Jason rode back about a mile south of where he told Little Hawk to bring the troopers. There he waited until he saw the scouts’ horses descend from the bluffs onto the river basin. When he rode out to meet them, he recognized Shorty Boyd riding between Little Hawk and Cross Bear.
“Bone?” Shorty asked, eyeballing the extra horse and saddle, when Jason pulled up beside them.
“Gone under,” Jason replied.
“Figured,” Shorty said. “Reckon hell’s got a new mayor.”
“How far behind are they?” Jason asked.
Little Hawk answered, “Half mile maybe.”
Jason looked up at the early morning sky. It would be light in a couple of hours and there was still some ground to cover. Shorty read his thoughts.
“Want me to go back and hurry the major along?”
“That would be advisable. And, Shorty, tell ’em to hold the noise down. We’ll be up ahead near the bend in the river.”
In a few minutes the advance guard emerged from the darkness with Shorty Boyd in the lead, followed by Major Linebaugh and Thad Anderson. Thad had volunteered his troop to ride through the Sioux camp and lead them out into the bluffs. When the main body of troops pulled into view, he directed Sergeant Brady to split B Troop off from the main column and stand down. Jason led the other four troops around the bluffs to the north of the camp where he would advise the major where to position his men for the most effective fire. Half of the column was positioned in the steeper part of the bluff where dozens of gullies had been formed. Captain Blevins’ H Troop was dug in on the left flank, down closer to the water. Lassiter’s D Troop held the same position on the right. When all the troops were positioned, Jason rode back to Major Linebaugh.
“I’ll be going back to give Lieutenant Anderson a hand now,” he announced.
Linebaugh stood in a waist-deep gully near the top of the hill, his pistol drawn. “When should I signal the men to fire?” he asked Jason as the scout prepared to ride.
“You won’t need to signal. You’ll damn sure know when the shooting starts. Just be sure your boys don’t shoot at us when we come hightailing it across the river and up that draw there.” He pointed to the draw in question. Linebaugh nodded and Jason touched Black with his heels. Without hesitation, the Appaloosa was off at a canter and the major was left standing in the fading darkness, nervously awaiting his first taste of Indian fighting.
“Don’t worry, Major darling, I’ll see you don’t get killed.” The voice was Shorty Boyd’s and Linebaugh jumped when he spoke. The little scout moved so quietly the major was not aware he was even there.
“Dammit, Boyd! I might have shot you!” the flustered officer blurted.
* * *
Thad was readying his troop for the assault when Jason appeared out of the dim light. He turned and waited for the scout to dismount. He hadn’t counted on having Jason with his unit making the charge through the Sioux village. He assumed he would be waiting in the bluffs with the main force but he had to admit he felt a great deal more confident with the presence of the scout.
“Well, Lieutenant, I reckon you can start your little party as soon as it gets light enough so the horses won’t break their necks. First, I reckon I’d better go down and see what kind of river bottom we got here. It wouldn’t do to have your troop sink in the sand, would it?”
Thad grimaced. It hadn’t occurred to him to look for the best place to ford the river. “That’s right,” he answered. “I was thinking it was time to do that.”
Jason smiled. “I figured you were about to tell me to check it. When you can see me signal you from the other bank, it’ll be light enough for you to start your attack.” He stepped up on Black again and went down to the water’s edge.
This was the season when the river was normally low and it had been a dry summer to boot. Still, there was nothing that would stop a cavalry charge like a soft river bottom so he walked Black up- and downstream in case there were any soft pockets to avoid.
Finding everything satisfactory, he stopped his horse in the middle of the current and listened. In the village, he could hear a solitary dog barking—no other sound—and within a few minutes, the dog stopped barking, leaving a heavy silence. He urged Black slowly forward and climbed out on the other bank. Walking his horse up through the willows and wild plums, he stopped under a cottonwood. From here, he could just make out the dark shapes of the Sioux lodges. Somewhere in one of those lodges, Black Eagle was sleeping. His one most pressing thought at this moment was to encounter that murdering savage. Black Eagle’s death would never pay for the life he took, for Jason would always keep Lark’s image tucked away in a special recess of his mind. But it might help ease the pain he felt because he had not been there to protect her.
