Sioux Dawn, The Fetterman Massacre, 1866 (18 page)

From sloshing buckets all three poured the cold, clear liquid into kettles and mess kits. Then turned around for a second trip to the creek. Every step of the way Wands held certain he was watched by at least a hundred enemy eyes. Sensing half that many arrows and rifles pointed at his back.
Perhaps they don't jump us because they think we're positively crazy.
Reaching the corral with White and Fuller after the last trip, Wands had finally convinced himself it had been a crazy, suicidal stunt. But for some reason, one he had pulled off.

A few minutes later the lieutenant understood he wouldn't get away with his trip to the creek scot-free.

“Lieutenant!” a soldier yelled.

“It's Daniels, sir!” screamed another.

He ran to the northern edge of the corral overlooking Crazy Woman Crossing. Down by the cottonwoods, backdropped by the glittering gold-dappled stream itself, stood a distant figure in an army-blue tunic and gray britches. The figure stumbled and weaved out of the water, shoulders gyrating until he ripped his hat off, revealing two long, black braids. With a howl the lone warrior began his savage dance. Round and round he stomped the dust while the soldiers watched in fascination. Two more Sioux dragged a limp, naked body across the stream, up the bank to join their friend dancing in soldier clothing.

Wands choked. “Yes.
That's
Daniels, Private.”

As Glover watched, Donegan shoved two young soldiers aside, swapping his Henry for a trooper's Springfield. Seamus dropped to his belly smoothly, pulling the Long Tom into his shoulder. Quickly he gauged the distance, windage, then squeezed the trigger. His lead ball landed far short.

“That's enough, mister,” Wands ordered. “It's a waste of precious ammunition. You'll never hit anything that far off.”

“Man's gotta try—”

“Daniels is beyond caring now,” Wands said.

“He's
your
bloody friend!” Seamus growled. “You won't even try?”

“I can't allow you to waste our ammunition,” Wands ordered as he reached down to stop the Irishman. Marr and White yanked the lieutenant off Donegan just as Seamus figured the meaning of the warriors' creekside performance.

“Sonsabitches!” Donegan muttered, fumbling with the sights and watching the scene unfold below.

No man was prepared for what came next.

While his two companions held Daniels' body propped between them, the dancer ripped off the lieutenant's scalp.

Donegan cursed under his breath, clicking up the first of the long-range leafs on the rear sight. He squeezed off another round. The ball kicked up some dust a few yards from the dancer. The warrior turned, exposing his genitals to the enemy.

Some on the hilltop groaned in helpless frustration. Yet the Sioux had only begun their sport. The warrior laid open first one thigh. Then Daniels' other thigh spread apart, muscle pink and mottled before blood gushed free.

A second leaf clicked into place. Seamus squeezed again. The ball dropped into the dust, closer still. Yet not close enough to threaten the dancer's bloody game.

With one savage swipe from the knife, the lieutenant's belly fell open, gut tumbling free like purple snakes writhing to the ground. Beneath the coils the dancer performed his bloodiest work, finally shaking his trophy aloft at the end of his arm.

The Sioux spun around, pushed Daniels' head back and stuffed the genitals into the lieutenant's mouth as a final desecration of the body.

“What'd he just do?” one private inquired.

“You don't wanna know, lad,” Donegan growled over his rifle, snapping the third and final sight-leaf into position. “Believe me, you don't wanna know.”

He held on the warrior's head, about high as he trusted himself to hold. Sucked a deep breath, let half of it out and squeezed again. This time he knew before the muzzle-smoke even cleared. The others cheered before he watched the damage for himself.

Down below, the warrior wheeled slowly on his heel, his chest a bright red, staring at the gushing hole in astonishment. Instantly, the other two dropped the lieutenant's body and dove into the trees. Leaving the dancer to die in the dust beside the soldier he had mutilated.

“An eye for an eye,” White growled bitterly. “An appalling spectacle of savagery.”

“Tarradiddle, Reverend.” Donegan rose to his feet. “No eye for eye … just take twenty of these bastirds for every one of us now!”

The Irishman whirled and cut a swath through the soldiers, stomping back to his trench.

