A Cold Day in Hell (54 page)

“You remember when we was boys, Lute? How you was always the one to raise more hell than me?”

“Damn if I didn’t.”

“Well, it’s time you went and raised some hell,” Frank declared, clamping a hand on Luther’s shoulder.

“Now, you and me both know some of them Arapaho scouts tried to run them horses off a while back and they couldn’t get close enough. Then a bit later, some of Cosgrove’s Shoshone boys tried too—but they had the same poor luck.”

“And one of ’em was shot for all his trying,” Donegan added, the beginnings of a grin wrinkling the corners of his red-flecked eyes. “Besides, your friend, Three Bears, and some of his boys gave it a shot too before they failed.”

The elder North nodded, saying, “But none of them had the Irishman and me working with ’em at the same time.”

Luther cocked his head slightly. “I’d like to give it a try, brother.”

“No fry,” Frank replied stiffly. “If our boys try it, I’ll expect them to bring in those horses—right?”

“What you got in mind, Frank?”

“I want you to take them ponies away from the Cheyenne. Just you and one more.”

Luther shrugged. “Only two of us, eh? Tell me what your thinking is.”

“All right—the two of you head down east, hugging the timber,” Frank replied. “And when you hear the signal—Seamus and me firing steady-like right under them rocks—you go ride out across that open ground where those snipers been laying their shots all morning. Get over yonder fast as you can, whooping and hollering and waving your hat … and you wrangle them horses back this direction.”

“Whoooeee!” Luther exclaimed, pounding the side of his fist against his big brother’s chest. “Does sound like a fine chiveree of it!”

“And while you’re having yourself a good time and drawing the attention of them snipers, little brother,” Frank continued, “this big dumb Irish Mick and me are gonna take us a handful of our Pawnee—and we’re gonna silence them guns once and for all.”

“Well, shit, Frank—now I don’t know just who’s gonna have the most fun!”

“Get on with you,” Frank declared. “Go pick a man and get yourselves ready.”

“I know who I’ll pick, brother—Boy Chief.”

Donegan asked, “Wasn’t he with us when we took Tall Bull’s village in sixty-nine?”
*

Luther nodded. “
Pe-isk-le-shar
. But a few years back he took the white man name of Pete Headman.” Then Luther turned away, heading toward the saddled horses.

The older North took up the short reed pipe he carried
around his neck and blew on it. The shrill call of that whistle orought up more than twenty of the Pawnee. From them he quickly picked five to accompany him and Donegan. When Frank had informed them of their mission, the five turned away to begin stripping for battle. Each one of them took off all they had left of army clothing, changing from boots to moccasins, but were sure to tie bandannas around their heads to look as unlike the Cheyenne as possible, since they would be plunging into that no-man’s-land and thereby coming under the muzzles of half a thousand soldier guns.

Only an hour or so before, Frank North had ordered some thirty of his scouts to climb the far slope at the upper end of the : amp in hopes of getting around and behind those Cheyenne fleeing into the breastworks. But to the cold, battle-jarred troopers, North’s men looked too much like Cheyenne against the Snowy heights. When the soldiers began firing into his Pawnee, the scouts had to retreat under cover, rock to rock, back to the Village while Frank and Luther raged at some of Mackenzie’s officers for their stupidity.

A half hour later as Seamus and the rest had circled east from the camp, Frank whispered, “Here’s where I figure we’ve got to be right under ’em.”

From the captured village he and Donegan had led the five Pawnee through the leafless thickets bordering the valley floor, heading east into the thickest of the willow bog on horseback, finally tying the animals at the bottom of that long, low plateau that jutted from the northern heights. From there the seven had crept on foot from rock to rock, ever so slowly, keeping an eye On both the distant snipers across the valley floor and on those snipers up above them in the rocks with the big guns trained on the field hospital.

“Lute oughtta be chomping at the bit by now,” North said after he signaled the Pawnee to check their weapons and be ready to open fire.

“If you’re ready—let’s open the dance!” Donegan bawled.

Frank rolled out to his left, and the Irishman to his right, plopping onto their bellies to fire almost simultaneously. To one side or the other the Pawnee scouts darted, hoping to cause the most surprise and confusion in the Cheyenne marksmen. Hoping for a little fear as well.

The steady staccato of gunshots booming from that northern rim of the valley was Luther North’s signal. With a whoop and
a war yelp from the Pawnee sergeant, the pair kicked their heels into their horses and sprinted into the open—immediately drawing the fire of the warriors still on the rounded knoll, along with a few shots from those Cheyenne above Frank and Seamus.

As the handful of Pawnee pumped their bullets into that hole in the rocks where the enemy marksmen had set up shop, North and Donegan scrambled up onto their feet and hurried into another patch of scrub timber. Yard by yard they climbed the steep slope, ice and talus spilling away beneath their boots, making the footing treacherous.

A shadow crossed the snow in front of the Irishman.

One of the marksmen suddenly pitched out of a crack between two large rocks and slid twenty feet down the snowy slope, lying as still as the old snow where he was sprawled.

