Monte Simms, a tall, lanky Texan, agreed. “That’s right, Tom. I been on three chases after the Sioux, and they none of them ever stuck together like these.”
“I hope we get ’em surrounded!” The speaker was an undersized redhead, the truculence emanating from his thin face. He bore the unlikely name of Jeff Davis, suffering countless fights over this. He looked at Winslow, adding, “I expect they’re plain yellow, Sarge. Ain’t that right?”
Winslow grinned at him. He liked the young man, for he had a cheerful disposition and was always ready to tackle any chore handed him. “Well, Jeff, if Sitting Bull and Roman Nose and Gall are cowards—I guess nobody ever found out about it.”
“Why don’t they fight, then?” Davis demanded.
“They do fight, Jeff,” Winslow answered. “Matter of fact, aside from hunting, that’s about all an Indian does. The squaws do most of the hard work. The braves just lie around and tell lies to each other except when they’re hunting. But fighting’s what they like best. There’s been war between the tribes since Columbus’s men stepped off the boat. An Indian boy goes through basic training before he loses his baby teeth and continues on as he grows up, learning how to use a bow, a knife, and a lance. By the time he’s in his teens, he can put an arrow through a man’s eye from fifty yards away—and enjoy it.”
But Winslow’s answer didn’t satisfy the young soldier. “Well, gosh, Tom, why don’t they stand still and fight if they’re so tough?”
“Not their style,” Winslow shrugged. “We fight like the Europeans do, which is pretty dumb. But it’s a tradition and men love tradition.”
“Like the Europeans?” Zeiss asked. “How is that, Sergeant?”
“In Europe there’s lots of flat country. The generals would line their armies up across from each other, and they’d advance. Each man had one shot in his musket, so the army that had the most men would usually win. That worked in Europe, but it won’t work in America.”
“Why won’t it work?” Billy Satterfield asked. He was sitting cross-legged, his eyes shining in the firelight. He appeared to be about fifteen years old.
“Because the country is full of hills and woods. When Braddock came over and tried to fight the French and Indians like that, they hid in the woods at the Monongahela and destroyed him. George Washington was Braddock’s aide, and he learned a lesson from that. But men learn hard, and time after time in the Civil War, even the best commanders threw huge armies against men who were entrenched and some who had repeating rifles.”
“That’s right,” Babe O’Hara nodded. “Even Lee tried it at Malvern Hill during the Seven Days. Got chopped to bits!”
“What’s all that got to do with why Indians won’t fight?” Jeff Davis demanded.
Winslow stretched, then turned to look at Davis. “Well, Jeff, why should they fight by our rules? They’ll hit and run, nibble away at us any way they can. But you’ll likely see them fight a little different sooner or later. They’ve been pushed off their land, and this country you see right here is the last chance they’ve got. They know that, so you’ll likely find what you’re asking for—a big old-fashioned battle.”
The talk died down then, and soon they all wrapped up in their blankets and went to sleep. The next morning they moved out after breakfast, with Winslow riding ahead with Yellow Face to ascertain the position of the Indians. By nine o’clock Smith halted his line of blue-clad troopers as Winslow came racing back.
“Right up ahead, Captain,” Winslow said, pointing at a group of rising hills flanked by timber. “Rough country up there. Be hard to keep a tight formation.”
“Are they moving on, Winslow?”
“Don’t seem to be in a hurry.”
Smith nodded and made his decision. Lifting his hand, he threw it forward and the troop broke into a gallop. Winslow rode beside him, not liking the terrain, but there was no other way. It was a raw and primitive spot, cut with deep gullies and broken with sharp rising cliffs covered with scrub oak and brush. It was not a good spot for a formation of cavalry, and he suspected that the Indians they were after were as aware of that as he was.
When they had covered three miles, Winslow moved ahead to study the ground. Coming back he reported, “Lots of tracks, but the country is pretty wild.”
Grayson had come up to hear his report. He suddenly tilted his head back and stared into the distance. “I see somebody moving up there!” he exclaimed.
