Lay the Mountains Low (28 page)

Evans shook his carbine and scurried down the slope, where he plopped to his belly, disappearing in the tall grass.

“Where's D. B.?” Bremen asked.

Quickly looking around, Lew spotted Randall hunkered down between the legs of his horse. Nearby sat James Buchanan, slowly firing his carbine as he squatted in the grass, his legs crossed and drawn up under his elbows for a proper shooting rest.

The two of them might do well enough,
Wilmot thought.
Well enough to hold the bastards back for as long as it will take for the soldiers to come out and drive them off us.

But the next time Lew Wilmot turned to gaze over his shoulder at Cottonwood Station some two miles distant, he was baffled why there weren't any figures clambering out of their rifle pits, much less mounted up and riding out on horseback.

A few minutes later Charley Case grumbled, “How long you figger we're gonna be till them soldiers come get us, Lew?”

Wilmot shook his head. “Don't know, Charley. From the looks of things, we may damn well be on our own out here.”

F
OR
the last two days George Shearer had put up with these goddamned Yankee soldiers hunkering down at Cotton-wood Station, refusing to lay into the red bastards. But being forced to sit here and Watch while his friends were jumped as they were riding to Norton's ranch was simply more than the Southern fighting man could take.

Besides the hundred-and-twenty-some soldiers Captain David Perry commanded, there was a bevy of civilian packers and a handful of volunteers who had shown up to add their weapons to the fight by the time those two couriers had raced into Norton's ranch earlier that morning. In something less than thirty hours, the men Captain Whipple had dispatched made it over to Howard's command across the Salmon River and back again.

To Shearer's way of thinking, there was more than enough men to take on those warriors in a stand-up, head-to-head fight. The odds were all but even!

So why hadn't Perry sent out some men to rescue the
civilians when he had ordered Captain Winters's detachment to rescue those two couriers?

The first answer Perry gave the astonished volunteer was, “I'm not all that sure those are civilians. The warriors could be clever enough to wear some clothing taken from a settler's farm—arranging a ruse or decoy to lure some of my men to their deaths.”

But when the shooting got closer and the civilians hunkered down on that slight rise with more than a hundred-fifty horsemen swirling around them, it was all the proof anyone needed that those weren't warriors dressed up like white men!

Yet did that blue-belly Perry send help out then? Hell no!

To Shearer the only excuse could be that those men weren't soldiers.

On top of everything else, George knew Perry had to be dwelling on that trouncing he had suffered at White Bird Canyon three weeks ago, able to think of little else!

That wasn't to say all the officers were duplicitous cowards to Shearer's way of thinking. Why, Lieutenant Edwin H. Shelton had even stepped right up to Perry and volunteered to lead a detail that he would take across that narrow strip of ground left open by the hostiles. But the commander was having nothing of it.

“It's too late to do any good,” Perry equivocated by the time he got around to giving Shelton an answer. “They cannot last much longer—those men should have known better than to travel that road, as dangerous as it is.”

“We owe it to them to try, Colonel,” Shelton begged.

“If I did send any relief,” Perry refused, “it might well sacrifice our position here.”

“Here?” Shearer echoed, a heavy dose of sarcasm mixing with his Southern accent.

Perry wheeled on the civilian near his elbow. “We have a great store of arms and ammunition here. I fear that the moment I would start a detail to help the civilians on that hill, the enemy would rush in here and overrun what men I would leave behind. And all those weapons would fall into
the hands of the Nez Perce. Supplies meant for General Howard's column—”

“Bullshit, Colonel,” Shearer drawled. “It's a goddamned shame and an outrage to allow those men—those brave men—to remain out there and perish without you making an effort to save them!”

Perry was clearly growing red, about ready to burst, when one of his officers stepped in front of Shearer to plead their case.

“Let me ask for volunteers, Colonel,” Henry Winters begged, having finally worked up the nerve to question the battalion commander. “I won't take so many men that you'll be in danger of being overwhelmed. Give me the chance to show that can force the Indians to break off their attack simply by us starting out of here—”

“No, Captain,” Perry snapped, clearly irritated with this proposal by a fellow of the same rank.

To George's way of thinking, Perry was already frustrated and angry by all those pulling and prodding him to put together a rescue.

“It's simply too late,” Perry continued.

In exasperation, Shearer was turning away from the group as some of the bystanders grumbled. One of the men in the ranks grabbed the civilian's arm and spoke up, none too quietly.

“Shearer,” growled Sergeant Bernard Simpson a little too loudly to be under his breath, “you civilians damn well don't need to come to the First Cavalry for any assistance—since you won't be getting any!”

“Who said that?” Perry demanded.

Not one of those officers and enlisted who stood nearby dared admit a thing or betray their compatriot from L Company.

When no one answered, Perry snapped, “I'll court-martial the next man who questions my authority or my decisions!”

“I'm volunteering to take any of your soldiers with me,”
Shearer spoke as he stepped up. “After all, they're my friends. Those civilians are our own home guards—”

“Request denied,” Perry shot back. “I'm not letting go of a man to a lost cause.”

“Goddamn it, you puffed up blue-belly martinet!” Shearer roared, wagging a finger in Perry's face for a moment, then flinging his arm out in the direction of the skirmish. “You hear that gunfire? See that gunsmoke? That fight ain't over!”

“I'll ride with you,” Sergeant Simpson volunteered, stepping forward now. This soldier from L Company, First U. S. Cavalry, turned to Perry. “With all due respect, Colonel—I was the one who made the comment 'bout the civilians not getting any help from the First Cavalry.”

Perry's eyes narrowed menacingly, “Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir, I own up to it.”

Perry fumed a moment as if searching for what to say, then turned to Whipple. “Captain, place this man under arrest for insubordination!”

