Black Sun, The Battle of Summit Springs, 1869 (9 page)

The twelve sprawled in the tall grass, fanning out in a crude half circle about the time the warriors made their first serious charge past the defenders clustered at the crest of the hill. For the better part of an hour the Cheyenne kept at it, racing back and forth, sweeping the hillside in a giant arc before they would rein about to sweep in the opposite direction.

While bullets for the most part sang harmlessly overhead, it was the iron-tipped arrows falling among the defenders that created the greatest danger. A bowman could fire uphill without showing his position with a puff of rifle smoke. And, perhaps even more telling, a warrior using a rifle had to expose himself to his enemy, rising from the grass long enough to fire his bullet in a straight line.

The Cheyenne archers, on the other hand, had only to fire their arrows into the air, where they would gently arc, falling from the autumn sky onto the hilltop.

From time to time the whistling shafts fell among the white men, but for the most part did little damage. One scout's leg was pinned to the ground. Another had his coat sleeve pierced. Even Curry shrieked in panic when a shaft punctured the wide brim of his slouch hat. Yet the greatest number of arrows fell among the frost-dried leaves of the trees where the horses stood hobbled and tied. Each time the shafts came down in waves, clattering like dry beans falling through the limbs and branches, the animals pranced nervously, snorting and pulling at their halters.

Three warriors lay dead down the slope, close enough to the white men that none of the rest dared rescue the bodies. Back and forth the Cheyenne milled for a few minutes, as if debating among themselves.

“What you make of it, Cody?”

“They're trying to figure why their medicine went bad, I suppose.”

“One of them bucks is brave enough to try,” said Ziegler.

“Yep, here he comes,” Donegan said.

A single warrior had removed his war-shirt, handing it to a companion before he kicked heels against his pony's ribs. He carried only a military carbine as he charged up the hillside, from the muzzle of which dangled a single war-eagle feather.

“You want him, Irishman?”

“Tell you what, Cody—I don't get him, he's yours.”

“I like the cut of your cloth, Donegan,” Cody said, smiling as he pushed another cartridge into the Blakeslee loading tube for his Spencer. “Let's see how good you are.”

“Like running buffalo?”

“You might say that.”

Over the front blade of his Henry, Seamus worked at keeping the warrior down the blued barrel, between the notches of his rear sight. Swaying side to side, then dropping off the far side of his pony, the Cheyenne was not about to give the Irishman a good target.

“Bleeming bastird,” he muttered, at last moving the front blade to the pony's head as it strained up-slope. Donegan squeezed the trigger.

The war-pony pitched forward, spilling its rider into the tall grass, both bodies kicking up thin clouds of dust as they settled.

“You still want the rider?” Cody shouted as a few of the scouts hurrawed behind Donegan.

“Damn bloody right I do!”

“Then knock 'im down, by God!”

The hot brass spat from the chamber as he levered another round into the breech, the smell of hot oil and burnt powder like nothing else on the dry, autumn wind with a bite of winter to it.

Standing to face the knot of white men above him, the warrior brought up his rifle, firing it without fear when Donegan squeezed off his own shot.

The blast knocked the Cheyenne backward two steps. He stopped, staring down at his chest, which began to seep red.

Donegan chambered another round and let out his breath, held high again, then squeezed.

Disbelieving, the warrior stumbled three more steps downhill, clawing at his chest still, then fell backward, still-legged. And moved no more.

Down the slope arose cries of frustration as the warriors milled about for a moment then slowly, one by one, headed off to the northeast.

“You boys wanna follow 'em?” Cody asked, that big smile on his face.

“You and your ruddy notions!” Donegan replied, crawling to his feet. “Do we wanna follow 'em? he says.”

“I'm for getting us them four scalps,” Curry cheered. “C'mon, boys!”

Curry led the others down the slope where the white men yanked and pulled at the Cheyenne bodies, searching for plunder or at the least a souvenir to show the soldiers back at Wallace.

“I've taken a liking to that belt pouch, Ranahan,” Donegan said as he strode up on the frantic activity over the dead warriors.