Winslow and Smith turned to look. Presently they made out several moving figures. Captain Smith said thoughtfully. “They want us to know they’re there.”
“That’s right,” Winslow said dryly. “If an Indian doesn’t want to be seen, you wouldn’t see him.”
“Pretty certain of themselves,” Smith commented. He studied the gray-brown slope that lay under the pale glare of the sun. “That slope will be a pretty hard climb,” he murmured. The troop sat quietly, and both Grayson and Winslow waited, knowing that it was a difficult decision for Smith.
“We’ll move in,” Smith said firmly.
Double file, the detail took to the slope and started the long climb, carbines canted forward. A defined trail ran irregularly through the rock scatter. High up, to the extreme left of the summit, an Indian on a horse moved into sight and cut a distinct circle on the slope, waving his lance and moving out of sight again. When the troop had advanced another four hundred yards, Smith said, “Skirmishers,” and watched his column break into a single line abreast of him. “If we run into more trouble than we can handle,” he said to Grayson, “we’ll fort up in these rocks.”
As they moved forward, Winslow saw the blur of Indians in motion. The line of skirmishers dismounted, passing reins over to the horse-holders. The rest spread out and began the last climb on foot, bending in and around the trees and outcroppings of earth. When they were within two hundred yards from the top of the rise, a dozen Sioux leaped over the rim as a burst of gunshot from the top of the ridge covered them.
Winslow yelled, “Here they come!”
“Fire!” Smith yelled, and the troopers opened fire. A volley smashed out, hard on the heels of the captain’s command, sprouting the dirt up where the bullets struck around the racing Sioux. One of them fell, rolling in a ball, but the rest seemed to fade into the earth. The firing grew more intense, and Hines yelled, “Come along now—waste no shots, boys!”
Winslow braced himself against a tree, firing when he saw a target. He saw some of his shots hit, but a slug smashed into the tree beside his head, throwing him off balance. He moved forward when Smith called out, “Forward!”
A pair of Sioux sprang up from a depression in the ground, both of them firing at the troopers. A soldier in front of Winslow gave a surprised grunt, dropped his carbine, and fell to the ground, writhing like a cut worm. Winslow took careful aim and hit one of the Indians in the throat, driving him backward when he tried to get off another shot, but Jeff Davis finished him off with a bullet to his brain.
The other Sioux shot at Davis, his bullet hitting the young man in the thigh. As he fell, the Sioux took dead aim, but Winslow shot him twice in the chest and he fell limply to the earth. “Thanks—Sarge—!” Davis gasped.
Winslow laid his carbine down and quickly put a tourniquet on the leg, then rose, saying, “Be still, Jeff. You’ll be all right.”
He raced forward and pulled Billy Satterfield behind a tree, for the boy was standing straight as a ramrod as he fired. “Stay behind some cover!” Winslow shouted, then moved ahead to join Captain Smith, who said calmly, “Winslow, take ten men and try to flank them on the right. Lieutenant Grayson, you take ten and try the left.”
The two men called the names of the men they saw, then split off. Winslow led his group in a wild scramble through the bushes and trees, dodging bullets. Ace Guidry gasped, “What we doin’ now?”
“Got to break them up,” Winslow answered. The steep rise was taking his wind, and he said no more. When they got a hundred yards to the right, he said, “Up we go�
�and watch yourselves!” He led them up the slope, his eyes moving constantly over the terrain, but they had not been seen. Turning left, he moved at once toward the sound of the firing, and with his small force came onto a group of Sioux who were caught off guard. “Let them have it!” he cried, and they moved forward, shooting as they went. He could sense that the group led by Spence Grayson was coming from the opposite direction, and thought, We’ve got them caught in a squeeze!
But the Indians faded back into the thick brush, and the troopers were too winded to follow. When the detail gathered at the top of the rise, they were just in time to see the band of Sioux sink out of sight into a canyon flanked by two sharp hills.
“Go signal the horses up,” Smith ordered. By the time they were mounted, most of the men were over the exertion of the climb. Smith led them forward in time to see part of the band file down the narrow mountain trail into the canyon.
