A Man Called Sunday (2 page)

As he knelt there, an old man appeared on the opposite bank and settled himself to offer his prayers to Man Above. It struck Luke that he knew the old man, a Cheyenne chief called Old Bear. His instincts had been correct. This was Two Moons's village, as he had suspected. Knowing there was little time to stop Reynolds before he attacked a peaceful Cheyenne camp, Luke called out to the old man, “Old Bear!”

Startled, Old Bear looked right and left before spotting the tall, sandy-haired scout across the foggy river. He recognized him at once. “Ah, Dead Man,” he called back. “What brings you to our village?”

Luke wasted no time in warning the old chief that a large column of soldiers was right on his heels. Old Bear assured him that his village was on its way back to the reservation and had no quarrel with the soldiers. “The soldiers think they have found Sittin' Bull's village and are plannin' to attack. I'll try to stop them, but you must prepare your people to defend themselves in case the soldiers won't listen to me.” Old Bear was immediately alarmed, and quickly left to return to his village to warn the others. Luke hurried back to his horse. There was little time to tarry.

Within a mile, he met Reynolds's forward scouts, led by Frank Grouard with Bill Bogart by his side. “You need to tell the colonel that that ain't no Sioux camp,” Luke sang out as he approached. “It's Two Moons's village—Cheyenne.”

“He don't know what the hell he's talkin' about,” Bogart said.

Grouard was not overly concerned one way or the other. “It don't make no difference,” he said. “It's too late now, even if the colonel did give a damn. He's already split the column up to take positions in front and back of the village. He's gonna fight 'em. Won't make no difference if they are Cheyenne. They're sidin' with the Sioux, anyway.”

“Well, that don't make a helluva lot of sense,” Luke protested. “These Cheyenne ain't headin' toward Sittin' Bull's camp. They're goin' the other way. Two Moons ain't lookin' to fight the soldiers, but if the soldiers attack his village, he sure as hell will—and I expect he'll figure he ain't got no choice after that but to join up with Sittin' Bull if the army ain't got no better sense than to attack him. So you're just gonna have that many more Indians to fight.”

“Like I said,” Grouard repeated, “it's too late to stop it now. We're gonna end up fightin' all of 'em, anyway, Sioux, Cheyenne, Arapaho. Hell, they're all hostiles.” He turned to look at the column of troopers already approaching. “These boys is primed and ready to fight after so many days freezin' their hind ends off in the saddle.”

Colonel Reynolds had divided his six companies into three battalions of two companies each. One battalion was sent to take positions on the ridge behind the sleeping village to cut off that avenue of escape. The second battalion was to be held in reserve, while the third was to descend the bluffs and launch the primary attack. This battalion, headed by Captain James Egan and Captain Henry Noyes, made up the column just then arriving at the edge of the bluffs. Luke could see that Grouard was right; there was no chance of stopping the ill-advised attack on the Cheyenne camp. Still, he knew he had to try.

Leaving Grouard and Bogart, he rode back to meet Captain Egan. The captain was no more prepared to consider Luke's assessment of the Indian camp than the two scouts had been. He was frank, in fact, to inform Luke that, since this was his first expedition with a full-scale cavalry attack, he would do well to listen to the experienced voices of Grouard and Bogart. “I don't think there's any doubt that we've found the combined camps of Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse,” he said, “and now we'll go about the business of teaching them a lesson.”

Luke pulled his horse aside to watch as Egan led his company down the icy bluffs. Enraged by the deaf ear given to him by Egan, he felt a heavy sense of guilt for not preventing the attack on Two Moons's camp, but he realized there was nothing more he could do. As he had predicted, the horses had a difficult time maintaining any sense of purposeful progress as they slipped and slid down the icy gullies and ravines. By the time they had gained secure footing at the base of a deep ravine that stood between them and the Cheyenne camp, the Indians had been alerted to their presence, although with little or no time to prepare a defense. Consequently, they were forced to flee in the face of a cavalry charge through their village. Grabbing their rifles and ammunition, the Indians hurried their women and children to the ridge behind the camp to take cover. This was what Reynolds had anticipated. However, the battalion charged with the responsibility to cut off the hostiles' escape was unable to negotiate the rough terrain in time to be in place. As a result, the warriors were able to move up into the gullies and take command of the ridge. Soon they were able to lay a heavy barrage of rifle fire down upon the troopers who had now taken control of their village. The momentum of the battle changed at once as the Cheyenne snipers began to pick off the troopers from their vantage points above the village. Before very long, Colonel Reynolds was forced to withdraw his troops from the village to prevent further casualties. He ordered the village burned, including all supplies and weapons.