“This?” Ranahan held the pouch up, admiring the colorful porcupine quillwork. “Thought it was pretty myself.”

“The plunder is mine, Ranahan.”

“We all got call to it, Irishman.”

“You watched me, like the others. I killed this one.”

“Get something off one of them others, Donegan. I like this pouch—”

“No,” and he said it quietly. “I want that pouch.”

“Best give the Irishman the pouch, Ranahan.”

He eyed Cody like a frightened animal. Then the small, feral eyes went back to Donegan. “All right, Irishman.” He slapped the pouch into the big man's hands. “It's yours. Take it. I … I didn't want it anyway. Just leave me his scalp.”

“You know how I feel about scalps—don't you, Ranahan? Remember Slinger—how you and Lane chaffed on him?”

The black eyes hardened with a glint of fire to them.

“Don't push the Irishman, Ranahan,” said Tom Alderdice. “Just leave it alone.”

Seamus watched as Ranahan suddenly turned on his heel, grumbling, moving off down the slope to join some of the rest combing over the other dead.

“That one doesn't like you much, Seamus.”

He looked at Cody a moment, then grinned. “Don't like him much either.” Seamus stuffed the pouch under his belt, letting the decorated flap hang free. “I'll damn sure be glad when he goes south to rejoin Pepoon fighting with Custer.”

“Soon enough.”

“Never soon enough for me,” Seamus whispered so that no other man heard. “Cowards and back-shooters only men I'm afraid of. I'll be happy when that one's gone south with Custer. Cowards and back-shooters…”

Chapter 6

December 1868

Reuben Waller didn't know if he liked the cold of December any better than the damned heat of September on the high plains.

And once again he wasn't all that sure what the hell he was doing in a place like this. Yet, one thing was certain—he had to keep moving or his toes might damned well freeze off.

Weeks ago, when the white soldiers of Carr's Fifth Cavalry had arrived at Fort Wallace, four companies of the Tenth Negro Cavalry received their marching orders. These buffalo soldiers, as they were called on the plains, were sent to Fort Lyon, some hundred miles southwest of Wallace. There they were to join Captain William H. Penrose of the Third Infantry, and one company of Custer's Seventh Cavalry, for a winter campaign. The combined force would drive the hostiles east toward the bulk of Custer's regiment, which at that moment was marching south into Indian Territory to punish the Cheyenne, Kiowa and Arapaho for their bloody raids on the Kansas settlements.

After loading a small pack train with what supplies Fort Lyon could spare for the coming campaign, Reuben Waller's unit under Penrose struck out south by east, with plans of establishing a depot in advance of the arrival of Carr's Fifth Cavalry, a much larger force. The commander of the department of the Missouri, General Philip H. Sheridan, feeling time was critical, ordered that a unit be sent into the field at the earliest moment. Therefore, Penrose's command was instructed to leave the lion's share of forage and rations for Carr.

Captain Penrose, breveted a brigadier general in the recent war with the South, did not lack for courage. He was determined to travel fast and lean, counting on Carr's main column to come up in time to resupply his small battalion. In that way he clearly intended to make a mark for himself and his men on the coming winter campaign, even if he had to do it the hard way.

Which is just what happened.

On the fifteenth of November, five days out of Fort Lyon, the Penrose wing reached the arid country north of the Cimarron River. There the troops were hammered by a heavy, wet snowstorm that sustained itself long enough to force his command to bivouac on a barren piece of ground that offered not only no wood, but no buffalo chips for burning as well.

Reuben Waller's advance guard ran relays to keep the rest of the troops moving through the driving snow until they reached the cheerless camp Penrose had selected. More than twenty-five horses in the rear-guard floundered as the temperature dropped brutally and the snow grew deeper. The animals gave out, refusing to go on. Waller ordered his squad to kill the horses where they had collapsed.

“It don't make no sense leaving a good animal behind for the Injuns,” Waller had explained to them that day as they fought to keep their bearings in the swirling buckshot of snow. “Likewise, it don't make no sense seeing a animal suffer what's gonna die anyway.”

