Sioux Dawn: The Fetterman Massacre, 1866 (The Plainsmen Series)

by Terry C. Johnston

  “Hep-haw!” Donegan urged his wagon full about through the sand, back into the throat of the gorge behind the soldiers charging ahead on foot.

  “Blessed are the beasts of the earth!” Reverend White screamed to his mules, urging them into the hairpin turn on two wheels. “Pray they deliver!”

  By the time Wands had his wagons backtracked into the gorge and headed toward the knoll south of the Crazy Woman, Bradley’s dozen foot-soldiers were scampering up the sandy hillside, leading the way for some snorting, protesting mules. To the troopers’ surprise, three dozen yelping horsemen burst over the far lip of the high ground, every one of them brandishing a bow. Reinforcements arriving to seal the ambush as tight as a puckered buffalo totem.

  “Arrrggghhh!” Bradley plunged straight up the side of the slope without stopping, hoping to confuse some of the warriors, frighten the rest. Like a man possessed, his thick legs churned like pistons in a steam engine, intent on blurring things just long enough for everyone to reach the high ground. The rest of those in army blue followed blindly in his wake, their lungs bellering their best cry, certain to put fear in a Confederate heart or a Sioux breast.

  That noise, the headlong assault and confusion—Indian ponies reared, pitching their riders backward or thumping into others galloping up from the rear. Shrieks of rage and challenge fell down upon the soldiers, but nothing more deadly. Surprised at the fierceness of the soldiers’ gallant charge, nearly forty warriors turned tail, scampering back down the slope to the west, where the Crazy Woman came tumbling down to the crossing.

  “Ho, you bastards! Pull with all you’ve got!” Donegan urged his team.

  “Close up! Close up!” It was Wands, riding in their midst, exhorting the drivers.

  “If these old gray whores’d do what I want—”

  “Bring it up!” Wands hollered, then brought his horse around, reining back toward the top-heavy, swaying ambulances having a tough time keeping up. They had lagged far behind the other high-walled freighters and Conestoga wagons. From the corner of his eye the lieutenant caught a sudden glimpse of wild movement. To his right appeared a dozen or more mounted warriors, screaming down on his rear guard. He slowed his horse, watching the gap widen between the wagons and the lumbering ambulances.

  “Bring it up, Frank!” His horse pranced around in a circle. “Dammit, Reverend. Drive that wagon like you were chasing an offering plate!”

  Far behind the other wagons, both ambulances surged forward in a final, valiant effort to reach the knoll. Up out of the gorge, their drivers slapped reins over the wildeyed teams like mad charioteers. Wands felt the bullet scorch past his cheek before he ever heard the crack of a rifle. The six freight wagons raced on by him before he dug his heels into the lathered flanks of his animal.

  Too late, he cursed. A dozen warriors had cut the ambulances off as the rest of the wagons reached the top of the slope.

  Abigail watched naked horsemen flit like streaks of multicolored light past the front of the ambulance where Frank stood behind the seat, leaning into the reins, slapping and hollering at his team. Never before had she heard him sound quite like this. A shiver of January water spilled down her spine as she realized a banshee must sound much tamer. But the maniacal screech of her husband’s voice as he dove into the midst of those warriors would cause more than the hair on the back of her neck to stand on end. She closed her eyes. Dreading to witness his death.

  Our Father, which art in heaven …

  Chapter 10

  Frank Noone simply refused to let the horsemen sweep to one side or another as they bore down on him. He saw no other way out—either he was going to force his way through the trap or the rest would watch one hell of a collision. When the Sioux veered to the left, Frank yanked in the same direction. The warriors dodged to the right. Noone pointed his lethal wagon straight for them. Swaying back and forth until … the brown-skinned phalanx parted like water round a rock in a stream at the last moment.

  Abigail heard the shrieking monster drain from her husband’s throat. As the screams of the warriors faded down the slope behind them, she dared open her eyes. Frank glanced round at his wife, smiling that brave, sensitive smile of his. The unashamed tears cut a wide swath down his dirty face.