A disgusted witness to what the colonel would call a victorious battle when his column had retreated to report to General Crook, Luke Sunday had taken no part in the fighting. To his way of thinking, he had signed on to help fight hostile Sioux and had no cause to fire upon people he had once lived with, who had done him no harm, and had received him cordially in their village on several occasions in recent months. In his opinion, the Indians had taken the day, forcing Reynolds to retreat, and would now be emboldened to join their Sioux friends in their war against the army. The Cheyenne had not escaped without loss, however. Their tipis had been destroyed, and large stores of food and ammunition had been lost, as well as about eight hundred horses the soldiers had captured.
Well, Two Moons,
Luke thought as he took one last look at the destroyed village,
you mighta thought you were at peace, but you're at war now
. Disgusted by the army's attack on the peaceful village, he turned the paint's head away from the burning camp and followed the retreating troops.

Chapter 2

Colonel Reynolds ordered his weary command to withdraw twenty miles back to Lodge Pole Creek to rendezvous with General Crook. Already suffering from a night march before their attack on the village, as well as freezing temperatures, the likes of which Luke compared to the coldest in his memory, Reynolds's troopers were fortunate that the Indians had not come after them. By the time they reached the mouth of Lodge Pole Creek, horses and men were totally exhausted. It was close to nine o'clock that night before the troop went into camp. All food supplies were gone, the soldiers having been issued only one day's rations the day before, and there was precious little coffee left. Luke found it difficult to understand why the soldiers had destroyed great quantities of food in the Cheyenne village, without taking some to eat. He was baffled by a commanding officer who ordered all food, supplies, guns, and ammunition destroyed when his men sorely needed all four. They had managed to capture about eight hundred horses from the village. The ponies were left practically unguarded as weary sentries slept at their posts, causing Luke to speculate on how long they'd hold on to them.

Fires were built and what little coffee could be found was put on to boil. Luke paused to share a fire with some men in Captain Egan's company. They were involved in a most earnest conversation regarding the fight behind them, and the fact that all of the dead had not been recovered. “I don't like it worth a damn,” a skinny corporal with a heavy black mustache complained. “I know of three men that's still a-lyin' back there in that camp, and somebody shoulda been sent to recover their bodies before them savages cut 'em to pieces.”

His comment brought forth a few grumbles from those gathered about the small fire and caused one of them to ask a question. “Has anybody seen Foster?”

No one had. “He was with me and Thompson when we set fire to those two tipis at the edge of the camp, and he went to help Bob Rivers after he got shot,” one of the men said. “Bob got shot twice in the leg, and couldn't walk.” He paused for a moment as if trying to recall. “I didn't see either one of 'em after that.” As an excuse, he offered, “Them Injuns up on the ridge got the range about then and started pepperin' us pretty hot. There wasn't no time to think about anythin' but gettin' the hell outta there.”

Genuinely concerned at this point, the corporal said, “I need to find out if they got back all right.” He got to his feet and went to seek out Captain Egan.

Egan was equally concerned when informed that two of his men might have been left behind. After a quick investigation, it was confirmed that that was the case, so the captain went directly to advise Colonel Reynolds. As it turned out, the colonel had already been confronted with reports that his quick withdrawal had caused the abandonment of three of his dead. “That is bad news, indeed,” Reynolds said to Egan in weary reply. “But there is little we can do about it at this late point. I'm sorry to say that it is highly unlikely your two men have survived after this length of time.” When the captain started to protest, the colonel stopped him short, advising him that his supplies and ammunition were already low, and he had had orders to withdraw to Lodge Pole Creek to rendezvous with General Crook. “What's done is done,” he said.

Luke listened when the captain returned to tell the skinny corporal that there was nothing that could be done to learn the fate of Foster and Rivers. The news was not well received by the small group of soldiers gathered about the fire, with some faintly subdued grumbling about the responsibility of their officers to recover the wounded and dead after every battle. The Indians' penchant for mutilating the bodies of their enemies was well known among the troopers. “I don't like it, either,” Captain Egan told them, “but we were ordered to move on.”

“I reckon I could go back and see if I can find out what happened to your two men,” Luke volunteered. His announcement brought forth looks of surprise on the faces of those gathered around the fire. He had made no comment up to that point.