For the next three weeks Penrose pushed his men forward a little more each day, crossing the Cimarron, eventually moving down to the barren water-scrape country north of the North Canadian. In the old days, Penrose informed them, this country had been part of the old Santa Fe Trail, a section called the “Journada del Muerte”—the Journey of Death. Wasn't a man in Reuben Waller's squad who failed to understand why the Spanish had give that name to this barren sheet of trackless landscape.

Death seemed to haunt every step of Penrose's command now.

For days the temperature refused to climb above zero while the troops hacked away at snowdrifts and cut away creekbanks for the wagons, working in relays, as no man could stand such exertion in the brutal cold for longer than fifteen minutes at a time. Still, Penrose pressed his men to make some progress every day, telling them Custer and Sheridan were counting on them. Somehow he convinced his troops the cold weather could not hold a grip on them much longer. Sooner or later a break would come.

By the time the Penrose command had slogged into the valley of San Francisco Creek, a tributary of the North Canadian, the Tenth Cavalry had marked their passing with a trail of horse carcasses.

It was 6 December. No Indians nor sign had been found since leaving Fort Lyon, nor had there been any reason to believe the troops had been seen by hostiles. With Waller's assistance, Penrose attempted to boost the morale of his men by keeping them busy on short scouts in the area. The forays accomplished nothing more than an explosion in the number of frostbite cases. Eventually the troops were forced onto half-rations, while they struggled to find forage in the barren valley for their starving animals.

“Care for a drink of something warm, Cap'n?” Waller asked, beating together the makeshift boots he had fashioned from horsehides when his own boots had cold-cracked and split wide open.

Penrose strode up, working his mittened hands and stomping his feet. His boots were lashed together with wangs made from strips of green horsehide. “You made coffee, Corporal?”

He looked sheepish. “No, sir. I don't got no coffee left. Just been heating water.”

“Drinking hot water?”

“That's right,” and Waller smiled. “Makes me warmer on the inside. Don't taste all that good, but it does warm me on the inside. Makes me think on last summer.”

“Well … now—yes,” Penrose finally stammered. He collapsed to a pile of saddles where he made himself comfortable. “Suppose you do get me a cup … a cup of that summer warmth you're drinking there, Corporal.”

*   *   *

After languishing nearly three weeks in bivouac at Fort Wallace, Major Eugene Carr received marching orders for his Fifth Cavalry on 20 November.

By the twenty-ninth the regiment reached Fort Lyon on the Arkansas River, now aware that Captain Penrose was already attempting to forge a trail into Indian Territory for Carr's command to follow. In two days his seventy-five, six-mule wagons were loaded. In addition to a government sutler who Major Carr was allowing to come along, the Fifth Cavalry would bring a half-dozen ambulances, as well as a remuda of mules, and a good-sized herd of cattle to feed the troops.

With Penrose already three full weeks ahead of him, Carr and three hundred men pulled away from Fort Lyon as the sun rose on 2 December.

Three days out a blizzard struck the command in almost the same place a howling storm had battered Penrose's column. Nonetheless, the soldiers struggled onward for three days against the mounting snow and dropping temperatures.

“Cody, what shall we name this barren piece of ground?” Carr asked that third evening beneath a canvas tarp where the major sat, penning his daily report.

“Freeze-Out Canyon.”

Carr and most of his staff chuckled.

“Agreed. On all future maps of this part of the country, Freeze-Out Canyon will be its name.”

“Wish you had a map to tell me where I could find Penrose's trail, Major.”

Carr set his pencil down on the tablet, staring at the dancing flames a moment. “I'll send you out tomorrow to do just that—do anything and everything to find the track of their passing.”

“Sounds as if you fear for them,” Donegan said.

“I do,” Carr said, looking up at the Irishman. The major was the sort of career officer who often found himself passed over because of his complaints to command about the welfare of his men in the field. “Likely by now Penrose has run out of forage for his animals, and what rations they have along can't last them much longer.”

“I'll take Donegan with me,” Cody said.

“And two more,” Carr advised, again brooding on the fire. He was evidently thinking of his diminished force of civilian scouts ever since Pepoon's men were ordered south from Fort Wallace to join up with Custer. “Take enough in case you get into trouble.”