The deep morning gradually faded to gray. It would be only minutes now. He thought about the plan of attack he had suggested and Thad had embraced. Thad’s troopers had better ride like hell when they swept through the camp because he had an idea that they were going to see more return fire than they had ever encountered before in an Indian camp. There should be no problem in drawing the warriors out after them and Jason was confident that was the best way to inflict heavy damage on the camp without a lot of casualties on the army’s side. He had not mentioned to Thad another reason he had suggested this plan of attack. By drawing the warriors out into the bluffs to fight, it would keep the women and children of the village out of the battle. Jason had seen too many of the typical cavalry attacks where every living thing in the village was slaughtered. It had never set well with him.
He was rescued from his thoughts by the first morning song of a thrasher, nesting not fifty feet from him in the brush along the river bottom. The dog started barking again. Behind him, across the shallow water, a horse whinnied. The dark forms of the tipis in the camp began to take definition. Soon he could make out the paintings on them. It was time. He turned Black and went back to the water’s edge, held up his hand and signaled the lieutenant. Almost at once the first riders entered the river and plowed across.
In less than ten minutes the entire troop was across and spread out along a line. Thad signaled with his hand and the troop started forward at the canter, making as little noise as possible. When within a hundred yards of the outermost tipi, a cry of alarm rang out in the camp. Thad raised his hand once more and shouted, “Bugler!” The charge was sounded, blasting the stillness of the summer morning like a sudden thunderclap, and the troopers sprang to a gallop. The first shot fired was distinct and loud. After that, there was a continuous roar of rifle fire.
The troopers were well into the village before there was chance for return fire. Many of the warriors were killed as they ran from their tipis, before getting the chance to fire their weapons. Jason had counted heavily on the element of surprise and, so far, it was going as he had hoped, with the soldiers sweeping past the center of the village and still no casualties.
Black seemed to know what was expected of him and he ran at close to all-out speed, his stride so even that Jason could drop the reins and use both hands to handle his Winchester. The camp was now in chaos with women and children screaming and running from the tipis, men shouting angry warnings, dogs barking. Return shots rang out and Jason saw a trooper fall from the saddle.
“Ride!” Jason shouted at Thad as he guided Black in beside the lieutenant. “Keep going!”
Another trooper fell and then a third as the besieged hostiles brought their weapons into action. Jason searched right to left but in the confusion of the raid, he was unable to identify Black Eagle, the Cheyenne. There was nothing he could do at the moment but ride and shoot. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a group of warriors running toward the pony herd. They would soon be in pursuit. “Ride!” he shouted again. The bullets snapping through the air around them were from repeating rifles as he had anticipated.
The line of cavalry was now approaching the other side of the village. The air was filled with the angry lead from the repeating rifles, making it seem to be hot as steam, and there was no need to encourage the troopers to make haste as they made for the river. Once past the last tipi, they merged into a column at the direction of Thad and Jason who stopped by the edge of the village to guide the stampeding soldiers. Jason pointed the way and Sergeant Brady led the troop across the river and headed up a wide coulee on the opposite side.
When he was sure all his men were following the sergeant, Thad kicked his horse hard and followed after Jason who was a half a length ahead of him. They plunged their horses into the water, bullets flying around them. Jason made the other side and climbed the low bank. He looked back in time to see Thad knocked from the saddle and disappear below the surface of the water. In a few moments, he surfaced again, staggering to get to his feet in the waist-deep current. His horse clamored up the bank and galloped after the others. Thad sputtered around in the current, trying to keep his feet, one arm hanging limp at his side. From the far bank a group of four warriors plunged into the water, racing toward the wounded soldier.