“That might not be such a good idea,” Egan said, “riding back into that swarm of Indians. The minute they see you, you're a dead man.”

“I don't plan on lettin' 'em see me,” Luke replied.

Egan took a moment to study the scout's face, wondering if the man was just plain crazy. “All right,” he finally said. “If that's what you wanna do, I don't see any reason to tell you no. But, mister, you'd best be damn careful, because nobody will be coming to help you. The column will be joining up with General Crook as soon as he shows up, and we'll probably head back to Fort Fetterman.”

Luke drained the last swallow of coffee from his cup and said, “Much obliged.” Then he asked the soldier who had last seen Foster exactly where he should look for the trooper named Rivers.

He was told that Rivers had been wounded while the troop was pulling back from the lower end of the Cheyenne village. “There's a deep gully about ten or twelve feet across, about forty yards shy of where that outmost tipi stood before we burned it. Rivers got hit when he was runnin' along the edge of it.”

“I'll go take a look,” Luke said. “Maybe they're hidin' in the gully, but the captain could be right. They're most likely dead.” He went to fetch his horse, then disappeared into the night.

“That's the last we'll see of that crazy son of a bitch,” the corporal commented.

“You're probably right,” Egan said. “It wouldn't surprise me if he just hightails it somewhere as far away from that Indian village as he can get. He didn't take part in any of the action back there that I could see. I don't know if he has the stomach for fighting.”

* * *

Bob Rivers pressed his body tightly up against the icy face of the gully he had been hiding in since shortly before nine o'clock the morning before. Cold, hungry, and in pain, he held his pistol in his hand. There was one cartridge left, and he planned to use it on himself when the time came. Why the Indians had not found him was a mystery he could not explain, but he knew they were bound to at any time, especially since it would soon be daylight. He had never expected to end up this way, alone and frightened, while his comrades left him behind. He had heard the warriors and the wailing women as they searched through the charred remains of their village, and on one occasion, the screams of a wounded soldier who, like himself, had been abandoned. He was determined not to give them the satisfaction of torturing him until death came for him.

He could only speculate upon what had happened to Calvin Foster. A man he had always thought of as a friend and one he could count on, Calvin had come to help him when his legs were shot out from under him. But when they realized that the company had pulled back, allowing the resurging warriors to counterattack, they knew they were trapped. They had no choice but to hide in the gully and hope to get an opportunity to escape after dark. Throughout the long day, they had waited for the warriors to find them, but somehow their hiding place had been overlooked. The bleeding had stopped, but he was afraid the leg was broken. One thing he knew for sure, he could not walk on it. With no better option, Foster had decided to go in hopes of finding a stray horse to carry them out of there. So once it was dark, he made his way down the gully, promising that he would return, with or without a horse. Now that it would soon be dawn, Rivers could not help wondering if Calvin had seen an opportunity to save his life and chose to do so instead of coming back for him. He had to admit that, had their positions been reversed, he might have given in to the impulse to do likewise.

Realizing that his desperate grip on his pistol had caused his hand to ache, he switched it over to his left hand and tried to relax the fingers on his right. The bitter cold made it difficult to flex the stiffened fingers, and he wondered then what had happened to his gloves. He had removed them when the attack was launched, knowing it too cumbersome to try to fire his pistol while wearing them. They were not inside his heavy coat where he usually put them, and he couldn't remember much of anything that immediately followed the shots that tore into his leg.
Calvin, where the hell are you?

Feeling the fear rising again in his veins, he switched the revolver back to his right hand, hesitant to tell himself what he knew now to be true. Calvin wasn't coming back. It would be daylight before much longer, and there was little chance that he would not be discovered. Even if he was not found, what would become of him? He couldn't walk. He had a weapon with one bullet. He could not hope to survive without help.
Maybe
, he thought,
I should try to crawl down the gully to the river and hide in the bushes.
With that in mind, he struggled to pull himself up between the rocks to see if anyone was near.

With a great deal of effort, he managed to raise his body high enough so that his eyes were above the level of the gully rim. What he saw was enough to stop his heart for an instant, rendering him paralyzed with fear. He wanted to drop back in the gully, but he was afraid to move lest the dark shadow slowly moving up from the bottom of the deep defile should see him. He could not see clearly in the dark bluffs of the river, but the outline told him that it was a warrior, and if he continued, he would pass right by him. The time had come for Bob Rivers—and he had to make the decision that was bound to mean the end of his life no matter which way he chose. Should he spend his last cartridge on himself, or use it to buy a little more time on earth after he alerted other warriors who heard the shot? There was no time left to decide. The warrior was almost upon him! He lifted the muzzle of the revolver to press against his temple, deciding on a quick death by his own hand instead of a long agonizing one in the hands of the Indians.

