CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Valley of Death
At dusk on the twenty-fourth Custer led the regiment into a freshly deserted Indian camp. The tracks of lodgepole travois scratched the ground everywhere, skeleton frames of wickiups and a sun-dance lodge indicated where a camp had been. One of the officers entered the lodge and discovered a white man’s scalp hanging from a pole. “It must have been one of Gibbon’s troopers killed on the Yellowstone last month,” Lieutenant Cooke said.
The location of Gibbon’s regiment was welcome news to Custer, but disturbing to Herendeen, who wanted more specific orders. “This is where I’m supposed to go find Gibbon, General.”
He waited for Custer’s order to take a message back to Gibbon, but Custer only glanced at him without giving him a direct command. That made Herendeen angry and he wheeled away. It was a dangerous ride, one which he would be paid for, but he’d just as soon not risk his life unless Custer ordered it.
That night they made camp as a dry hard wind rolled the desert’s smoke-fine dust over them. Benteen, his face stiff with dislike, sought out Custer to discuss their plan of attack. He stared at Custer’s flag, which bore the two stars of a major general stitched on the pennant’s field. Custer had been that once, but now he had no right to use the title, in Benteen’s opinion.
“I propose to make a quick jump at them, to cut them off before they can run,” Custer said.
“Are you sure they’re running, General?” Benteen asked dryly. “They know where we are. I think they may be picking their own spot to attack us.”
Custer shook his head, dismissing the idea. At that moment the pushing wind caught at the standard, knocking it over. Godfrey picked it up and stuck it in the ground, but it fell again. When he left, Benteen muttered, “That was a bad sign.”
The next morning, the twenty-fifth, a heavy pall hung over the camp as the men awoke and began preparations for the day. The work details were carried out with bitter, disgruntled cursing. The day’s unknown seeped into their bones. Whose scalp would hang in the Indian tepee tonight? Winslow himself couldn’t escape the intruding omens that fought to invade his mind. Winslow boiled his coffee, fried his eggs, and put his hardtack in the bacon grease to soften it. Lieutenant Smith soon joined him and began discussing the portents of the day.
They stopped abruptly as Grayson walked by. Spence gave Winslow a cold look, then asked Smith, “Any orders come down yet?”
“Not yet. But it’ll be today. I’d bet on it.”
“No takers.” Grayson shook his head and walked away.
In a short while the regiment mounted and moved forward. Just then Winslow saw Custer approach with Girard. Charlie Reynolds motioned to Winslow, who spurred his horse and galloped in their direction.
As Tom joined them, he heard Charlie say, “You’re going to have a big fight, General.” Charlie Reynolds was an extremely quiet, soft-spoken man. Now he was trying to convince Custer of the danger ahead.
“What makes you think so, Charlie?” asked Custer.
“On my medicine,” Reynolds nodded. “That, and I’ve seen enough track and dust to be certain.” He pointed west. “There are more Indians over there, General, than you ever saw in one place before—”
“Look there,” Winslow broke in. He had spotted something, and when they all turned, they saw a party of Indians riding hard toward the Rosebud. The sight of them caused Custer to make a crucial decision. He had been grappling with the fear that he had ridden with the regiment all the way from Fort Lincoln for nothing—that the village would break up and flee in all directions. He had to prevent that!
“We will break the command into three wings. Reno, you take M, A, and G companies. Benteen, take your company and D and K. I will take C, E, F, I, and L. Benteen, take your command to the left. Make a reconnaissance to a high point, then rejoin the rest of the command at Ash Creek.”
Benteen shook his head, saying, “Hadn’t we better keep the regiment together, General? If this is as big a camp as the scouts say, we’ll need every man we have.”
“You have your orders!” Custer replied briefly.
Benteen moved away, and the rest of the regiment took up the march down Ash Creek—Custer and his two battalions on the right side, Reno with his one on the left. A Company was at the head of Reno’s column. Winslow kept close to that company, with several of his Ree scouts, including Bloody Knife. Their job was to ascertain any danger signs. As they rode, the pitch of the hills steepened, and dust thickened. A strange foreboding filled Winslow, one he’d often had during the war, and his eyes swept the horizon constantly.