“Colonel?” Simpson grumbled. “Let us go and fight. I joined the army to fight our enemies … not each other!”

“Colonel Perry,” Stephen Whipple pleaded as he pushed Simpson aside, “I wish you would reconsider about the sergeant.”

“The man will stay under arrest,” Perry shot back. “Nor will I have you questioning my authority either!”

“Not about the sergeant, sir,” Whipple said, stepping up to stand directly in front of Perry. “I'm asking you to reconsider sending a relief party while there's still men to save.”

Shearer watched as Perry chewed on his lower lip for a long, breathless moment. Then it all came at a gush.

“Very well. Captain Winters!”

“Sir?”

“You'll accompany Captain Whipple and his gun crew—prepare a relief party.” Whipple saluted. “How many men, sir?”

“Two companies,” Perry ordered.

“I request to go along” Lieutenant Shelton offered.

Winters waved him on as both captains turned away from Perry. Shearer was lunging right in front of Whipple after a few steps, causing the officer to draw up short.

“I'm going, too,” George volunteered. “I'll bring some friends with me.”

“The more the merrier, as they say, Mr. Shearer,” Whipple growled as he brushed by the civilian. “The more the merrier.”

 

*
One and one-half miles southeast of the present-day community of Cottonwood, Idaho, and one-third of a mile east of the memorial and sign located off U. S. 95.

J
ULY
5, 1877

W
HEN GEORGE SHEARER TURNED AROUND TO FETCH HIS
horse, he ran right into a friend, Paul Guiterman, who already had the reins to their animals in his hands.

“I figger they're 'bout out of cartridges, George,” the stocky civilian declared. “And it's gonna take some before these soldiers are saddled up to ride out.”

Shearer studied the look on his friend's face a moment before saying, “Maybeso we ought'n give it a try on our own?”

“I was hoping you was thinking same as me,” Guiterman admitted. “I stuffed ever' bullet I could in our saddlebags.“

Shearer grinned at the man as he grabbed his reins and stuffed a boot into the stirrup. “Sure you was a Yankee during the war, Paul?”

“I was Union down to my soles, you ol' Reb.” Guiterman swung up. “But I can still give one hell of a Rebel yell.”

As Shearer jabbed his heels into the horse's ribs, he said, “Better unlimber your tongue—'cause them Injuns just opened up a nice li'l road for us to sashay right on through!”

L
EW
Wilmot wasn't sure if his eyes or his ears were deceiving him. But—gloree! It looked as if two riders were sprinting their horses right through a narrow gap the warriors had left open between the soldiers' camp at Cottonwood and the knoll where D. B. Randall's “Brave Seventeen” were fighting for their lives.

“Lew! By God, here we come!”

Wilmot blinked, and blinked again, not sure what was happening when dim, distant figures emerged from Norton's ranch and started wriggling their way. The way his eyes were swimming with moisture and the sting of sweat,
the man wasn't sure just what he saw. All through the fight, Lew couldn't get the image of that pink, wrinkled, bawling baby boy of his out of his mind. Now as he dragged the back of a hand under his runny nose, Wilmot realized he just might see Louisa and the girls again. Just might get himself a chance to watch that boy rise up to manhood, too.

It was George Shearer hollering at him as the pair of riders approached—that slow-talking, hard-drinking Southern-born transplant who claimed he had served on the staff of no less than Robert E. Lee himself—and Paul Guiterman, both of them yanking back on their reins, horse hooves skidding, stirring dust into the golden air, sweat slinging off the animals and men alike as a few of Randall's men came lumbering out of the grass the moment Shearer and Guiterman stuffed their hands into those saddlebags and started tossing out boxes of ammunition.

“.45–70?” a man asked.

“Here you go,” Shearer replied, tossing him a carton of twenty as the Nez Perce bullets sang around them.

“Any. 44?”

“I brung some,” Guiterman declared.

“Where's ever'one else?” Shearer asked as he knelt beside Wilmot.

Lew was concentrating on holding the warriors back a good distance, where he knew the Indians weren't all that sharp with their rifles, “You're looking at us.”

“How many was comin'?”

“Seventeen.”

“Shit,” Shearer murmured. “Hope like hell we can hold 'em a li'l longer, Lew. Them blue-bellies sure do know how to dillydally when it suits 'em.”

“Dillydally?”

“We finally shamed that Colonel Perry into sending you some relief.”

Wilmot felt the smile grow from within. “You mean you ain't the only relief that's coming, George?”

“Lookee there now, you side-talking cuss you,” Shearer
said, slapping Wilmot on the shoulder and pointing. “There come your soldiers now!”

“Wh-where you going?” Lew asked as George Shearer leaped to his feet and lunged toward his ground-hobbled horse.

“Them Yankee blues gonna be all day getting here,” Shearer grumbled as he flung himself up onto the horse's back. “I'm fixin' to go nudge 'em to come a li'l faster, is all. Gimme some cover fire whilst I ride outta here, will you, Lew?”

Wilmot levered and fired, levered and fired again, over and over, then flicked a glance at that narrow gauntlet Shearer was racing through for a second time.

Beyond the lone rider, the soldiers were throwing out an overly wide, skimpy line of skirmishers as they began their two-mile advance on that low knoll east of the road ranch. As the wide advance of fifteen foot soldiers emerged from the mouth of the ravine known as Cottonwood Canyon, Randall's survivors could next spot about twice that many soldiers marching behind them in a much tighter formation. With his small looking glass Lew was able to see that they were accompanied by a Gatling gun. As this unit began to make its crossing behind the fifteen skirmishers, about twenty more soldiers, all mounted, shuffled into view and began to cut obliquely across the skirmishers' path—