Sioux Dawn, The Fetterman Massacre, 1866 (19 page)

She tore away, sobbing. Able to control her tears no longer. A cheek finally pressed against his chest, Abigail began. “Don't let them kill the baby … our baby, Frank! Please.”

“What're you talking about?” He held her away from him for a moment, until she wriggled back into his embrace.

“Don't you see, Frank? The Indians wanted the baby. They've wanted her all along. It's as plain as I'm standing here. They told us they'd steal her if they had to—”

“You're talking utter nonsense, Abby,” he soothed, his own mind fogged in fatigue and fear.

“No,” she argued. “They wanted her at that first camp north of Laramie. Remember? For God's sake—let them have her before … before the end.”

Frank slowly held her away from him again, studying Abigail's stained face, eyes swollen from crying. “The end, Abby?”

She nodded, sobbing uncontrollably. “We're not going to make it. But she can! They want her. She'll live! All I want is my baby to live. Don't let her die with us!”

Abby's knees went out from under her. Frank caught her as she fell, lowering his wife to the ground, where he clutched her against him, leaning back against a wagon wheel as he cradled her in his arms. She felt so very small whimpering against him now. Gently he stroked her hair, whispering his assurance.

“I'll see that she lives, Abby. With God as my witness. What happens to us won't happen to her. You must believe me.”

He rocked her back and forth in the lengthening shadows, cradling her as the sun sank lower and the breezes chilled, sliding off the foothills. Frank pulled the shawl round Abby's shoulders, whispering into her auburn hair.

“I'll see that she lives—on my oath. I'm her father, for God's sake.”

Back in the shadows behind that wagon, Reverend White sighed, his old heart shaken. Moments ago he had stepped outside the corral to relieve himself in privacy, slipping back to the circle when Frank had pulled Abigail away from prying ears. White found himself caught with nowhere to turn, embarrassed to overhear Noone's secret promise to his wife. As he listened, White kneaded the sore muscles of his left arm where Abigail herself had pulled free the broken arrow shaft.

Praying that no one else must know their secret.

Careful now of where he laid each boot, the minister crept along the backside of the wagon, sliding into the corral several yards from the couple.

“Lieutenant Wands.”

“Reverend. Care for a slice of mule?”

He waved his wrinkled, waxy hand. “No, thank you. I've come to appeal to you. For the mercy of our little band.”

“What're you talking about?” Intrigued, Wands rose along with his voice.

“One of us must make a ride for help.”

“I know,” Wands admitted sadly. “But I can't spare a single one. Any of my men capable of sitting a horse would surely be capable of holding a rifle. I can't allow the loss——”

“I'm not requesting permission of you as my superior officer, Lieutenant. Best you understand that.” His words yanked Wands up short. “I'm a civilian.” Wands nodded in answer. “You've got no authority over me, Lieutenant.”

“That's where you're wrong.” He wanted to say this as gently as possible. “You're a civilian destined for a military post in the Mountain District. Traveling along a military road, guarded by the army. You are under my authority, Reverend. Like it or not.”

“Then,” White grew thoughtful, drawing himself up, “you'll either agree to my appeal on the grounds of humanity, or you'll have to shoot me as a deserter.”

“A deserter?” Wands squeaked, watching Donegan and Marr inch closer to the fire and the argument.

“That's what I'd be if I rode out of here—on that strong horse of yours over there. Right, Lieutenant?”

“Well … I don't——”

“The way I've got it figured, son, I can make it back to Reno in four hours.”

“Hard riding. Perhaps.” Wands agreed reluctantly.

“How long Captain Proctor and his boys take to get ready to march?”

Wands stared at the sun impaled on the sharp peaks. “Best you should figure two hours from the time you ride in till the time they march out.”

“So if it takes me four hours to ride horseback there … it means they'll be at least twice that long marching back here.”

“Even double-time,” Wands added.

“If they're able, Lieutenant,” Donegan argued. “They'll be marching that road in the dark.”

Wands shook his head, then stared into the dirty, wrinkled face before him. He had to smile at the gray-headed old man. “You are something, Reverend. After all you've done today—now you're volunteering to go on this fool's errand.”