Suddenly Girard, who was up on the ridge, shouted, “Injuns! Runnin’ down the valley like devils!”
Custer immediately cried, “Forward!” and started down the creek, with his two columns following. Reno kept pace on the other side of the creek, stopping when Cooke left Custer’s band and rode across with an order.
“The Indians are across the Little Bighorn, about two miles ahead of us. The general directs that you charge them at once. He will support you with the other battalion.”
As Cooke wheeled and returned to rejoin Custer, Reno gave the command to advance, and the Seventh headed for the Bighorn at once. They urged their horses across the creek and emerged into a broad valley, with a tall bluff on the right, crowned by round-topped peaks. On the left the valley was held in by a low slope.
The companies had lost their formation, and Reno yelled, “Form up! Form up!” They obeyed and moved into some sort of order; then the battalion charged toward the village some three miles away, riding at a faster pace than some of the men had ever done before.
Winslow had sent the scouts to the rear, but he himself rode beside Lieutenant Smith. The column broke like a fan, four slanting out into a broad troop front. The two advance companies formed a spaced skirmish line sweeping at a gallop down the valley, A to the left and M to the right, with G Company a second line in the rear.
“There come some braves out of the village, Lieutenant,” Winslow called to Smith, who nodded. They did not appear anxious to close in, but they raised a great cloud of dust.
“Look!” Smith yelled. “There’s Custer on the bluff!” Winslow turned and saw a lone horseman but could not be sure it was Custer. They skirted the timber, spotting a dust storm ahead of them about two hundred yards away, and in the dust were shadows of Sioux warriors wheeling and making for the left of their line.
Reno threw up his arm and shouted, “Prepare to fight on foot!”
“That’s wrong!” Smith yelled, but had no choice but to obey. Troopers dropped from their saddles and in groups of threes flung their reins to a fourth trooper who wheeled and ran back with the mounts. One trooper lost control of his horse, which dragged him directly into the Indians, where he was killed instantly.
The soldiers knelt and fired as rapidly as they could at the Indians. Reno walked calmly forward, drew his revolver, took careful aim, and fired. He downed the Indian, but the Sioux shots hit the troopers like a steady rain. Down the line from Winslow a man screamed in agony, then fell on his face. The firing grew more fierce, and one of the men ran up to Reno, asking, “Can’t we send back to Custer for support? We can’t stand this much longer!”
“Too late,” Winslow shouted, pointing toward his left. “They’ve cut us off!”
Winslow hurried down the line with Hines, calming the raw recruits. “Take your time—pick your targets!”
The line sagged, taking heavy losses, and finally Reno yelled, “Drop back to the timber!”
The retreat was a disaster, for men were out of their units. Some of the greener men broke rank and ran, halting only when the voices of the sergeants and officers caught them. Pace by pace the line gave way and presently got to the edge of the brush and timber and stepped inside it.
But Winslow knew they were practically helpless. “The Sioux will chop us up one at a time in here,” he said to Hines.
“You’re right—ahhh!”
Winslow whirled. A bullet had struck Hines in the temple, and he fell without a tremor, dead before he hit the ground. Dempsey, nearby, cried, “We gotta get him out of here, Sarge!”
“No! We can’t help him now, Leo. We’re in deep trouble ourselves.”
The two scurried back and heard Moylan say to McIntosh, “We can’t stay here, Tosh. We’ll be out of ammunition in fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll tell Reno!”
Now that Hines was dead, Winslow knew he had to fill in. “Move back!” he called loudly. “The Sioux have fired the grass!” He moved down the line, then stopped when he came to where Dr. Porter was kneeling over Charlie Reynolds. “Doctor, we’re falling back. You need a hand with Charlie?”
“No, never mind.” He rose and as they moved back, Winslow saw the black interpreter Dorman dead with a ring of cartridges around him.
They came upon Reno, who was standing by his horse, confused, bewildered, and indecisive. At that moment Bloody Knife jumped on his pony, saying, “Better go!”