As Seamus left, Glover watched a young private crumple to his knees, gagging, his belly throwing up what bacon and hardtack was left from breakfast.

“It's … just like he said it'd be.” The soldier choked, then wiped his hand across his mouth.

White helped the young man struggle to his feet. “Just like who said it'd be?”

The boy pointed to the creek. “Him, Reverend. The lieutenant. Daniels talked with me last night, most of my watch. Couldn't sleep. Had a nightmare … 'bout his own death. That dream he told me … 'bout the Indian attack—it's all come to pass here today!”

“What's your name, son?”

“P-Peters.”

“Private Peters, I want you to remember something,” White soothed as he helped the boy stumble toward the west wall of the corral. “If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off. If thy eye offend thee, pluck it out. We have been offended. Oh, merciful Lord, have we been offended! And mark my words, Private. We'll do much cutting and plucking before this day is out!”

*   *   *

The cool water had done much to bring three of Glover's wounded around so they could return to the trenches in time for a renewed attack on the corral.

In their first charge up the slope the Sioux didn't rein up out of range for the soldier guns. Instead, they circled, continuing down the slope, then raced right back toward the corral in a frontal attack.

“They mean to ride over us, Donegan!” Marr shouted in warning. “You got that Henry of yours ready?”

“These h'athens've learned about sojur guns.” Donegan tried to spit, but found his mouth full of cotton. “You and me have a wee bit of a surprise to hand 'em, won't we, Cap'n?”

“Do what damage you can, Seamus,” Marr encouraged. “Boys, you best hurry for they don't figure to give you time to reload!”

“Get your powder down quick, brethren!” White exhorted. “Let not the ball tarry behind.”

“You are a one, Reverend!” Terrel roared loudly. “We get our arses pulled outta this fire, I'll give thought to changing me faith from Catholic!”

“Why, Sergeant … I'll take that as a compliment! And a promise as well.” White brought the rifle to his cheek.

Instead of gliding away along the west wall of the corral as they had done all afternoon, the warriors thundered on in a red wave. Here and there a pony stumbled in a prairie-dog hole, a rider sprawling. Yet for every one who fell, it seemed three more appeared in his place. The tidal wave rose, drumming closer and closer.

When close enough, the two repeaters barked and chattered. Marr and Donegan pumped their Henrys as fast as they found new targets. White fired, then dropped the heavy, one-shot Springfield and pulled the pepperbox from his belt, preparing for a hot time of it at close quarters.

The more he fired the weapon, the more Donegan liked the way the Henry bucked in his hands, the smooth action of the lever, the way he could lay the front blade on a brown chest and squeeze, assured that warrior would tumble off the back of his pony.

“Holy Mither of Mary,” he marveled out loud, “this is some sweet rifle!”

“Your partner there'd loan me his gun, my Irish friend,” Terrel called out lustily, “we two'd show these red bastards what real shooting's all ab—”

Marr turned in time to watch the sergeant pitch backward out of the trench, his long rifle slowly tumbling from his grasp as he stumbled among the mules lashed between two freight wagons. Glover had watched the arrow hit the wiry sergeant. He found himself at Terrel's side before the soldier had settled in the dust.

“The … g-gun, me boy,” Terrel whispered roughly. “Use … use it.”

Without hesitating, Glover raked the big rifle into his shoulder, kneeling right beside the sergeant's body. Squeeze and fire. He helped turn the tide. One final wave of warriors swept over the battlefield, leaning from their nimble ponies to drag away their wounded and dead.

Glover rose to his feet, shaking. Squeezing on the musket trigger still. Yanking and pulling and … until Marr grabbed his hand.

“It's over, son. Over for now.”

The photographer nodded, letting the captain take the gun before he fell to his knees beside the sergeant.

“It's only me stomach, boy.” Terrel tried to laugh weakly.

Glover looked down at the growing patch of moisture spreading across the blue tunic. In the center of it Terrel's dirty paw clutched a feathered shaft. He swallowed hard.

“Not to worry, I tell you…” Terrel's eyes misted as he tried to focus on the faces gathering close above him.

“That's right,” Donegan soothed, on his knees, leaning over the soldier. He blinked his own stinging eyes. The shaft trembled, heaving in with a tremor, out with a whimper. “Not to worry, Sergeant.”