Jason slid out of the saddle and took a firing position on one knee. Oblivious to the shots ringing around him, he patiently drew down on the first of the four Sioux and squeezed the trigger. When the Winchester spoke, the first hostile doubled over and sank beneath the surface. Before his body could resurface, the second and third hostiles were cut down moments before they reached Thad. There had not been time to get the fourth Indian who sprang on the injured soldier. Thad seemed unable to defend himself and the hostile grabbed him by his hair and raised his scalping knife. Thad looked up in time to see the look of shocked surprise on the Indian’s face and the hole Jason’s bullet made in his forehead. Then, disoriented and dizzy from his wound and the shock of staring death in the face, Thad slid under the water, too weak to support himself.
Not sure whether Thad was dead or alive, Jason looked back at the village. It was swarming like an opened anthill with most of the warriors already on their ponies and preparing to chase their attackers. There was still time for Jason to gain the safety of the bluffs where Major Linebaugh lay in wait for the Indians. But he remembered a promise he had made to a young girl back in Fort Laramie. He gave Black a slap on the rump and the Appaloosa took off in the direction of the fleeing cavalry horses.
He scrambled back down to the water’s edge and, after laying his rifle and cartridge belt under a bush to keep them dry, plunged into the water and made his way, half walking, half swimming, to intercept Thad’s body as it moved with the current. There was no time to determine if he was rescuing a dead man or not. Only a few yards upstream the river was already churning from the feet of Indian ponies as the inflamed hostiles rode in hot pursuit of the soldiers. He could only count it as pure luck that no one paid any attention to the two heads bobbing above the water and drifting toward the opposite bank.
It was only after he had dragged Thad up into some thick brush that he was able to determine that he was still alive, although he had swallowed a great deal of water and was only half conscious. Jason figured Thad had come within a minute or two of drowning. He rolled him over and started working on him to expel the water. In the bluffs behind him, he could hear the roar of gunfire as Major Linebaugh’s volleys filled the river bottom with thunder. Peering through the bushes, he could see the hostiles as they were pushed back toward the river. “They’re gonna be right here in our laps if you don’t hurry up,” he murmured to the still unconscious man.
His efforts seemed in vain and he was about to decide he was pushing on a corpse when Thad coughed and a stream of water gushed from his mouth, followed by a coughing spasm, and Jason knew he was back among the living. Jason kept working on him and, with each push, a little stream of water trickled from Thad’s mouth. Then his breath came in gasps and his eyes blinked open. Jason rolled him over on his back then and stared at him for a moment. When he decided Thad was lucid, although still confused, he said, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
On his belly, he crawled back out to the water’s edge. Keeping low behind the bank he pulled himself back upstream to retrieve his rifle. Watching to make sure he had not been spotted, he returned to the wounded man.
Thad was alert when he crawled back up in the bushes. “Jason,” he gasped, “you saved my life.”
“Yeah, well, I might have saved you from drowning but you might bleed to death yet. Let’s have a look at that.” While he opened Thad’s shirt to expose the wound, he went on. “Better not thank me yet. I can stop the bleeding in your shoulder right enough but we’re in a helluva spot here. You might be plumb full of holes before we get outta here.”
He didn’t have much to doctor Thad with. He took the young lieutenant’s neckerchief from around his neck and pressed it tightly against the wound until the flow of blood dwindled. Then he took the rag and tied it under his arm and over his shoulder. The sounds of the battle seemed to be all around them, and when he took a moment to look, he found the reason why. “Looks like we’ve joined Tall Bull’s army,” he said to Thad. “From what I can see, Tall Bull’s braves have been driven back by Major Linebaugh’s boys. Trouble is, looks like they’ve dropped back to the riverbank on both sides of us to make their stand.”
Thad stirred and tried to sit up. “What are we gonna do?” he whispered.
Jason restrained him. “Nothing we can do but lay low. These bushes are pretty thick . . . course I’d like it if they were a whole lot thicker. Right now they hide us pretty good but I’d like it a whole lot better if they could stop a bullet.” As if to punctuate his remark, a rifle slug kicked up sand no more than a couple of feet away. “That one came from one of your soldiers, I reckon. You got any preference on what kind of bullet puts you under? . . . Sioux or army?”