Reno stared at him, then got on his own horse. At that instant a Sioux bullet struck Bloody Knife in the head, showering blood on Reno. Frightened, the officer clawed at his face and lost control of his senses. He shouted, “Forward!” and set his horse at a gallop toward the river, leaving the men in disarray.
“We can’t abandon the wounded!” Moylan yelled after him, but Reno never slowed. And his panic was contagious. The soldiers left their wounded and ran, which meant certain death for the stricken men. Reno made no attempt to conduct a retreat. In an orderly withdrawal, soldiers shoot as they move and keep the enemy busy. If they run, the enemy can pick them off like animals in a hunt.
Winslow had no choice, for staying was impossible. He retrieved and mounted his horse, using his revolver close range. To his left he saw Zeiss locked in an Indian’s grasp, trying to drag him down. Winslow wheeled and blew a hole in the Sioux’s flank, and Zeiss and Winslow raced on. Ahead of them Lieutenant McIntosh threw up his hands and fell to the ground beneath the hoofs of the oncoming Indians.
Reno’s battalion was a mere skeleton by now as he swung toward the river, to a point where the banks ran sheerly up and down. Grayson, to the left, yelled, “Here’s a ford!” and the battalion turned toward it. Carbine fire began to fell the troopers as they crossed. One bullet struck Winslow’s horse in the head, and Tom hit the water, holding on to his revolver. He struggled to his feet and was rescued by Babe O’Hara, who wheeled as he saw Tom go down. “Jump on, Tom!” he yelled, and Winslow leaped up behind Babe and grasped the man as they zigzagged across.
Tom saw Lieutenant Benny Hodgson go down, then come to his feet and stagger forward. Hodgson made it to the shore where a second bullet dropped him. O’Hara guided his horse out of the water and scrambled up the slope to the safety of the crest. Some troopers crawled, others dropped like limp bundles. Halfway up the slope Dr. DeWolf died from a bullet in his spine.
O’Hara and Winslow fell off the winded horse at the top of the rise and began to strafe the Indians with ammunition as the Sioux were slaughtering the slower troopers. In the midst of the battle Reno stood hatless, with a dazed expression, watching the men come up. He kept saying over and over, “Keep firing, men!”
The pressure grew worse, with fire coming at them from oblique angles. Winslow ducked, threw a shell into the chamber of his carbine, then rose up and got his shot off as quickly as possible. They were hitting the Indians but were still taking losses. “Keep down, Zeiss!” he shouted. “Pick your target carefully.”
Even as he shouted, he glanced to the right of the field below. A flash of movement caught his eye, and he saw an officer trying to crawl up the slope, moving painfully along on his hands and knees. Two of the Sioux had broken across the river on their ponies and were headed straight for him. Winslow slapped his carbine to his cheek and knocked one of them down with his first shot. He threw a shell into the chamber, but the Indian had slipped off his horse, almost on top of the officer. Winslow had no time to take a long sight, but fired off one shot that drove the sand into the face of the Sioux, then with the next one caught him in the throat. Even as the Indian fell to the ground, Winslow saw three other warriors heading for the river.
Then he looked at the wounded man again. His face turned toward Tom. Spence Grayson!
Time seemed to halt for Winslow. The Indians still charged across the shallow water, though in Winslow’s mind, they moved very slowly, as if they were under water. One of the braves had a bloody scalp dangling about his neck—but to Tom at the moment it was, somehow, strangely impersonal.
The firing and the yells seemed muted, far away, instead of all around him as he stared at the scene. He had felt like this once before, when he’d been struck in the stomach and unable to breathe or move for an instant.
Grayson’s face was ashen, tendons of his throat stretched to bands, and blind panic in his eyes. Bright crimson blood was splashed on the front of his tunic and on his right leg. With agonizing strain, he scrambled along the ground for safety.
