A sudden lull, no longer than three of his hammering heartbeats … and Sam realized the first swooping, full-winged ride-by had left him alive. Sam Gibson knew he would make it. No wet pants this time out.
The bastards are as close as they’ll ever come now.
And prayed he would be right while the south and west sides of the oval rocked with concerted rifle fire. Slamming lead into the sides of crying, screeching ponies. Slapping against copper skin with their stinging .50-caliber messengers of death repeated over and over and over again. Naked painted bodies turned crimson as the medicine paint worked no wonders this hot summer morning, medicine paint and bear grease unable to turn aside the white man’s bullets.
At times a few of the more courageous swept up closer still to the wagon-boxes, firing their arrows down from horseback into the corral. A few of the bravest rode in even closer, a long arm cocked back before hurling an iron-tipped lance among the wagons. Stone and iron points thwacked into the side-walls, where they quivered for a moment. Other lances harmlessly bled sacks of grain or stood trembling in the ground just beyond the defenders.
Most of those lance bearers paid a terrible price for their bravado, lying sprawled on the dusty grass beneath pony hooves in payment for their foolhardy courage.
Others less cocky and a bit mystified that no lull came in the white man’s rifle fire for prolonged reloading, remembering last winter’s soldiers across the Lodge Trail Ridge struggling with their ramrods and muzzle-loading, one-shot weapons. Warriors suddenly sensing their own despair as certainty now seeped from their pores while they snapped bows or pulled triggers from beneath pony necks. A thwunnng! and an iron-tipped arrow thunked against a wagon-wall. A crack of a new Winchester or captured soldier Springfield and the inch-thick wagon-boards splintered.
Slivers spraying over the defenders huddled at their deadly work, hidden below the wagon-tops. White eyes burned by dust and wood chips and powder smoke. Soldier throats raw and burnt, each man not knowing when he would again taste the sweet, cold water of Piney Creek.
Cool water, Sam Gibson thought, the breech of his rifle scorching his fingers as he threw open the trapdoor again, ejecting the empty cartridge and ramming home another like a machine. He reminded himself of a steam piston on a locomotive that had moved his regiment partway across Georgia before their siege of Atlanta.
In and out … in and out … each new cartridge … in and out.
Then there was a shout. And a cheer. Followed by more huzzahs rocking the little corral. One by one the defenders looked over shoulders, checking on their brothers-in-arms now …
Now that the five hundred had withdrawn from their circle ride. Leaving behind the thrashing bodies of ponies and the silent, crawling forms of those fellow warriors not killed instantly. Those left in the grass and the dust, bleeding, crawling off before another white man’s bullet would slam into their bodies to finish them off.
Sam grinned, feeling for the first time a hot dampness on his cheeks. Glad there was no warmth between his legs. Not ashamed to be crying openly because so many of the others did the same as they cheered and slapped one another around.
They had turned the first charge. Bronze, bleeding bodies lay among the carnage of animals dead and dying. Ponies screaming out humanlike in pain, legs thrashing, struggling to rise, clawing the hot air as huge snaking guts poured from belly wounds and fresh dung seeped from loosened bowels. A hot steamy hell of a no-man’s land ringing that little oval.
By all that’s holy, we’ve turned the first charge!
“We give ’em a little back for what they done to Fetterman, by God!” Sgt. Frank Hoover growled, leading the others in a cheer.
“Damned right!” McQuiery agreed. “Not a man here doesn’t remember what these bastards did that day!”
“Ten of these frigging red niggers we’ll kill for every one of Fetterman’s boys!” Pvt. Henry Haggerty vowed. “Ten of these dogs for every one of Fetterman dead!”
A few sat not uttering a word, not joining the others in their cheers, their Springfields still at work, but more slowly now. Red-rimed eyes scanning the three-sided battlefield, searching for live ones. Slowly, methodically killing as many wounded as they could before mounted warriors would dart in as expected to drag their injured from the fray.
The corral had turned the first charge, winning the first hand in this very deadly game of draw.
And Sam Gibson sat there wondering how long he and the rest could hold those screeching, wailing, angry, blood-eyed thousands back.
