A Cold Day in Hell (50 page)

W
hen the daring warrior appeared from behind the knoll atop his pinto, Second Lieutenant Homer W. Wheeler wasn’t ready for the sight of such a man prancing his animal back and forth out there, clearly within range of their carbines, a man who taunted the soldiers and the Pawnee scouts as he exposed himself to their bullets with no more protection than a buffalo-hide shield on his left arm and a bonnet of eagle feathers on his head, it’s red wool trailer spilling over the pony’s rump and all but brushing the snowy ground.

“Goddammit,” Wheeler growled as his unit’s bullets kicked up spouts of snow here and there around the pony’s hooves. He turned to the trooper next to him, reaching for the soldier’s Springfield. “Gimme your carbine! I’ll take a crack at him!”

But try as he might—holding high on the chest, then raising his sight to the warbonnet, in addition to adjusting what he thought he should for windage—not a damn one of his shots hit their target as a small but growing crowd around him cheered for all of those taking a crack at the warrior, jeering the magically charmed Cheyenne horseman.

“Lookee there, Lieutenant!” one of the troopers yelled, pointing to their left among the brush that bordered the village.

Just then a warrior poked his head up, yelling something quickly before his head disappeared again within the thick clump of willow.

“All right, fellas,” Wheeler declared. “Looks like we got us
another good target to practice on. Let’s see if any of you can hit that damned redskin!”

Immediately a half-dozen guns cracked into service, but in that momentary lull while the soldiers reloaded, the warrior’s voice cried out—more shrilly this time, and plainly terrified.

“Pawnee!” a voice shrieked behind the Lieutenant.

Wheeler turned on his heel as a Pawnee scout came sprinting up to the skirmish line, terror on his face.

Gesturing wildly, the scout repeatedly shouted, “No shoot Pawnee!”

Standing to wave his arm, and shouting, Wheeler ordered the second platoon to hold their fire while he sorted things out. “That’s one of your Pawnee in there?” he asked slowly of the scout, pointing at the brush. “In there?”

Without hesitation the scout nodded his head, pointing too. “Pawnee, him. Pawnee, me. Pawnee!” Then he turned away from the lieutenant and hollered to the distant clump of brush.

Like a frightened bird poking its head from a clump of ground cover, the warrior peered out. When both the Pawnee scout and Wheeler began to wave him on, the warrior finally leaped from his place of hiding, darting straight for the soldiers.

“Pawnee,” the frightened scout said breathlessly as he reached the skirmish line, pounding himself on the chest. “See, Pawnee!” He grabbed hold of his long scalp lock, braided with three shiny conchos and the claws of a red hawk. “Pawnee!”

“Pawnee hair, yeah,” Wheeler said, shaking his head and turning back to the rest of his men, who went back to their attempts at knocking that lone Cheyenne warrior off the back of his prancing, dancing pony.

Wheeler wasn’t sure whose shot it was—there were so many guns going off together in a steady staccato—when the warbonnet began to tip to the side and the man under it slowly slipped from the pony’s bare back into the snow, causing a small eruption of the trampled white flakes as he sprawled across the ground in a heap.

“I got him! I got him!” someone hollered, jubilant enough to leap to his feet and dance a quick jig.

“You stupid bunghole!” another challenged. “It was me!”

“Both of you—take yourselves a good look there!”

And from beyond the slope of that hill came another elaborately dressed warrior also displaying a great eagle-feather warbonnet, with a slightly oblong shield attached at his left elbow. His pony shot out to halt in a spray of snow between the
soldier lines and the fallen Cheyenne, where its rider leaped off, knelt, and immediately swept the wounded warrior into his arms. Rising, he laid his comrade across the pony’s withers, then leaped up behind the warrior and kicked the animal into motion.

At the crest of the hill other warriors stood cheering that act of bravery, raising their weapons and shields, bows and lances, raising their voices to the heavens above.

And down there at the timber, the soldiers went back to work. Some stood to aim at that retreating target. Others knelt, locking an elbow into the crook of a knee to steady their weapons. The rest plopped to their bellies in the frozen, icy snow, attempting to keep that front blade on a distant bobbing target.

Almost reaching the hillside … when the rescuer threw out his arms, his head pitching back as he twisted off the rear flank of the pony. The warrior he had rescued bounced along upon the horse’s withers for a few more yards before tumbling off as well, cartwheeling along a skiff of wind-crusted snow.

“Two of the bastards!” a corporal muttered with a grim satisfaction. “Two for the price of one, I’d say!”

“Their medicine was bad today,” Wheeler corrected. “That’s all it was. Just a bad day for their medicine.”

Then the lieutenant closed his eyes a moment.

And I pray mine will be stronger.

In that first hour of the battle the fighting had been hot and furious as the
Ohmeseheso
contested control of their village, countering the charges of the cavalry—hastily setting up an ambush here and there as they covered the retreat of their women and children.

But now that the sun had fully risen over that frozen valley to dispel the slinking mists from every last one of the cold places, dazzling the eyes with its painful brilliance reflecting off the snow, the battle was slowly becoming no more than a painful standoff.