“Shit.” Terrel fell deadpan a moment. “You know better than that, Paddy. Man takes a hit in the belly, it don't hurt all that much. Just … just his ol' heart floods his belly till there ain't no more Irish red left to pump.” He turned his head to the side, spitting up some bright fluid.

Donegan wiped the sergeant's chin as one of the men moved up with some muslin bandages.

“Sergeant,” the photographer from Philadelphia whispered, “you got nothing to worry about now.”

“Shit. This bleeding Irishman here with me knows better than that, boy.” Terrel coughed more dark blood up. “That's right.
You,
Irishman.” He gazed steadily at Donegan. “What with all you know 'bout war … and men dying.”

“Save your strength——”

“Maybe you can fool these others, hiding outta uniform the way y'ar. But you're more a damned soldier than any these others, Paddy. More a warrior than them red bastards what killed me for sure,” Terrel replied.

“Hush,” Donegan prodded. “Say it after me: ‘O, my God…'”

Terrel seemed to smile within that face of his gone gray. “Last rites, eh, Paddy?”

“‘I am heartily sorry…'”

“… ‘for having offended thee—'” Terrel choked on his own fluid. “Your kind won't fool me, Irishman. Just a shame we both come through that big, dirty war to die here … in this dirty, little war.”

“… ‘I detest my sins most grievously…'”

“Difference is, Paddy—” Terrel broke off in a spasm, coughing up dark blood. “Difference is that out in this frigging war, nobody'll remember a one of us.”

With the sergeant's next breath, Seamus recognized the gurgle at the back of Terrel's throat. A heartbeat later the sergeant lay quiet. Seamus eventually slid his hand over the edge of the dark, moist stain. Hoping to feel the slightest movement.

Seamus Donegan lowered the body to the ground, turned and loped away before any of the rest would see his tears.

Chapter 13

Abigail prayed the Irishman wouldn't find out she had watched him cry. She knew that would shame a man like Donegan. Though he had every cause to cry. Twice this day she had watched him do what must be done. First for Lieutenant Templeton and that bloody arrow. Then for the sergeant who only needed someone to know he had lived, to know he had died.

Lieutenant Wands had Peters build a fire near the wounded men. Having pulled the last of their firewood from the sowbelly under the wagons, he used the greasy sage to keep the tiny fires burning. Then Wands put Pvt. William Wallace to work butchering a dead mule.

“Can't be one dropped back this morning,” Captain Marr advised. “If these men going to eat mule meat, Private, best you make that meat fresh.”

He sliced each strip from the mule's muscular haunch, sniffing at the stringy meat to tell what was palatable. At least he figured the meat could be made edible, what with a little cooking over that smoky fire Peters was nursing. Soon enough both privates had the bloody strips of mule hung over the tiny flames, suspended on bayonets they jammed in the soil, circling the fire-ring.

Through most of the afternoon Abigail, Katie Wands and her colored servant Laura had bandaged and fed the severely wounded. Three more had been added to their number after the last rush which claimed Terrel. Three more to bleed in the center of their desperate, little compound. Every one of them waiting to die as the shadows lengthened and the sun fell headlong toward the Big Horns.

Abigail Noone crawled from soldier to soldier. Scraping what dirt she could from their faces. Brushing away the insects that gathered wherever the sticky blood collected. Earlier in the day ants and grub beetles had discovered the dead horse and mules. Searching out the stench of decaying flesh growing putrid beneath an unforgiving sun. By late afternoon the insects were busy on the wounded.

“Frank?”

Noone turned, finding her standing behind him at the edge of the shallow trench, wringing her hands in her once-starched dimity dress. Now it hung in lumpy folds, smeared with the blood and vomit of the wounded.

“Abby.” He got up, nudging her back where they could talk in private. “The baby?”

“She's sleeping now. Katie's watching her. I … I need to feel you.”

She hurled herself into his arms, still not sure how she was going to ask this of him. How any woman could ask it of the father of her child. She brought her face away from his chest, lifting it, inviting. Frank kissed her fiercely, ignoring the taste of stale whiskey on Abby's tongue.