Chapter 38
Sam Marr turned slowly, the pungent burnt gunpowder like grease scum inside his mouth, fouling all taste. His clothes smelled of stale plug tobacco and horse dung and sweat. He smiled at the young soldiers behind him, realizing all three wanted to join in the sudden celebration and anxiously looked to the old man for permission.
He winked, his eyes as gritty from dust and spent powder as his mouth. “G’on, boys! There’s a time to cheer … and a time to hunker down and get on with the killing. I figure now’s about as good as any for busting your lungs. Goddammit—we showed them red niggers what for!”
“Hurraw!” The trio slapped Marr and each other’s backs, hopping round and round.
Turning from the soldiers, Sam studied the distance, shimmering with heat haze this mid-morning beneath a buttermilk-pale summer sun. On a hill a half mile to the east, he watched a knot of horsemen glaring down into the wagon-box corral. Other riders came and went. Arms were flung about, pointing here and there. Lances and pennons waved in signal from the hilltop. Mirrors flashed from the surrounding hills.
He glanced in the direction of the fort. By God … if they don’t realize we’re under attack by now …
Sam wagged his head in disgust. He didn’t want any of the youngsters to know his real thoughts. No sense in it. So reminded was he of his own boys. They were about this age, marching off to fight for Sam Grant and Phil Sheridan—
Roughly dragging a hand under his nose, Marr forced the painful remembrance away.
No telling how long we can hold out … lucky as we was to turn that first charge. Bastards expecting us to reload like Fetterman’s boys—and we blow lead into their faces instead.
He blinked some sweat and grit from his reddened eyes, concentrating on the far hill. That’s where the orders coming from, Sam. I’ll bet Red Cloud his own self is up there. What I’d give to have me a sniper’s gun right now …
“Lookee here, Cap’n Marr.” A young soldier loped up, his outstretched arms filled with arrows.
“Where’d you get them, soldier?”
“Off’n the blankets of the wagon-boxes, Cap’n. Filled with ’em!”
“Those red devils came full of sand and tallow this day,” he clucked, wagging his head again.
He patted one of the youngsters on the shoulders. “You boys best see to our ammunition. Get every gun reloaded and ready.”
“They’re coming back, Cap’n Marr?”
He nodded, turning to the frightened youth. “They’re not done with us … not by a long chalk, son.”
“What’re they doing out there?” another youngster asked as he slid cartridges into a Spencer’s loading tube.
“I ’spect they’re changing their plan of attack,” Marr sighed. “They figured to run right over us, and we blew ’em back. So they’ll try a different way at us here soon. Probably cussing us out something fierce, I imagine—saying we made some powerful bad medicine down here this morning to make our guns fire without reloading.”
The last of the trio chuckled, no longer consumed by quiet tears of desperation and fear. He stuffed .44-caliber cartridges in Marr’s Henry rifle and said, “Big surprise for them, wasn’t it, sir?”
Sam gazed over the sidewall at the hill where the war-chiefs conferenced. “I figure the next surprise is for them to pull, boys. Their turn now.”
“Why you say that, Cap’n?”
“You’re out here in this country a little mor
e, you’ll learn. The Injun comes as the wasp comes—in clouds or alone. Yet he never tries to sting you unless his sting is a sure thing and there’s little chance of getting slapped for it. Yessir … the Injun won’t keep pressing at any attack he doesn’t figure he can’t win—fair or dirty.”
Behind him the rest of the corral went about reloading from the six other cases of ammunition, each wooden chest holding a thousand rounds apiece.
“Know of any wounded … or killed?” Sergeant McQuiery whispered as he crabbed up to Marr’s wagon-box.
“None here,” Sam answered. “Can’t say ’bout the rest.”
“Looks like we lost Doyle.”
“Little Tommy?”
He nodded gravely. “A good soldier. Took a arrow in the throat … drowned in his own blood afore anyone could get to him.”
“Shame,” Marr replied, but taking heart in reading the look of renewed determination on McQuiery’s face. “Anyone else?”
“Two boys wounded.”
“Soldiers?”
“Yep. One was Haggerty—took a round in the shoulder. Says he can still shoot … reload for the rest if need be.”