“Bob Rivers?” the voice, low and subdued, whispered.

Rivers choked back a sob in relief, almost unable to answer, his finger had already begun to tighten on the trigger. “Yes! God yes,” he gasped when he could speak. “I'm Bob Rivers.”

Luke knelt beside the wounded man. “My name's Sunday. I'm fixin' to get you outta here.”

“Praise the Lord,” Rivers whispered. “I thought I was a dead man for sure.”

“Well, you still might be,” Luke said. “Reckon you oughta pull that pistol down? If it was to happen to go off, I'da wasted a trip back here to fetch you.” The hand holding the revolver dropped, suddenly limp. He had not been aware that he still held it to his temple. “How bad are you hurt?” Luke asked. “Can you walk?”

“No, I can't put any weight on it, else I'da sure as hell tried to walk outta here before now. I don't feel like I've got much strength left. I've been bleedin' a lot.”

“I reckon I'll have to tote you, then,” Luke said, “at least till we get back to my horse in the brush back down by the river. We're gonna have to hurry before it gets daylight, 'cause there's still thirty or forty warriors that are camped here. The rest of the village is gone—most likely to find shelter with Sittin' Bull or Crazy Horse on farther up the Powder. This bunch stayed behind to act as a rear guard in case the soldiers decided to go after the women and children, and half of 'em's fixin' to ride after your soldiers to try to get their ponies back.”

“How do you know that?” Rivers asked.

“I heard 'em talkin' about it when I snuck up close to see what they had on their minds.” He didn't bother to tell Rivers that before the ill-fated attack, he could have walked into the village and been welcomed. He couldn't take that chance now, since the angry warriors were out to kill any soldiers they found still alive. Even if some of them recognized him as a friend, and let him go, it was unlikely they would permit him to take the soldier out with him. “They didn't have enough ponies for all of 'em to ride after their herd,” he continued. Reaching down, he extended his arm to help Rivers shift his weight onto his good leg. “Here, turn around and I'll squat down a little. I'm gonna give you a piggyback ride down this gully. Can you hold my bow in your hand and still hang on?”

Rivers said he could, and readied himself to climb on Luke's back. Once Luke had him up and had settled under the weight, he started making his way carefully down the snowy defile. “Did you run into Calvin Foster down near the river?” Rivers asked. “He went lookin' for a horse in the middle of the night.”

“Was that his name?” Luke asked. “I ran across a soldier that was cut pretty much to pieces. Maybe that was Foster. I couldn't say, but from the look of it, they most likely killed him a few hours back. The blood hadn't froze yet.”

Stunned, Rivers realized that it had probably been Calvin's screams that he had heard during the night. Suddenly feeling too weak to hold his head up, he let it drop on the broad shoulder of his rescuer. Aware of the sudden draining of the wounded man's strength, Luke said, “Don't drop my bow.” He had no sooner said it than he heard his bow bounce off a rock and settle in the snow. Moments later, the arm around his neck relaxed and Rivers started to slide down to the ground. “Damn,” Luke murmured, and quickly spun around to catch his burden. He stooped down and let Rivers's limp body fall across his shoulder while still holding his rifle in one hand. Before straightening up, he reached down and grabbed his bow with his other hand. “Damn!” he said again under the deadweight on his shoulder. “I wish to hell you'da waited till I got you back down this gully before you passed out.”

It was a slow descent down the slippery defile with Luke giving thanks that Bob Rivers was not a big man. Carefully placing each foot, and bracing under his load as he stepped, he managed to make it down to the riverbank without tumbling. Successfully down from the ridge, he could not relax his vigilance, for now he was faced with the task of evading the twenty-five or thirty Cheyenne warriors gathered near the water's edge. There might even be one or two among them who knew him from prior visits to their camp. Looking up at the sky, he guessed that he had an hour or more of darkness. After that, he didn't give himself much hope of slipping away from the village without being seen. Another troubling thought came back to mind then. His horse, although a strong pony, had already been ridden hard. It was in no shape to race across the prairie carrying double. He needed another horse to carry Rivers, and there was only one place to get one. With a reluctant sigh, he lowered the unconscious man to the ground.
You better not be dead,
he thought, and bent low over him to make sure he was breathing.