  With no specific orders, the drivers brought their wagons into corral at the crest of the knoll as if they had performed the maneuver in a thousand Indian surrounds. Donegan wheeled the first wagon close to the sharp lip of a ravine at the south end, leaning back into the reins, his brake-lock snarling against the iron tire. The second and forth wagons spun up on the left. The third and fifth skidded to the right. To begin shutting the corral, the reverend rolled up in his ambulance. Frank Noone rode as file-closer, lumbering to the crest with his three-mule team, accomplishing what the other drivers had with a full harness.

  Frank leaped inside to embrace Abigail. With no words spoken, their tears mingled a moment before he disappeared through the leather hole at the rear. Only then did she feel the baby wriggling against the iron-like lock of the arms she had clamped around her.

  Without warning mother and child pitched backward. The wagon shuddered and pitched convulsively. Back and forth, side to side. Abigail clung to the sidewall. The baby had long ago lost its hold at her breast. The infant shrieked, wanting that nipple ripped away from her back in her little mouth.

  A mule sang out. Two men cursed as they grappled with the wounded animal, wild with the pain of two iron-tipped arrows sunk shaft deep in its flanks. The mule strained against the rest of the team.

  “Cut it loose, for God’s sake!” someone hollered.

  “No. No time for that,” Donegan objected.

  Before she could catch her breath, Abigail heard a rifle shot, followed by a loud, sodden clump striking the ground.

  “Now,” she heard the big Irishman say, calmer this time, “you can cut the son of a bitch from its harness.”

  “They’re gathering up again, brethren!” White hollered above the rising shriek of the onrushing warriors.

  Donegan listened as the pounding, thundering earth-beat crescendoed, watching in fixed admiration as the Sioux sat lightly atop their galloping ponies until, by some secret signal, they dropped from sight. Years he had spent fighting some of the world’s finest horse soldiers: J.E.B. Stuart’s “Invincibles,” who consistently ripped apart Union cavalry formations. But these naked warriors were a pure marvel, surpassing all. Never before had he seen any riding to equal what he witnessed this bright morning near the Crazy Woman Crossing.

  By instinct, he brought the heavy Henry to his shoulder, sighting along the gleaming blued barrel.

  Mark this day, Seamus—the first you’ve found a man in the sights on this rifle.

  He held, led a striding Indian mount, then squeezed.

  The rifle slapped his shoulder. More of it came back to him now. The firing of a carbine pointed at the butternut uniforms. The cries of the wounded in the dark, shadowy woods. Always the smell of death thick in his nostrils. Suddenly he gazed down at his hands. There’ll always be enough dead soldiers.

  “Can’t see the red bastirds no more!”

  Glover jerked up at the sound of Donegan’s voice. Every man behind the wagons watched the mounted warriors disappear from view down a long, gradual slope to the west. Toward a hidden bend in the creek. Among the shelter of a belt of cottonwoods.

  “Just keep your heads down, soldiers!”

  Someone else hollered on the other side of the corral. Glover swallowed hard, gripping the rifle like life itself. Where did the weapon come from? Someone must have put it in his hands. That big man, the Irishman. Maybe the gun belonging to the soldier with the gut wound. He remembered now. The young soldier wouldn’t be needing the rifle anymore. Black thoughts flooded through him. Ridgeway Glover had never had a problem keeping his head down.

  “Everyone ready?” Wands dashed up behind a knot of men, his hand on Glover’s shoulder. “When they come, make every bullet count. Don’t aim hi
gh, for God’s sake. Make sure you hit something.”

  Glover felt the fraternal slap on his shoulder before Wands scampered off to the north side of the corral. Perhaps this officer isn’t like the ones I’ve known, he thought. Maybe we’ll all pull through this.

  “Stay ready! Here come those sons again!”

  Glover gulped, hearing Captain Marr’s warning, and swiping at his misting eyes. By damned, he wouldn’t let the gut-wrenching sickness wash over him again as it had month after month and year after year. All those battles where he tried to lose himself in the brush and the smoke and the bodies. A coward. Afraid of fighting. Afraid of running even more. He knew what they did to the ones who ran. No more, he promised himself. His eyes clenched shut, tears streaming as he brought the rifle to his shoulder. It shook uncontrollably.

  “Easy, lad. Easy.”

  He opened his eyes, finding Donegan at his side.

  “You fired a weapon like this before?”

  Glover nodded.

  “Just slow down. One target’s all you need. Take your time.”

