out of the north, a second captive was brought in. A few warriors brought him and dumped him alongside McAllister, binding his feet together. McAllister took a look at him in the firelight and saw that he was possibly a half breed Sioux. He was very cold, very hungry and very frightened. When he at last was able to talk, he told McAllister that his name was Ben Fleet and that he was acting as a scout for the army. He was with General Towney’s command.
“Who the hell’s Towney?” McAllister demanded.
Fleet explained.
The Cheyenne had gotten away from General Anderson down on Indian Creek and had fled north. The whole countryside was overcome by terror – the Indians had been raiding stage-stations and ranches, a wagon-train had been burned out, women and children had died. McAllister had heard none of these things while with the people, so he was inclined not to believe them. But he didn’t argue. He had learned long ago that it was no use arguing with rumors on the frontier. Every bad thing that happened within a hundred miles of Strong Bear and his band would be blamed on them.
The half breed scout went on that General Towney and a strong force had come from the east, Fort Leavenworth to be exact, to cut the Cheyenne off, to stop them reaching the Sioux in the north. He reckoned the general wasn’t so far away now. Fleet had been taken no more than three or four miles off and t
he general had not been far behind.
Sure enough, they were both kicked to their feet during the night and the Cheyenne were on the move again. Scouts had brought in the information that the soldiers were camped only a few miles away and there was a chance that they would attack the Indians in the dawn. So the Cheyenne drifted away into the west leaving behind a screen of warriors hidden in the snow in case the soldiers should come after them too soon.
Around dawn, marching beside his fellow-prisoner, McAllister heard the sound of distant rifle fire, but the people didn’t stop. The wretched column of fugitives hurried on west, not stopping all day.
“They’re crazy,” Fleet said. “Can’t they see they don’t have a chance?”
“Twice they’ve got away from Anderson,” McAllister said. “Now they’ll get away from Towney.”
Fleet laughed at that. Towney would massacre them. But that night, the rearguard came in and said that they killed several of the soldiers and even managed to take a half-dozen horses off them. They had lost the soldiers in a snow-storm. There would be no trail for the army to follow. So they rested up that night and pushed on in the first light of morning, going north now, once more headed for the Sioux country.
“What’re they goin’ to do to us?” Fleet asked once.
“They’re goin’ to carve us purty with a knife,” McAllister told him. “Then they’re goin’ to see how we burn. They’re goin’ to have ’em a whole lot of fun before they’re through with us.”
The man must have known that before he was told, but he looked mighty sick just the same and McAllister felt a little sorry for him. He felt pretty sorry for himself too, for that matter. By now McAllister was so weak that he could scarcely stay on his feet. He dreamed as he walked, picturing himself in warm sunshine. He imagined fine food and drink. His thoughts nearly drove him out of his mind.
Falling Leaf came to tell him that though they had lost the trail, the soldiers were not far away. Both little armies were behind them, about ten miles apart and strung out across the country to cover as large an area as possible. That night, the Cheyenne didn’t stop to rest and McAllister now grew a little light-headed and walked in a kind of crazy nightmare. But the following day, an incident occurred that lightened his lot a little. A party of warriors had carried out a lightning attack on the soldiers from the rear on their newly acquired army mounts and had managed to capture a dozen more head. With them were several pack-animals carrying supplies. So that night, the Cheyenne ate their fill. And Strong Bear gave orders that the captives were to be fed. Falling Leaf brought them the food and sat with them, feeding them. She had her child on her back and she said that it was doing well in spite of the hardships they had all had to suffer. She told McAllister that now the Indians had horses they were getting bolder. They were harassing the soldiers and going further afield for food. Hope was rising among them. People were now confident that they would reach the Sioux. Then all would be well with them. McAllister didn’t look forward to that time. As soon as the Indians stopped long enough to establish a proper camp, his number was up. But he had some hope, too. The soldiers were near now. That meant, if he managed to get away, there would be somewhere to run to.
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