“They’re right ahead, Smith!” Grayson said, excitement burning in his eyes. “We’ve got them!”
Even as he spoke, other Indians appeared from the trees and entered the canyon. Some of them stopped and took a drink at the small creek that flowed along the edge of the canyon.
“They’re not in a hurry, are they?” Sergeant Hines said. His anger flared, for he had lost some good men in the fight.
But Smith was studying the area ahead. He ran his gaze over the rising country to the right and left of the canyon, noting that it would be difficult to take the troop up such a steep grade, then stared at the canyon itself.
Impatiently Grayson exclaimed, “They’re getting away from us, Smith! Let’s get after them!”
But Smith replied, “I think that’s what they want us to do, Spence.”
“You’re right about that, sir,” Winslow said. “They didn’t all go down that canyon. Some of them are still in the timber, I think.”
Grayson glared at Winslow, but spoke to Smith. “We’re as close as we’ll ever be. We can’t let them get away.”
But Smith disagreed. “No, that canyon would be a bad place for us to get caught.” He was disappointed, for it would look good on his record to wipe out the entire band, but he was a cautious man. He would risk his men when necessary, but this was too great for the gains involved.
“We’ll take care of the wounded and then head back to the fort.”
“I hate to see them get away.” Grayson’s voice was hard.
“We’ll have to wait for a better chance,” Smith said.
“Not very spectacular campaigning!”
“No, but twenty dead cavalrymen at the bottom of that canyon would be.”
They took care of the wounded, and tied the three dead men on their horses. The air grew colder, and when they camped that night the temperature dropped. As they huddled around the campfire, the men were somber, saying little.
“I lost a good friend today,” Corporal Nathan Zeiss said slowly. “George Simmons. He was a good young man. I will have to write to his people.”
The crackling of the fire made a cheerful sound, and Winslow said, “Well, you boys have seen the elephant, and you did fine. I heard Captain Smith say that if the rest of the Seventh has the grit you do, we’ll be all right.”
“Did he say that, Sarge?” Billy Satterfield looked across the fire, his eyes lightening at Winslow’s words.
“He sure did.” Winslow got some hot coffee and brought it to Jeff Davis, all wrapped in his blankets. “Drink this, Jeff,” he said. He helped the boy sit up, and after Davis had downed the coffee and lay down, Tom put the blankets around him. “Good thing that bullet went right through. It hurts worse to have a doctor digging it out than getting the shot in the first place.”
Jeff said, “Yeah, I’ll be all right.” He was groggy from the laudanum Winslow had given him, and muttered, “Thanks, Tom—” then was asleep at once.
Winslow rolled in his blanket and fell asleep with the effortlessness of a natural man sleeping beneath the brilliant stars. His last thought was of the three dead troopers, and as always, he wondered, Why was it them—and not me?
****
When Eileen heard the knock on her door from where she sat, she looked up with a quick stab of anxiety. She jumped to her feet and rushed to the door, hesitated, then opened it.
“Tom!” she cried, reaching out and pulling him inside. “You’re all right!”
“Sure,” he nodded, surprised at her concern. The detail had gotten back at dusk, and he had accompanied the two officers to report to Custer. The general had listened, then nodded. “You did well. We’ll have to push them hard. The press is down on us, you know, and both Sheridan and Sherman want to squelch the Indians.”
Winslow had left the meeting depressed, going immediately to Eileen’s house. Now as he stood there, worn and tired to the bone, he was surprised that Eileen had been worried about him. The discovery broke through his fatigue and he smiled.
“Was it bad, Tom?”
“We lost three men. That’s always bad, I guess.”
Eileen was shocked by the rush of emotion she felt and tried to cover it with a smile. “I’m glad you’re all right. Laurie’s next door, spending the night with the Moylan girl. They’ve become great friends. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No. I hope she’ll make many friends.”
She said carefully, “I’ve worried about you. It’s like when I sat up waiting for my husband when he was on patrol.” She looked small and vulnerable, feminine and very attractive. Her eyes were large and her lips softly curved in the lamplight. Suddenly she said, “I wish you didn’t have to go out to fight.”