“Not just me,” White answered. “I want one of your young ones to ride with me. In the event one of us … one doesn't make it.”

“No! Absolutely not, Reverend. I've heard enough of your nonsense. Now understand this, all of you. This cockamamy idea of White's doesn't hold water. Fifteen hours it'll take. Hell, fifteen hours from now … that sun'll be high in the sky once again. And by then…” He paused, sucking in a long breath like dry rawhide dragged over sand. “By then I figure there won't be a one of us left here to rescue anyway.” Wands let that sour a moment before he plunged ahead. “No, Reverend. I need you here. With the rest of us. With
me,
for the love of God.”

White paused, studying the faces of the troopers gathered round him. He gazed down at those faces etched with pain. “Sorry, son. I don't figure a one of your soldiers will shoot me in the back if I walk over there and climb on your horse.”

“Perhaps they won't,” Wands growled, feeling like he'd been backed into a corner. “But you're forgetting that
I
will.”

“No.” White shook his head. “Especially you, Lieutenant. You won't shoot me.”

“L-Let him go, Alex.”

That voice shook Wands to his heels. He looked down, seeing Lieutenant Templeton struggling up on one elbow.

“George——”

“Let White go. If I gotta make it an order——”

Wands shook his head. “But you're … the wound—perhaps your thinking is fogged.”

“The reverend cleared the ravine!” Lieutenant Bradley urged.

“That's right!” Peters cheered. “He cleared the ravine. If any one of us can make it to Reno and bring back some … some help—the reverend here can.”

“Damn right!” young Fuller agreed.

“If I can't change your mind…” Wands whispered when things grew quiet. “Take my horse.”

“And a volunteer can ride mine.” Captain Marr pulled his thoroughbred stallion into the group. “Finest animal this side of Independence, Missouri. He's got the bottom to make the ride.”

“Wallace?” Wands asked, waiting for the young private to step forward. “Will you go … William?”

He saluted smartly and nodded. Never had he had an officer address him by his first name. He glanced at White eagerly. “The two of us make a dandy ride of it—won't we, Reverend?”

“Best of luck, Reverend.” Wands saluted the preacher, then presented his hand.

White shook it. “Won't be luck I'll need, Lieutenant. I'll count on your prayers.”

With a rustle of cloth Abigail and Katie pressed forward, brushing their tearstained cheeks against White's before he was helped atop Wands's mount. Boyish William Wallace stood petrified and red-faced as both women kissed his cheeks. Marr and Donegan boosted the young soldier onto the thoroughbred's back.

“He starts to fight the bit, son,” the captain explained, “you give him his head. He'll get you to hell and back if he has to. Bring him back to me if you can, soldier. God's speed, gentlemen!”

With that, Marr slapped his stallion on the rump and sent him off. Marr wheeled away, swiping at his nose, knowing the odds of ever again seeing that beloved animal.

White whirled the army horse in a tight circle, saluting the compound's brave defenders. “May you wear God's protection like a shield about your shoulders! Mrs. Noone—I'll expect to kiss your daughter's tender cheek when I return!”

Startled, Abigail watched the old man yank his reins to the side, bringing the army horse round beside young Wallace. Both riders whipped their mounts over the tongues of two wagons, galloping straight toward the sharp slope dropping from the east side of the knoll. Almost instantly a wild cry arose from the warriors milling down the western slope. Half a hundred leaped atop their ponies, beginning a race down the south ravine to cut off the escape of the white riders.

“Just look at their faces, Alex,” Templeton urged from the ground. “Look at our men, every one! The hope they share right now is worth a hundred times more than White's gun would ever mean to us. That hope——” He broke off coughing, clutching his chest in pain.

Without so much as slowing their breakneck speed, White and Wallace spurred their animals over the sharp lip of the knoll, forcing the horses to skid and slide through the sage and loose sand like two maddened, four-legged beasts. Careening straight down the east slope to the Montana Road that would lead them south toward Fort Reno, away from this crossing at Crazy Woman Fork.