“Damn, Jason, we’re in one helluva spot.” Thad looked around him, his eyes wide, the pain in his shoulder throbbing.
“We’ll be all right, son. Just lie low and don’t go flopping around and get that blood started again.” While he talked, trying to keep Thad calm, he worked away at the bank with his knife to make a rifle pit. “These bucks will get tired of shooting at those bluffs and wasting their ammunition and will probably high-tail it before long. Then we can ride on back to Laramie where that pretty little Miss Lynch can nurse you back to health.”
* * *
Tall Bull was stubborn. After an hour of shooting at the soldiers at long range, he rallied his warriors to make another assault on the bluffs. As before, they were met with a blistering volley from the bluffs, inflicting even more casualties. Once again, they fell back to the riverbank for cover, this time even closer to the two men lying close to the ground under the bushes. There seemed to be an increase in the number of slugs kicking up dirt and singing through the trees above them. Jason moved Thad around to get more of his body into the shallow pit he had dug with his knife.
He pulled his forty-four from his belt and wiped it as dry as he could. He had neglected to leave it with his rifle when he went in the river after Thad. He opened the cylinder and extracted the bullets, wiped them off and reloaded them. The noise of the battle seemed to increase around their hiding place again as a branch above Thad’s head popped in two and fell in front of him. Jason heard another rustle in the bush behind them and turned to encounter the startled face of a Sioux warrior, crawling for cover. Seconds later, the startled expression turned to one of eternal shock and there appeared a small black hole between his eyes when Jason fired his pistol. “Well, I reckon it still works,” he said dryly, turning the pistol over to examine it. With his foot, he shoved the dead Indian back out of the bushes, where he rolled down the low bank. “Here,” he said, handing the pistol to Thad. Speechless, the lieutenant accepted it.
* * *
Tall Bull grew weary of the pointless fighting. He could not lure the soldiers out of the bluffs where his rifles could be used to advantage and he had already lost more warriors than he could afford to lose. Jason estimated it was about an hour past noon when his warriors suddenly ceased shooting and began to collect their dead. The troopers likewise ceased firing and all was quiet in the river bottom.
Jason warned Thad to remain still while the hostiles were preparing to withdraw. He noted that the squaws had already packed up their camp in preparation to flee while the fighting was still going on. He pulled himself up closer to the bank to get a better look. What he saw sent a surge down the length of his spine. There within easy rifle range stood the tall, smooth-muscled Cheyenne, Black Eagle, talking hurriedly to a group of warriors. Even as he lay there on his belly, watching the Cheyenne renegade, two Sioux warriors moved quickly down the bank and picked up the body of the hostile he had shot with his pistol.
Very slowly, so as not to rustle the leaves above him, he pulled his rifle up beside him. Bringing the stock up under his shoulder, he laid the barrel upon a little mound of sand before him. Black Eagle turned to say something to another man, presenting his back to Jason. It was an easy shot. He aimed the rifle at a point squarely between his shoulder blades and held it there, his finger tightening on the trigger. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, Black Eagle had not moved. Goddammit! he thought, for he knew he could not take the shot. He couldn’t miss at that range but, in the quiet lull, it would be a death warrant for him and Thad too. Reluctantly, he took his finger off the trigger and watched as the last of the hostiles moved quickly by his brush hideout and crossed back over the river. In no time at all the entire village disappeared over the hills and the campsite was deserted.
Jason stood beneath the trees by the river, watching Thad Anderson being helped into the saddle. The young man absolutely refused to be dragged back to Laramie on a travois. He was a bit unsteady on his horse but he let it be known in no uncertain terms that he had left the post in the saddle and he intended to return the same way. The major was seated on his horse, overseeing the burning of anything that might be deemed useful that the Indians left behind. He was very content with himself and the day’s operation. He had severely punished the Sioux, killing an estimated half of the fighting men in Tall Bull’s camp. Tall Bull himself had escaped to the hills but he had been bested that day while holding a decided edge in weaponry. The army’s casualties were restricted to four dead and seven wounded, an unheard-of ratio. This campaign had to go a long way toward a field command.