“I was worried ’bout R.J.”
McQuiery grinned. “Smyth’s about as bad a character as you, Cap’n Marr. Not a arrow made yet got his name on it.”
Sam winked and smiled. “Thankee, Sergeant.”
“These boys helping out?”
“They’re doing me proud,” Marr replied. “We’ll put our share down.”
McQuiery shook his head, chuckling. “This is one hardassed bunch here this morning, Cap’n. Looks like I’m just about the oldest man in blue. Twelve battles I marched into then out of during the war—and here I am peeing my pants again. Enough to fill a pint coffee tin! Damn—if that wouldn’t set my poor mother’s teeth on edge!” He nodded and left without a word, chuckling to himself.
A few shots continued to roar at the west side of the corral as some of the defenders finished off the wounded. To the southeast a large body of horsemen formed. From the front of their ranks flashed mirror signals. As quickly, the ridge directly to the east of the corral flashed a reply.
“Fill them hats of yours with cartridges, boys,” Marr advised, settling onto his haunches in the wagon-box once more. “The devil himself gonna come knocking on our door any time now.”
* * *
Indian marksmen turned the rugged terrain at the northern rim of the prairie to their advantage. While the eroded coulee there kept the horsemen from fully circling the corral, this protected area provided the copper-skinned riflemen a place from which they could enjoy some cover while firing down into the wagon-box enclosure, their barrels steadied on crossed sticks. This grassy, willow-covered swale of land arched within seventy-five yards from the corral at its closest point, two hundred yards at its farthest. On the other three sides of their oval, the flat prairie prevented Indian snipers from creeping close enough to do real damage. Only from this north side could the Sioux spray the defenders with rifle fire.
Along that north side of the enclosure, a few of the soldiers and R.J. Smyth set up a valiant return fire, agreeing that if they did not return some of the pressure, the Sioux snipers would soon pin them down. That happen, the horsemen would ride right in to the walls and have their way.
The civilian teamster turned quickly, laying his Spencer in his lap as he reloaded the Blakeslee tube with seven rounds. He glanced at the end of the box, where John Jenness huddled behind a breastwork of ox yokes, barrels and blankets. The lieutenant poked his head up for each individual shot at the snipers, firing more by instinct than taking the time to get a bead on a particular target.
“Want you to remember, Smyth,” Jenness advised, “try to make every shot count. Captain Powell figures it’s going to be a long day for all of us.”
“Doing the best I can, Lieutenant,” Smyth replied, finished slipping cartridges in the loading tube.
As R.J. rammed the tube home through the Spencer’s stock, he heard that unforgettable sound so familiar to any war veteran. Immediately followed by the grunt of air driven from the lieutenant’s lungs as a bullet slammed the soldier backward into the dust.
Smyth shrank his head down into his collar so far his ears scraped his collarbone. He felt his breakfast shove up against his tonsils, watching the young soldier twitch alone in the dirt and burned stubble of the grass. Fingers clawed at the ground. A foot quivered. The ground under the lieutenant’s head pooled black with blood, drying quickly beneath the summer sun.
Gulping a few times, R.J. fought down the bile and his breakfast. For some time now the hard-tack and old salt-pork had been waging deadly war in his belly. Threatening to shove themselves right past his tonsils if he wasn’t mindful of them.
Perhaps worse for some of them was the growing stench rising from burning piles of dry dung raked to the center of the corral. Minutes ago some bowmen had fired the first arcing arrows into the corral, their shafts afire with burning pitch and dry grass. A roiling, noxious cloud hung over the breathless enclosure, choking each man, burning their eyes more than the hovering clouds of powder smoke.
“Ho!”
Smyth heard a voice call out from the box to his left. It sounded like Private Garrett.
“Yeah?” answered Richard Lang, the soldier huddled beside the teamster.
“You got any water in there?”
“Not a drop. How ’bout you, Tommy?”
“Uh-uh. Damn them anyway. Red buggers filling our water barrel with holes.”
“Don’t make difference,” Garrett replied. “Barrels’re outside the corral. Can’t get to it anyway.”
