Black Sun, The Battle of Summit Springs, 1869 (31 page)

Seamus squeezed the trigger, this time holding on the warrior's roached hair. The Spencer kicked him, the mare shuddered as the muzzle smoke went the way of the wind.

Fifty yards away the warrior reeled atop his pony, bow and arrows spilling as he slid from the animal's rump into the grassy sand, kicking up a small cloud of dust.

“You got enough left in you to get us back to camp, girl?” he asked in a whisper, laying close to her ear.

The mare's eyes rolled wild and glassy, her jaws working as if sucking for wind.

She's shot in the lights,
he thought.

But the mare came around with gentle tugs on the reins. Nosing her back to the camp where the shooting and yelling had not let up, the horse faltered, stopped and shivered, throwing her head back. Then she stood riveted to the spot.

Slowly he dropped from her back and looked 'round him. Seamus threw up the stirrup, quickly releasing the cinch. The saddle and the soaked blanket came off as he fought to stand on the one good leg. He sensed his long hair sticking and tearing through the lacerated ear. Funny how such a small wound made him feel faint at times, remembering the arrow that had punctured his leg near Fort Phil Kearny.

He left the saddle and blanket behind, dragging it beneath a clump of swamp willow to hide it as best he could—deciding to come back for it later. He drag-footed it back to the mare, his grazed leg tender and burning with every gust of hot breeze. Seamus looked down at the crease in the meat of his thigh, just above the knee wounded by Confederate steel.

“I won't ride you no more, girl,” he whispered to her, an arm slung over her neck. “Don't have the heart to. You been a good animal—”

Seamus turned away from the mare, unable to go on. He headed for the village and the diminishing gunfire. But the mare was beside him, her chest heaving, the bullet hole spitting froth with every breath. She shuddered and her rear quarters almost collapsed, her head weaving.

With a wag of his head and his throat burning with shame and sadness, the Irishman pulled up the flap of his holster and freed the pistol.

The mare sank with the one shot behind her ear.

Chapter 26

July 11, 1869

Not wanting to tarry long beside the mare's carcass, he headed into the village more quickly now. Dogs snarling and barking at the intruders. A few dead Cheyenne scattered on the outskirts of the lodge circle.

One of the bodies caught his attention. In a way it looked—but then it didn't. The torn dress … perhaps stolen from some settler during the Cheyenne raids in Kansas.

At first he could not tell—the hair looked dark, the body sprawled in the shadows near a lodge raised back against the trees. Both legs and arms lay akimbo as if struggling in death.

Was it a Cheyenne squaw, killed by one of the Pawnee? He saw what he realized was the handle of a camp axe. Perhaps one of North's battalion exacting revenge on their ancient tribal enemies. With all the blood already attracting swarms of green-backed horseflies, growing bloated and lazy as they crawled about, blackening the horrible wound that had split the woman's head from crown to bridge of the nose, exposing the crusted iron blade deeply imbedded in the pink and purplish brain.

He fought down the sharp sting of bile at the back of his throat, turning away quickly as his belly came up. He cursed himself, then cursed the killer—now noticing some blond hair strung out from the dark pool of blood. He glanced at her bloodied hands, the pale skin beneath torn wool stockings lumped around her ankles.

He was sure it was the second white woman.

In utter rage he ripped the antelope hide door from the lodge with a savage grunt and laid it over the woman's face and torso. Seamus prayed the corpse would prove to be the German woman. For now he refused to consider her the wife of Forsyth scout Tom Alderdice.

From the woman's side he had to struggle back to his feet on the tender leg. The tormenting whine of a bullet split the air beside his arm. A second whispered beside the wounded ear, causing him to duck frantically.

Renewed gunfire was crackling from a grassy ravine less than a hundred yards off. The warriors still hidden there maintained a good field of fire. They were making the most of their cover, although the great number of their shots were missing the mark, either going wild or hitting soldier horses.

“Sergeant!” yelled Donegan, wheeling, finding the soldiers charging up on horseback. The bold chevrons stood out in the yellow haze of dust and shimmering midsummer heat.

“I see the buggers!” the old file hollered back. He waved an arm at a dozen men. “Dismount! Follow me and prepare to fight!”