“My job, Eileen.”
“I know—but it’s so hard on those of us who wait.” She gave her shoulders a shake, then added, “I sound like a nagging wife, don’t I, Tom?”
“Been a long time since I had anybody worry about me,” Winslow said quietly. “I’d almost forgotten how good it feels.”
She was standing close to him, the look in her dark eyes drawing him like a magnet, and he bent closer. Then he felt the stirrings a man feels for a woman and would have drawn back had she not whispered, “I do worry about you, Tom!” The softness of her voice, the gentleness of her lips moved him, and he put his arms around her—waiting to see if she would resist.
But she didn’t, and he lowered his lips and kissed her with a sudden rush of fervor. She was a soft warmth against him, and he felt her respond, her hands reaching up behind his head. He held her tightly, conscious of the richness of her embrace, forgetting everything for that one blinding moment except the soft response of her lips under his.
Then she moved, and he dropped his arms. “I didn’t mean to do that, Eileen—but you’re so beautiful. And you’ve been so kind to Laurie and me.”
Eileen had been shaken by his caress and said a little breathlessly, “Good-night, Tom. I’m glad you’re safe!”
When she closed the door, she leaned against it, closed her eyes, and let the moment linger. I’ve been alone too much, she thought. Am I too easy? What will he think of me?
But no answer came. She was a woman who needed to love and to be loved, and Tom Winslow had awakened the knowledge in her. He was a man she could admire; and as she thought of his caress, she mused, He won’t forget that kiss!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ye Must Be Born Again!
The weather turned colder, ice forming on water buckets and frost turning the dead, brown earth a glistening white early in the mornings. Fur overcoats and hats were issued to the men of the Seventh, and graze for the horses became a problem.
Sickness came in the form of colds, which turned into more serious illnesses, and one of the first casualties was Laurence Dutton. He got soaked in a sudden rainstorm, neglected to change his clothing, and the next day developed a hacking cough that grew worse until he finally gave up and took to his bed.
His students were mildly sorry for their teacher, but enjoyed their unscheduled holiday. Laurie rode her mare—whom she had named Lady�
�back from Bismarck, and went by to tell her father the news. Winslow had been planning to ride out to make contacts with some of the more peaceful Indians, but was forced to call off his trip. He spent the next two days with Laurie, though Eileen had offered to keep her. “Let her stay with me, Tom,” she had urged. “She’s no trouble at all.”
But Winslow felt a constraint and had answered, “Nothing real pressing right now for me to do. Indians won’t be moving around much during the winter. It’ll give me a chance to work on the house some.”
For two days he tightened up the boards on the shack, sealing the inside with old lumber to cut out the icy fingers of wind that seeped through. He took Laurie out to cut wood, and tried his hand at cooking some dishes more sophisticated than bacon and eggs—with only a minimum of success. At nights he and Laurie read the books that Eileen and Faith had put together. Laurie could read very well, but she liked to hear her father read to her, so they took turns.
As the wind crept around the tiny cabin, the fire in the stove cracked and popped and the green wood cried as the sap ran out. The yellow light of the coal-oil lamp lit up their kitchen, and Laurie said, “I wish we’d get snowed in, Daddy. This is nice!”
“We’d get pretty hungry,” he smiled. “I got snowed in once on a hunting trip to Colorado. It was all right for a week, but my partner was an old mountain man who was pretty rough. We got so touchy we wouldn’t even speak for days.” A smile curved his lips at the memory, and he added, “If we hadn’t gotten out when we did, I think one of us would have shot the other.”
“But we’re not like that, are we?” Laurie demanded.
“No. We get along better than anybody.”
His answer satisfied her, and he thought, I need to tell her things like that more often. He sat there listening as she read him a story from a dog-eared book. When she finished, he said, “Know what I’ve been thinking? We ought to drive out to Miss Faith’s mission. I’ll bet she’s getting lonesome out there all alone.”
“Oh, Daddy, can we?”
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