“My tongue’s swelled up, with my mouth so dry. Maybeso them coffee kettles got water in ’em.”
“Kettles?”
“C’mon,” Lang suggested. “Cookie Brown left two kettles by the west wagon. Ready for coffee.”
“I don’t mind grounds a damned bit!”
R.J. watched, fascinated, as Garrett and Lang bellied along the boxes until they reached the west entrance to the corral, where they slid into the shadows of the wagon-box still perched atop its running gear. Slowly they reached for the two blackened, dented gallon kettles. As they were pulling them gently into the corral, snipers discovered the two thirsty soldiers and opened up on the kettle rescuers. As if the Sioux riflemen had been waiting for the white men to retrieve the precious liquid prize.
Lang sloshed water all over his arm as he yanked his kettle to safety, sinking back against a wagon-box, his heart pounding, breathing in precious gulps. Private Garrett was not so lucky. One of the snipers found his kettle an ideal target, sending a bullet through the fire-crusted tin and out again, nicking the soldier’s hand in the process. A cheer around the corral nonetheless. For now they had a little water. Despite the fact that cook Brown had dumped grounds in the kettles in preparation of making coffee, and though the kettles had been setting out in the hot sun all morning—the defenders now had some water.
R.J. jerked around, hearing again that soapy smack of a bullet hitting flesh. A Sioux sniper had found the dead lieutenant’s body. Then a second round slapped Jenness’s form.
“Sonsabitches,” Max Littman growled, crawling on hands and knees over Smyth’s legs. “They can’t shoot the living … they go butcher the dead … heathens!”
R.J. swallowed hard.
“You coming help me?” Littman asked, his face inches from the civilian’s.
“Help?”
“Get the lieutenant’s body, that’s it, got-tammit!”
“Yeah, I’ll help.” His head bobbed up and down as fast as his nervous, turkeylike Adam’s apple.
R.J. belly-crawled behind the German, noticing the way Littman’s blond hair bristled out from the top of his head like the thorny spines of a chestnut burr. Beside Jenness the sergeant brushed some black ants from the crusted head wounds, bottle-green flies from the open eyes. They buzzed and crawled in and out of the dead man’s mouth. R.J. felt his s
tomach lurch again, threatening. The lieutenant’s skin had turned the color of flour paste, stretched over his cheekbones and brow in death like an old, dirty linen sheet thrown carelessly onto bare bedsprings.
After closing the lieutenant’s eyes, Littman tried to move the body. He had simply waited too long. Another incoming bullet smacked into the body, inches from the soldier and civilian. Both men scurried back to the safety of a nearby wagon.
“You wanna shoot the sonofabitch?” Littman asked, huffing nervously. “Or you wanna drag the lieutenant’s body?”
R.J. gulped. “I’ll shoot.”
Littman nodded. “Then shoot. Cover me.”
As R.J. and another soldier provided some covering fire, Littman attempted pulling Jenness’s body to a safer position. After three tries the sergeant gave up. Too risky out in the open, exposed to the sniper. He scurried back and collapsed next to Smyth, catching his breath.
“I suppose,” Littman began, his wide, blue eyes flashing an apology, “the lieutenant doesn’t mind anyhow.”
“No, I suppose he doesn’t mind now,” R.J. agreed, not feeling so bad about his caution, the way things turned out.
* * *
Along the north side of the corral not far away, someone yelled out in warning.
“Look out, boys! They’re coming at us again!”
Horsemen, gathered to the south, southeast, and on the east, kicked their ponies into a lope, nosing for the corral with a wild yelp.
“Here they come, Gibby!” Pvt. John Grady shouted, the fear-laced excitement dripping from the old soldier’s every word.
“I’m ready,” Sam Gibson answered, tasting the bile at the back of his throat once more. War had never set well on the young soldier’s stomach.
“The tents!” one of the defenders shouted hoarsely, pointing.
Gibson tore his eyes from the incoming horsemen, looking up into Grady’s face. The old soldier hauled his young companion to his feet.
“C’mon, kid! Show me how you young fellas dodge bullets!”
“Whaaa?”
“The tents, goddammit, Gibby! They gotta come down … and now!”
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