Unthinking of his wounds and the flagging strength in his leg, Seamus was among them in a heartbeat, shoulder to shoulder with the blue tunics as the old sergeant led them sprinting on foot into the withering fire from the ravine. The old noncom was the first to holler, as loud as any Irish banshee, as he bore down on the enemy. Building his courage. Young soldiers and old alike came on, yelling out a common cheer. For a moment it raised the hackles on Donegan's neck as he was reminded of the courageous, mindless charge Reverend White made on the ravine beside the Crazy Woman Crossing three summers gone.
*

To their surprise, up the far side of the ravine clawed most of the warriors, eager to escape. A few stalwart Dog Soldiers remained to meet the onslaught of soldiers. They only slowed the foot charge, however, one by one going down quickly under a steady, sustained barrage of carbine fire.

A handful of soldiers sank to their knees at the lip of the ravine beside the naked copper bodies, and aimed for the fleeing warriors, dropping most as the Dog Soldiers tried to escape the long-reaching riflefire.

“You look a mess, son,” said the old sergeant as Seamus rose from the grass.

“It's a wee bit tender,” he replied as the soldier came close to inspect the ear.

“You'll be needing some sewing done, I'd say.”

Seamus gulped. “Sewing, is it? Won't have to come off?”

A few other young soldiers had gathered now, not joining their comrades in taking the scalps of the dead Cheyenne.

“I've saved worse before in my time,” commented the sergeant before he whirled away. “I'll be back with my saddle-kit and we'll have you done in no time.” In minutes the veteran returned, and the painful stitching commenced.

“Done yet?”

“Those britches of yours have about had all they can take, Irishman,” the soldier commented as he was nearing the final stages of open-air surgery. He watched his patient's face as much as he inspected his own handiwork.

Seamus winced and bit his lip again as the needle pierced the torn skin. “You're willing to trade me, old man?”

The sergeant laughed. “Dickson it is to you, young fella. And no—I'll not trade these for them you're wearing, all patched and faded. Who'd you fight for?”

“Army of the Potomac. Then Little Phil down in the Shenandoah.”

“By smoke—that was a campaign, it was!” He yanked hard on the thread, then pulled a folding knife from his pants pocket. “All neatly done, Irishman,” he said proudly after the thread was trimmed. “You'll play hell keeping it clean till she clots up good and crusty.”

“Here, tie this 'round me head,” Donegan said, pulling the bandanna from his neck.

“Yes. This'll do nicely.”

“I thank you, Sergeant Dickson.”

“Don't thank me, boy. No telling but you might be able to repay me one day.”

“Done and gladly!”

“Sergeant!”

They all turned to find a thin soldier loping up, his carbine slung at the end of his left arm, his right hand held up and cupped.

“Lookit this, will you?”

He held open the hand for inspection. In his palm lay the colorful oxblood and gold of a badge worn by a Royal Arch Mason. On the lower banner were emblazoned the words:
WEST SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS
.

“Where'd you come by this, Lorrett?” asked Dickson.

He threw a thumb back at the ravine. “I was looking over the body of one of the red bastards I killed. Found this.”

“Took off a white man for sure,” the sergeant replied.

“Bastards,” muttered one of the men, his sentiment immediately echoed by the rest.

“Them Pawnee every bit as bad as these Cheyenne,” said a corporal with greasy stripes on his sweat-soaked blouse.

“That's right, Walsh,” replied Dickson. “I ain't seen a one of them Pawnee scouts down here mixing it up with the Cheyenne bucks like us.”

“Chicken-shit Pawnee sonsabitches went after the women and children,” Walsh growled. “Yellow-backed redskins … no one ever gonna tell me they can face the music like one of us.”

As Tall Bull plunged the tomahawk down into the white woman's head, a blood-curdling cry erupted behind him.

Turning, he found his wife and daughter watching as the blood-splattered prisoner sank to the ground. They had returned for him. In his wife's hand was the halter of Tall Bull's most prized possession—his war-pony.

“You must escape!” he shouted angrily above the clamor.

“I will not go without you, husband.”

“Up!” he ordered them. “We will ride!”