The army had possession of the valley in a jagged line running from the twin buttes west of Mackenzie’s observation point on the north, across and through the village to the southwest, where the Pawnee and Shoshone were ensconced up the slopes and at the top of the high ridges where they could fire down on the enemy. Any Cheyenne now left behind that blue line lay dead in the village abandoned by all to the dogs. Out of the cold shadows slunk the wild-eyed curs, creeping so low their bellies nearly
brushed the snow, ears back and noses wary as each one went to sniff the freezing horse carcasses, the motionless bodies of the Cheyenne who hadn’t broken from their lodges quickly enough.

A sniff, then a lick. Dead, yes. But not yet dead long enough to become carrion to these half-feral beasts.

On they loped, those wild dogs picking up the scent of the next odor. Then the next. And the next. The stench of death hung heavy over what had been their village.

Brave Wolf shivered. Not so much from cold as from fear. Down there in the village remained his sacred Thunder Bow. Last spring, when he had taken the vow of a Contrary, the bow had been blessed by the old shamans—never to be used in hunting, only in battle to protect the People. And it was never to go inside a lodge. So Brave Wolf always hung it outside his door, in the branches of a nearby tree. Where the Wolf People scouts now would find it, perhaps burn it when they destroyed the camp.

Worse yet: they would steal its magic from him!

Oh, how he felt hollow and cold, as if a shaft of frozen winter ice had been driven through the center of his chest. So sad, yet so afraid, he could not cry. At least not while they were fighting their way out of the west end of the village, each man scurrying from tree to tree, dodging from rock to rock, then working his way into the ravines and across the valley to the far side where he could huddle among the rocks on the northern slopes.

The soldiers were not all that lucky trying to pin down the warriors who used every cleft and shadow to their advantage in staying out of sight, where they could snipe at the
ve-ho-e
in the valley.

Below Brave Wolf some of the young men were talking excitedly, pointing, planning how they were going to sneak back in among the pony herd that was already captured—to steal it back from the soldiers and their Indian scouts. As he watched, the first two went to their bellies among the thick, leafless willow that stood taller than a man and crawled out of sight, like snakes making their creep upon an unwary prey.

“Help me, brother.”

Brave Wolf turned at the sudden address from a clump of brush, thinking he recognized the voice. “Is that you, Braided Locks?”

“Here is my hand, brother,” the wounded warrior said. “Pull me in there with you.”

As he dragged his friend by the arm, Brave Wolf could see all the blood smeared across Braided Locks’s belly. As the
wounded warrior twisted over, he saw the exit wound in the small of the back.

“You are dying?” he asked, laying his friend in his lap.

Braided Locks rested his head upon Brave Wolf’s thigh, his eyes clenched in pain, his breath short and ragged until his breathing came easier. “No. No, I am not dying, brother. This hurts too much to be dying.”

“How long have you been shot?”

“It seems like all morning,” Braided Locks replied, finally opening his eyes in the shadows of those rocks at their shoulders. “I was in the deep ravine below, with the others when the soldiers on horses charged us. Some of us were near the top of the ravine and fought the soldiers there, close enough to see their eyes. Just as the others did farther down the ravine—toward the village. They too fought close enough to see the soldier eyes.”

“We lost many of our friends down there at the ravine.”

“I know,” Braided Locks said softly, his voice reverent with remembrance. “As I fought and fell, then crawled all the way up here to these rocks, the bullets struck around me so loud, I thought it was hailing. I thought I was crawling on bullets, there were so many.”

Brave Wolf shuddered looking at that dark, purple pucker of a bullet hole. “I have only this to put on your wounds,” he admitted, slashing two strips off the back of his long wool breechclot.

Braided Locks looked down at himself, regarded the bullet hole in his belly. “Thank you, brother. But it seems the cold is enough that I do not bleed anymore. See?”

He watched his friend’s eyes slowly close and immediately became more frightened. “Are you dying?”

The warrior wagged his head slowly. “No. I am … just so tired. Now that you are here with me … I want nothing more than to sleep for a little while.”

As it became painfully clear that his men were going to pay a hefty price for not sealing off the Cheyenne escape, Mackenzie sent First Lieutenant Henry W. Lawton across that dangerous no-man’s-land with another order for his dismounted units.

Stop all firing except at close range, and then—only when sure of a target
.

Across that snowy valley fell an eerie quiet, punctuated from time to time with a short burst of gunfire from both sides before
the rifles and carbines fell silent once more. During the lull Mackenzie dismissed his orderly.

“I don’t need you for a while. Get some rest and some food.”

More tired than hungry, William Earl Smith led his horse back into the thick brush where a few other soldiers had hunkered down, tied off his horse, and made himself comfortable enough to doze in the cold shadows.

He awakened to find only one soldier still nearby. Smith inched over, figuring to nudge the man awake—but found the soldier dead, his mouth and eyes open. Shot through the head, right where he had been sitting. No more than an arm’s length from William Earl.

A cold drop slid down his spine as he leaped to his feet, nearly collapsing as one leg refused to move—frozen. Tingling with the pricks of renewed feeling, Smith rubbed it hurriedly, then dragged the reluctant leg along, back to the brush where he had tied his horse.

Mounting up, he led it down into the boggy ground, where he eventually reached the streambank. There he pulled off his boot and plunged his leg—britches, stocking, and all—into the icy water, figuring that was sure to end the sharp pains he was suffering. After a bit he struggled back into the saddle and, dripping wet, endeavored to report back to Mackenzie. He was weaving back and forth atop his McClellan, finding it difficult to keep the frozen leg in its stirrup when he spotted the rest of the orderlies ahead, signaling him from the high, rocky observation point.