For an anxious moment it appeared to those left behind that the warriors might cut the couriers off by reaching the road first. But the reverend had seen and heard the devils coming, putting heels to his animal. Wallace was instantly at White's knee, low along the thoroughbred's neck, his cap long ago swept off in the wind. From the corral there rose a brief cheer amid the tears and back-slapping as the pair reached the road a few hundred yards ahead of the Sioux.

In seconds the riders disappeared from view. Only the fading hoofbeats and bitter screeches of the pursuers told those left behind that the chase continued. Leaving behind the crossing at the Crazy Woman. That wild race, of many miles yet to go.

And too few hours left to pray.

Chapter 14

A cooling breeze whisked down the creek drainage, born of icy snows forever frozen on the peaks above their little corral. Twilight sank like gloom around them. Most of the defenders realized they were alone once more. In the middle of this wilderness. Surrounded by hundreds of Sioux. Waiting for sunup. And now counting two less riflemen among their desperate number.

“Guard will be mounted every hour,” Wands explained moments after White and Wallace galloped away. “I won't take the chance of a man falling asleep because he's pulling a two- or four-hour watch. We'll need four able-bodied men on a watch. One picket on each side of the compound. Peters, Higgins, Lewis and I'll take the first watch.”

Then he stopped. And counted. Wagging his head.

“Lieutenant.” Peters inched into the firelight. “There ain't enough of us left to pull watch, sir.”

“He's right.” Frank Noone moved up. “Let's just figure on keeping each other awake tonight. We can … we'll get through till sunup, sir.”

Wands swallowed, that knot of sentiment thick in his throat. “Till sunup, men.”

*   *   *

For the first time in all those evenings on the trail west, Ridgeway Glover really marveled at the texture of colors wrought by thin, high air of this country at twilight. As silence slipped down upon them with the darkness, he studied how each succeeding range of hills and high peaks contrasted with those stacked before it—from a deepening black of those most close at hand, to the purples and violets found farther away surmounting the rugged necks of the mountains. A tint of rose brushed the fringe of those hills dippling the northern skyline, making this foreign land seem less sinister for the moment. Somehow less cruel and punishing here as day hung in the balance before sliding headlong into the black unknown of night.

In that distant fringe of rose along the hills beyond the Crazy Woman hung a thin cloud of dust. Glover finally noticed Wands intent upon the same cloud. Photographer stood silent by West Point lieutenant for minutes until he whispered, “You think that's more of the savages?”

Wands nodded. “Yes, Mr. Glover. Out of the north—only thing it could be. No one else up north knows we're here. Only the Sioux. Likely sent for reinforcements to join in the sport they're planning here come morning.”

Frank Noone joined them at the north wall. “Probably won't be so bad after all, Lieutenant. Whole thing'll be over before the sun's full up.”

“Yes, Frank. One good rush would do it now. Not that many of us left can hold a gun.”

Glover watched Noone glance back at Abigail cradling their daughter near the firelight. Rocking and murmuring a lullaby to the infant.

Maybe I'll be able to do it at sunrise, Frank thought. Just before dawn he could hide her little body among the baggage and blankets and the old straw tick in the wagon. The Indians would be sure to look …

He blinked his eyes, smarting at the tears he didn't want the others to know he couldn't contain.

They'll find her. The Sioux will. They'll raise her like one of their own. Just a baby now … she'll never know what happened here in this dirty little corner of nowhere
 …

A change in pitch in the nightsounds brought a sudden chill to every man in the compound. North, along the creek itself, arose a new hum to the darkness. The kind of change in sound a man might miss during the day when his mind crowded itself with shrieking savages and the cries of the wounded or the braying mules. Nightsounds now as plain as the hand in front of his face at twilight, now that things grew quiet and a man could no longer ignore the fear that lay in his belly like a cold stone.

Glover flinched as the magpie called,
creee-awww-hawww-awww.
Then burst into flight from the trees by the creek.

“We're all a little jumpy,” Wands admitted. Nothing more to be said. Every man among them silent, nursing his own thoughts of home, of what might have been if dealt a better hand.