  He winked at Glover with those piercing gray eyes of his, then slid away along the side of the wagon. The words helped. Glover sucked deep at the hot air. Held it. His stinging eyes cleared, focusing along the barrel. A warrior dared stay atop his pony longer than his companions. Glover found him, squeezed. And felt better.

  “By damned!” Donegan cheered. “You got the bastird! Nailed him in the lights, lad!”

  As if by rote, Glover rolled onto his back, hunkered down behind the wagon wheel and yanked the ramrod free. Powder. Ball. Start the ball down the barrel. Behind him the ponies thundered past the wagons, sweeping away down the long slope. Through the spokes he watched the warriors roll back atop their ponies, galloping out of range. Shaking their rifles and bows in triumph.

  Like a rush of hot air that won’t let a man breathe, another band of fifty or more pressed toward the corral. Most of the soldiers hadn’t finished reloading. Donegan grumbled, finding only one other man ready for the new wave. Marr with his Henry. The two of them would have to brave the rush until the soldiers had reloaded their clumsy Springfield muskets.

  Glover twisted round at the thundering hoofs. The ramrod stuck in the barrel. Without another thought the Philadelphia photographer slapped the rifle to his cheek and found a target. A glistening chest bearing down upon the wagons. Weaving back and forth behind his pony’s wide-eyed head. Wait. Wait. Wait … squeeze!

  Back over the horse’s rump spilled the warrior, toppled by both ball and ramrod.

  “By the saints! You can use a weapon!” Donegan cheered.

  Glover slid behind the wheel once more, intent upon finding another rifle, listening to the cries of the wounded and dying. The tally of wounded grew each time the Sioux tore by, sending their whistling death among wagons and mules.

  “Dammit, Sarge! Another rush or two like that, won’t be enough of us to keep them off the wagons!”

  Glover recognized the panic in that voice. That was the voice of fear he had never been able to utter. Too afraid even to speak.

  “Shuddup, Meeker!” Sgt. Patrick Terrel growled back. A wiry infantry sergeant who had served under the 18th’s banner throughout the war. “Ain’t never been in battle before, ’ave you?”

  “We gotta do something!”

  “Go tell the lieutenant!” Terrel hollered. “I ain’t in charge ’round here. Tell Bradley!”

  “I c-can’t, Sarge. He’s out … cold.”

  “Dear Mither of Saints!” Terrel muttered, crossing himself and swiping the sweat off his brow. He gazed down the slope. “Well, I’ll be … sweet, sweet, Mither of——”

  Glover watched the sergeant rise off his knees with some of the other soldiers. Staring dumbfounded down the slope, the troopers gathered next to the wagons they had just used to race to this knoll. Struck by the eerie silence. No shrieking warriors. No thundering hoofs. Quiet enough to hear the soldiers muttering their curses. Mumbling their prayers.

  Out of the brush and up the slope lumbered a riderless horse. Army. Glover knew that much from its size and color. As the animal raced closer to the corral, he could make out the arrows dancing from its neck, more along the ribs and flanks. Bristling like dried cornstalks before a winter wind. Glover slowly stood with others. Every man in awe as the wounded animal sought companions in its pain and fright. Perhaps it recognized the wagons as something familiar.

  Topping the knoll, the horse staggered toward the corral. It was then Glover noticed the saddle swinging beneath the heaving belly. An empty saddle. Swaying back and forth until the animal collapsed, rolled on its side, struggled to rise on its rear legs and fell a second time. Then lay still.

  Terrel crossed himself again. A woman shrieked. To Glover it sounded like the colored maid riding with Lieutenant Wands’s family. Then another woman cried out. Glover rose, his shoulders hunched in a flush of fear that he’d make too good a target when the next wild rush came.

  Only another lone horse lumbering up from the creek. Yet this second army mount carried a rider slumped over its withers like a wet sack of oats. Hatless. Weaponless.

  As the horse brought its load closer, Glover could make out the arrows deep in the withers where the soldier clung. His eyes instantly drawn to the one long shaft quaking in the middle of the rider’s back. As the soldier neared the corral, he raised his head slightly. His white face a mask of horror. More pain than a man should be asked to bear. It was——

  “Templeton!”