Jason turned to discover Shorty Boyd approaching him from the other side of the river. He was leading Jason’s horse. Making his way through the water, he pulled up beside Jason and handed him the reins. “Well now, for a while there I thought I might have me a fine horse but I see you made it all right.”
Jason laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you, Shorty, but I’m much obliged for fetching ol’ Black here.”
“Where the hell were you, anyway? When I seen that thar horse come up with the saddle empty, I thought you’d gone under fer shore.”
Jason went on to explain where he and Thad had waited out the battle. Shorty shook his head and commented, “You were damn shore lucky, that’s all there is to that.”
“I reckon,” Jason replied.
* * *
There had been no thought toward pursuing the fleeing hostiles. Linebaugh counseled his officers briefly on the subject and all had agreed that it was better to take the victory and return to post with their troops intact. They were supplied with only enough provisions to make the march back anyway. A parlay with his scouts further convinced Linebaugh that he would not be wise to follow the hostiles out into the hills. They would run him until he was out of rations and grain and his horses were tired. Then they would cut him to pieces with their rifles. So, as soon as they were ready to ride, the troops started back to Fort Laramie. After some discussion with the major and Captain Blevins from H Troop, Jason and Shorty were left behind to follow Tall Bull’s band.
Jason had his private reasons for wanting to stay behind. Black Eagle was still with the band of Sioux and, if there was even a slim chance of catching him, he would go for it. He didn’t mention this reason to the major. To him he simply advised that it would be useful to know where Tall Bull was heading. As far as Shorty Boyd coming along, Jason was glad to have him. He didn’t know what Shorty’s reasons for wanting to come were but the little man impressed Jason as having the savvy to hold on to his scalp. In most cases, when he was traveling in hostile territory, Jason preferred to be alone. But, with Shorty, he guessed the veteran scout and mountain man could take care of himself and, like as not, watch Jason’s back for him.
There developed a mutual respect between the two scouts over the next few days. Shorty had always prided himself as being an expert judge of horseflesh and men, and he was not disappointed in his original assessment of Jason Coles. Though their thinking and instincts were dipped from the same trough, there could not be a greater contrast in physical appearance. Where Jason stood taller than most, with the clear eyes of a man not that far removed from his youth—Shorty couldn’t reach five feet three on his tiptoes and seemed to have a mark or wrinkle for every day he had spent in the wilderness, which was a considerable number. Jason teased that Shorty wasn’t much taller than his Winchester, but he knew the wiry little man was made from pure tempered steel.
The two scouts followed Tall Bull’s band at a safe distance for two days. The first day they had to lag far behind to avoid Tall Bull’s scouts who dropped back to warn their chief if the soldiers followed. There was no attempt to hide their trail. It would have been a useless endeavor at any rate, for a village that size could not disguise its trail. Occasionally they came upon various discarded items in a village’s normal travel, broken pots or moccasins beyond repair. Once, Shorty spied a rifle discarded beside the trail. He dismounted to retrieve it.
“Dang! Look at this, Jason. It’s a dang Henry repeating rifle, good as new.” He examined the weapon, turning it over from one side to the other. “Now what would make an Injun throw away a good rifle?” He threw it up to Jason, who was still mounted.
Jason looked it over. Noticing that there were several cartridges in the magazine, he tried the action. “Here’s the reason, it’s jammed.” It wasn’t unusual for that model rifle. A quick inspection confirmed his suspicions, the magazine was packed with dirt. “I traded a Henry once for a horse. It was a good rifle but it was bad for jamming. Dirt was always getting in this slot in the magazine. Another thing I didn’t like about it, the whole damn thing except the stock is made of iron. You do much shooting and the damn thing gets so hot you can’t hold it.” He threw the rifle back down to Shorty. “Clean that dirt out of it and it’ll work like new.”