In that twenty-below-zero cold, bullets whistled past their heads, slapping the bare branches of the brush around them as the Cheyenne and the Pawnee traded war songs and hurled taunts at one another. A second Cheyenne was hit, pitching backward out of sight to the angry wails of his companions.

For a few long moments the gunfire from above fell silent … then some loose talus pitched down the slope toward the white men with a clatter.

Donegan dared stick out his head for a better look, finding at least six warriors fleeing up and across the slope toward the west.

“Lookee there! Those war dogs’re skedaddling!” Frank cried out.

“By the saints if they’re not!” Donegan cheered. “Whaaahooo!”

North took up the reed whistle and blew on it, a different call this time. As the handful of Pawnee turned their attention to their leader—Frank silently signaled them to pursue the Cheyenne.

“Just for good measure,” North growled. “Make sure they’re on the run, all the way home.”

“Them Cheyenne can’t go home,” Donegan replied dolefully, looking out across the valley at the village. “Mackenzie’s fixing to put the whole damn thing to the torch.”

Frank sighed, watching the Pawnee scrambling up the talus and around the scrub brush after the warriors for a few moments. Then he blew on the whistle a last time, recalling his scouts. At first they seemed reluctant to return when they
stopped, talking among themselves, arguing, perhaps—then ultimately turned back donwslope.

Down below on the valley floor Luther North and Boy Chief rode along the fringe of the captured herd, driving them along with yelps and grunts, waving saddle blankets in the air as shots rang out and bullets hissed over their heads. First one of the Cheyenne ponies dropped. Then a second pitched headlong into the snow. Finally a third and forth horse dropped before the two whooping wranglers raced the stolen ponies out of rifle range and across the creek into the village.

To the young warrior named Dog, Crow Split Nose was an uncle who had helped raise him, the sort of man each boy needed to teach him the ways of man and honor in battle. Chief of the
Himo-we-yuhk-is
, the Crooked Lances, Crow Split Nose had been an undisputed hero during the fight with the soldiers at Little Sheep River.
*

As glorious as that summer battle had been, for Crow Split Nose today must surely have been a better day to die.

Camped at the upper end of the village, Dog had sought out his mentor when the first shots and shouts rang out in the valley. During those frantic heartbeats as the People poured from the lodges and warriors began to organize the retreat of their women and children, throwing up their solid line of defense squarely in the middle of the village where they would make their stand and give no ground—Dog found Crow Split Nose in the heart of the fighting.

Not only were the soldiers’ scouts attacking from the eastern edge of the village, and the soldiers themselves riding in from the north rim of the valley, but there were some of the enemy firing from the edge of the ridge just to the south of the lodges. In those frightening moments Crow Split Nose’s gallant band of warriors were holding ground against an enemy pouring bullets at them from three directions.

When the last of the little and old ones had been hurried to the west, Crow Split Nose turned to his fellow warriors and ordered that they begin their retreat at last, lodge by lodge, until they could find safety among the ravines at the upper end of camp. He declared he would be the last to withdraw from the enemy, then ordered the rest of his warrior society to fall back.

For his bravery, Crow Split Nose fell beneath at least two Snake bullets fired from the ridge over their heads.

Dog watched it happen, sensing almost as much pain as if the bullet had torn through his own gut. When he started back for Crow Split Nose, two older warriors had to drag Dog from the field into the mouth of a narrow, twisting ravine.

“We must get his body!” Dog had yelled at them. “We are Crooked Lances!”

Eventually he convinced them, although they would be coming under the same murderous fire that had just killed the chief of the
Himo-we-yuhk-is
.

When Dog and some of the others dashed in to attempt the rescue, the enemy’s fire was hot all about them. So concentrated was it that when they attempted to drag the body away, three of them were wounded and they had to give up. For the moment Dog had to content himself by covering his uncle with a burial blanket.

“Those Indians will scalp him and butcher his body,” Dog growled once he and the others had reached the safety of the ravine. “We cannot leave our chief to the enemy!”

“It is no use,” one of the voices protested.

“For you, perhaps,” Dog protested, no longer a young man—feeling the power of his People this terrible day. “For me, I must die trying. As I would die trying to rescue any one of you, my brother Crooked Lances.” He scooted forward, picking up a flat red stone.

“I will come,” said one as he crabbed forward to join the youthful warrior.

Another inched up on hands and knees, crouching by Dog. “I will come too.”

Across the stream they dashed again, only three of them this time, zigzagging as they ran through the willow and up onto the flat beneath the red ridge where the Shoshone began to call out their taunts and shoot down into their midst. Quickly Dog and another grabbed the dead man’s arms while the third snatched up the burial blanket. Turning, grunting, dragging, weaving this way and that, the trio lumbered back to cover with the body as the bullets slapped the icy snow and zinged off the red rocks, rattling among the nearby lodges like hailstones.

Back at the mouth of the narrow ravine, all three were panting as the others congratulated them on their courage.

“We must remember this day,” a young warrior said, gulping air.

Dog replied, “We will remember this day—and all Crooked Lances will remember where our chief fell.”

“How will we remember?” asked another.

“I put a red stone on the spot, marked with the sign of Crow Split Nose. We will remember—for at that place a brave man died for his people”