  Glover started at the sound of Wands’s voice. Rushing toward the north side of the corral, Alex was the first to rescue his fellow officer. With a few final, faltering steps, George Templeton was among them, falling from his horse while muttering something incoherent. Donegan led the wounded horse to the edge of the corral, pulled the cavalry revolver from his belt and fired one bullet into the animal’s brain. The mount twisted then dropped at the Irishman’s feet.

  “Templeton! For God’s sake, talk to me, man.”

  Wands cradled his friend across his lap, supporting Templeton’s arms so he wouldn’t jar the arrow stuck between the shoulder blades.

  “Daniels? Daniels!” the wounded man cried out. “Great ghost, they’re not buffalo! Ride, man, ride!”

  Templeton’s voice cracked as he moaned, twisting this way and that, trying to relieve the pain of the arrow, the pain of his dash to freedom.

  “Help me, will you?” Wands implored, staring at the soldiers circling him. “Into the ambulance.”

  Three of them carried Templeton to the wagon. But they struggled getting Templeton’s feet over the back wall. His legs gone limp. His arms like rags.

  Donegan leaped into the ambulance and hefted the legs over the back-wall so he could drag the unconscious lieutenant over Abigail Noone. Placed on his side, Templeton appeared to breathe a mite easier.

  “For the love of God, you’ve got to pull that out of him.”

  Donegan looked up. Wands’s eyes implored him from the hold at the back. For Seamus it suddenly grew unbearably hot inside the ambulance. Close. Suffocating.

  “This arrow?” he gulped, his mouth gone dry.

  “However you do it,” Wands nodded, his eyes pleading, “take it out of him.”

  Donegan blinked to clear the sweat in his eyes. Maybe they were tears of anger. Or frustration. When he looked up, the face was gone. He glanced at Abigail. She shook her head violently to answer his unspoken question. He knew she wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it. His gray eyes drawn to her flesh. The creamy breast stood naked, rigid from her blouse. The nipple still wet from nursing.

  “All right, faith,” Donegan murmured, slowly tearing his eyes from her flesh. “Up to me to do, is it?”

  Gently he rolled Templeton onto his belly among the baggage and blankets. Stuffing an end of the straw tick beneath the lieutenant’s head, Donegan watched the eyes flutter, trying to focus on who was ministering to him. The tip of his tongue raked along his dry lips below t
he dark, shaggy handlebar.

  “Water…”

  “Soon enough,” Donegan replied, then gazed at the woman. “I’ll need bandages.” He searched, straining to keep his eyes off the bare breast. “There, faith. Your petticoat. Please.”

  Abigail nodded, looking down at the rumpled dress a’swirl like seafoam around her legs. Unselfconsciously she tucked her breast back inside the blouse before tearing three strips from her dirty white petticoat. From the floor the lieutenant’s breathing grew ragged, grinding like a coarse file drawn over cast iron.

  Never before had Donegan been handed a problem like this. He drew in a long breath and pulled at the arrow. Templeton shrieked. Seamus released the shaft as if it were a bright red branding iron. That plan was not about to work.

  “The blighter! It’s … it’s hung on something.” Talking to her as if he had to explain it.

  His eyes frantically sought something. What it was, Donegan didn’t know. Then he saw it. Stuck in the side of the wagon wall hung an arrow. Seamus yanked it free, then measured the distance from the tip of the iron point to the end of the sinew binding point to shaft. His finger and eye felt along Templeton’s arrow. That was a relief.

  “Begod, and thank the Holy Mither.” He made it sound like a prayer for what was to come. “T’isn’t buried deep enough to cut the lung, praise be.”

  “Do it!”

  Donegan gazed up at Abigail, finding her wide-eyed with fright. She shook her head. He gazed down at Templeton.

  “Now, dammit!”

  Obediently the civilian grasped the shaft, low, his hands soppy with the lieutenant’s warm blood. Pulling, Seamus measured the resistance. Templeton’s whole body rose as Donegan pulled. The lieutenant’s nails raked again and again across the floorboard. Donegan rose, placed one knee just below the shaft and drew upward. Steadily. Grunting in his own effort against the unearthly shriek pouring from the man pinned below him. With all his weight he pressed Templeton down as the arrow inched free.

  Abigail bit a knuckle anxiously, until she was sure she had drawn her own blood. She clenched her eyes, shutting out the bloody scene as she heard the shaft scraping bone, tearing muscle and sinew like a moist, sucking wheeze.