Tall Bull pulled his wife up behind him, then in the next frantic moment dragged his daughter of eight summers in front of him. The pony staggered as he pounded his heels to its ribs.

“Stand with me!” he shouted at the southern edge of the village where he had slowed the pony among the confused and dazed.

Already the Pawnee and pony soldiers were among the lodges on the far side of their sprawling camp.

“We go to fight another day!” Two Crows replied above the screaming clamor.

“Too late this fight!” agreed Plenty of Bull Meat.

“You are women,” Tall Bull snarled. “The fight is here—it is now!”

“These soldiers are too strong … we are not ready!” Two Crows answered lamely.

“Go, old one! Tell the children of this day when Tall Bull stayed to fight while the rest of you ran. Tell all our people down to the lives of our grandchildren's grandchildren of this day!”

“Your words are like iron, Tall Bull!”

He turned to find Red Cherries running up through the yellow dust. Behind him came his young wife and infant. Already bullets from the far side of camp were singing around them.

“You will stay with me, Red Cherries?”

“I will fight them to my end.”

A brutal sound caught in the throat of the wife of Red Cherries. “Husband, remember your child!” she screeched, holding the infant before its father.

“I do this—stand and fight—for all Cheyenne.”

Lone Bear and Wolf Friend hurried up with a half-dozen others. “We should fight where we have a chance to kill many soldiers before we die.”

Tall Bull nodded. “Bobtailed Porcupine has gone to the deep ravine over there.”

The others shook their head in disagreement. Pretty Bear and Heavy Furred Wolf both pointed.

“Come, I know a place on the hillside,” Pretty Bear suggested.

“Yes, there is room for the women and children to hide while we make our stand.” Heavy Furred Wolf turned to lead them away.

Tall Bull followed, the last to follow as the soldiers slashed their way into the heart of the village on horseback.

“Take the pony,” he whispered to his wife. “I am coming behind you.”

One by one the tiny group entered the narrow mouth of the hillside ravine. Beneath the erosion-washed overhang of the coulee the men found places to hide each woman and child. Only then would the warriors take their places along the lip of the ravine and at its skinny entrance. Each man cut his own foot- and hand-holds in the steep sides so he could peer over the embankment in safety and fire back at his attackers.

They were discovered by a party of Pawnee nearly as soon as they reached the ravine. Cautious of the deadly fire of the Cheyenne, North's scouts dismounted at a safe distance and found themselves some cover from which they began to shoot back at the hiding place of their enemies.

Still on the sandy floor of the ravine, Tall Bull turned to his wife to say, “This is where I will die.”

“We do not have to die here,” she answered, more frantically. “We can run—”

Clamping his hand over her mouth, he shook his head. “I brought you and our daughter here for safety. I no longer wish to live hounded and harried by the white man and his soldiers.”

“Husband—we can go far to the north with our cousins … live there—”

He rose, forcing her to break off her words, pulling the long, much-honed scalping knife from his belt. Without another look exchanged between them, he left, dragging his favorite war-pony behind him. At the mouth of the ravine, clearly exposing himself to the gunfire of the Pawnee, Tall Bull yanked the pony's head aside. With one brutal slash of the scalping knife he opened the animal's throat in a gush of bright blood that splattered him and the ground about them both.

The pony staggered, fighting the hold he had on it. Sinking to its rear haunches, it fought to rise, struggling to breathe. At last it sank over on its side, legs flailing for a few moments while Tall Bull raised the scalping knife high in the air. Down his arm oozed the animal's warm blood as he called out.

“Here we will die. No more do I need my brother in war—this pony. Come take me if you can, castrated women of Pawnee wombs … for it is here that Tall Bull welcomes death!”

*   *   *

Cody was among the first to join the Pawnee who were driven back from the mouth of the ravine as the Cheyenne put up a deadly fire.

He had hoped the Indian scouts would continue on, charging the hiding place, so was disappointed when they pulled back under the heavy barrage from the hillside.

For the first minutes he aimed at the heads that bounced over the lip of the far embankment, shooting from behind a low hill himself. The first few rounds he fired kicked up small spouts of earth in front of his targets, until he got the range calculated.