Shorty tied the rifle onto the back of his saddle pack and they continued on their way, following the wide trail left by Tall Bull’s village. After each day’s travel, the two scouts would move in close to the Sioux camp after dark to watch the goings-on in the village. It was plain to see, from the war dances and councils held almost nightly, that something other than the normal search for food was occurring. And it was not a difficult thing to guess what that something was.
“There’s gonna be hell to pay somewhere,” Shorty observed. “And it ain’t gonna be far off.”
“Looks like,” Jason returned. During the past two days, Tall Bull’s band had been joined by small groups of Sioux, Arapaho, and Cheyenne, all fleeing the reservation. The village was already larger in number than it was when Major Linebaugh attacked it several days before.
It had been the norm for the past several years for many of the Indians to leave the reservations in summer to hunt. Most of the ones who stayed out all summer returned in winter when the hunting was hard and the game difficult to find. But this summer was going to be different. Both scouts could sense it in their bones. The government had flat out not lived up to its promises to the Indians and life on the reservation was poor and demeaning to a people of enormous pride and integrity. It was a simple equation to Jason Coles. Who could blame a man for wanting to be free to live as he chooses? The mystery as far as he was concerned was why had they stayed on the reservation this long? And now, here’s this big medicine man, Sitting Bull, squatting on his haunches up in the Big Horn country, calling all the Sioux and anyone else to come and join him. He’s never been to a reservation, never signed any treaty, and makes no bones about it. He’d rather die than live as a white man’s dog. It was little wonder that warriors were leaving the reservation to join Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. There would be hell to pay.
“How long do you aim to follow this bunch?” Shorty finally asked one night as the two sat on a high ridge, watching the Sioux camp. Jason had never confided his special interest in tailing the village but Shorty was astute enough to pick up on Jason’s particular focus on the Cheyennes riding with Tall Bull. “It’s pretty plain to me that this bunch is on the way to join up with Sitting Bull. We could keep on following ’em right on up to the Yellowstone, I reckon, but then what are you planning to do? We’re so dang far up in Injun country now that my scalp’s starting to itch.”
In truth, Jason didn’t have a sensible answer. He had persisted in following the village the past couple of days for no other reason than he had been following them all the days before. He realized he was risking Shorty’s life as well as his own for the unlikely chance that he might have an opportunity to isolate Black Eagle and extract the vengeance he felt obligated to take. He was hanging on simply because he knew where Black Eagle was and he dearly hated to break off the hunt and let the savage disappear within the vast number of hostiles congregating near the headwaters of the Powder and the Tongue.
He turned and looked at Shorty. “I reckon you’re right. We ain’t accomplishing a damn thing but sticking our necks out.” He resigned himself to the fact that there comes a time when common sense has to prevail.
With the dawn, they started back down the Powder. Jason rode with the thought in his mind that if it was meant to be, he would get another opportunity to meet Black Eagle. To himself, he whispered, “I’m sorry, little Lark.”
Shorty, obviously relieved to be withdrawing from the center of so much Indian activity, led the way out the first day. “Danged if I ain’t glad to see the last of that thar bunch,” he said as Jason pulled up to ride beside him. “I was beginning to get skeered that you might have got fetched in the head.” Jason only grunted. Shorty, in better spirits now, went on. “When we get a little farther down the river, maybe we can take a chance to do a little hunting—God damn this hardtack!”
They decided that it made a lot more sense to ride straight back to Fort Fetterman instead of joining the troops at Laramie. Fetterman was closer to where they now were. Officially, Shorty was attached to Captain Blevins’ troop but Shorty, always of an independent mind, decided it was too much trouble to journey to Laramie just to make a report.
Three days into their return trip, Shorty got his opportunity to make meat when they happened upon a herd of antelope. He took one shot to drop a young buck and then they rode several miles to butcher it in case the shot might have been heard. In a shady stand of cottonwoods by a thin ribbon of water, they rested the horses and themselves and ate antelope. Then they left the river and struck out for Fetterman.