As Winslow watched, images from the past flashed rapidly through his mind, sharp and clear: Grayson’s rescue of Tom when he was being mauled to death by two men. Spence’s young, bright, innocent eyes as he grinned, crying, “Hold them, Tom! They can’t whip both of us!” Again, memories of their fun, carefree days, the close friendship. Then the image of Marlene’s face as she had lain dying in the hospital, abandoned by Spence. But now the rage didn’t rise and flood Tom as before. For the first time since his friend’s betrayal, he could remember without hate. It was there, but not possessing him. As the images rose in his mind he saw his future as bitter, empty, and meaningless if he continued to hate. He thought of Laurie—and of Faith.
Suddenly he heard the guns cracking and he shouted, “A Company—cover me!”
“Sarge!” O’Hara yelled. “Don’t go out there—!”
But Winslow had dropped his rifle and gone over the crest of the hill, half falling as he threw himself down the slope. “Hey—cover Winslow!” O’Hara bellowed, and every gun down the line began blazing away at the Indians who were now charging in greater numbers across the river.
When Winslow was almost down to where the wounded officer was crawling, he saw the man look up—startled as he recognized Tom. His lips formed Winslow’s name, and at that instant a Sioux emerged from the right and lunged at Winslow with a lance. There was no time to pull his revolver, but Tom managed to parry the lance with his left arm. The Sioux screamed at him, dropped the lance, and leaped forward with a knife. It happened so fast that Winslow felt the edge cut through his upper arm like a streak of fire. He kicked with all his might, catching the Indian in the groin; and when the Sioux fell back, Tom pulled his revolver and shot him through the body twice. Another Indian rose up ten feet away, his rifle up, but Winslow got off the first shot, hitting the Sioux’s mouth, driving his head backward.
Trusting that his friends would keep the other Indians at bay, Winslow shoved the revolver into the holster and moved to where Grayson lay watching him. “Come on,” Winslow gasped, his throat dry. He picked him up and pulled him across his shoulders. Grayson gasped, but said nothing, and Winslow lunged back up the slope.
As he struggled upward, he heard O’Hara and Dempsey yelling, and when he looked up, he saw them charging down the hill, firing as they ran. They got to him, and O’Hara gave him a hand. While Dempsey covered them, the two climbed the slope, falling on the ground exhausted as they reached the top.
Totally spent, Winslow lay on his back gasping for air. When he was able to breath, he rolled over and saw that Dr. Porter was working on Grayson. The firing was slackening off, and he got to his feet and looked over the rim in time to see the Indians withdraw.
“That was a real noble thing you did,” O’Hara said. “Next time you want to be a hero, give me a little warning, will you? I’ll try to be someplace else.”
Winslow grinned, reached over and struck his shoulder with hi
s fist. “Thanks, Babe—and you, too, Leo,” he said. He turned and saw Grayson regarding him steadily, but the rescued man said nothing.
Just then Moylan and Major Reno came by. Reno nodded to Winslow. “That was a fine thing, Sergeant. I’ll see it’s written up.”
Moylan looked at the river. “They’ll be back,” he said soberly.
Benteen rode up and jumped out of the saddle, asking, “Where’s Custer?”
“I don’t know!” Reno snapped. “He was supposed to support me and—”
“He’s over there with his men, I think,” Moylan broke in, peering into the distance. “They’re in a real battle, I’d say. Do you think we’d better go help him?”
“We’re in big trouble ourselves, Moylan,” Reno said, clearly nettled. “Look around at what we have left. And the first thing in the morning, the hostiles will be coming at us with all they’ve got!”
Thirty minutes later, Lieutenant Weir asked permission to give Custer aid. Reno agreed, and Edgerly went along with his company in support. But Weir had gone only five hundred yards when he was savagely attacked and had to fight a retreat back to the crest.
“Now you see what it’s like!” Reno taunted him.
The Indians kept slashing at them, raising the number of fallen men discouragingly high. The officers brought them back behind the lines and cared for the wounded as best they could. Benteen paced back and forth, dodging the bullets that whistled close to him. There was no letup while the light lasted, but at eight o’clock the shadows fell.
Winslow was exhausted, but he knew better than to rest. He moved down the line, forcing the men to dig in, and finally began digging a trench for himself. Dr. Porter came along, took a look at him, and said, “Let me see that wound.”
The Crossed Sabres Page 29