Chapter 3

October 1868

It was a somber reunion for the most part, yet not without some joy when Seamus Donegan walked among those familiar faces at Buffalo Tank on the Union Pacific Line in central Kansas.

A month before, many of these same plainsmen had been pinned down by the Cheyenne like cornered badgers in their holes, on an island Forsyth named after Lieutenant Fred Beecher. After returning to Hays, most had elected to stay on scouting with Lieutenant Pepoon, although a handful had gone their way, having had enough of Indian fighting to last them. Besides Sergeant William McCall and veteran scout Sharp Grover, there were a few who sought out the tall Irishman, to shake a hand or slap a back and talk of nine days of siege on Beecher Island. Only one of the boy-faced men was still among those scouts to celebrate the grim reunion.

“Jack is the one who carried word from Beecher Island to Fort Wallace,” Donegan bragged on the youth after he had introduced young Stillwell to Bill Cody.

“Just one of four, don’t forget that,” Stillwell admitted.

“Where’s Slinger? He riding with Pepoon and Custer?”

Stillwell shook his head. “Had a letter waiting for him at Hays when we got in there. His family back East thought it better for him to come home,” Stillwell explained.

“Not like you—grown up out here.”

“He might not be born in these parts, but I heard Slinger held his own on the island after I left.”

“He did, Jack. Every bit as much as any man, and more.”

“Who is this Slinger?” Cody asked.

“Name’s Sigmund Schlesinger,” Donegan said.

“Damn but I remember a fella of that name,” Cody replied.

“He ain’t the sort you’d forget,” Seamus continued. “Him or the name.”

“Met him earlier this year at Hays while I was hunting buffalo,” Cody said. “So Slinger was on the island with you two?”

“Damn right. Major Forsyth was proud of the man.” Donegan turned to Stillwell to ask, “How’s this Pepoon?”

“Sharp don’t like him worth squat,” Jack admitted. “But, the man’s all right at his job for a soldier. He’s just dyed-in-the-wool army is all.”

“Thing is, it sometimes takes more than soldiering to get the job done out here,” Donegan replied. “Major Forsyth was the sort of man who didn’t let his army-mouth overload his common-sense ass. Forsyth had sense.”

“Him and McCall was the best I served with,” Jack sighed as orders thundered up and down the line of picketed horses.

“Prepare to mount!” the sergeants were bawling at their men, soldiers and civilian scouts alike.

“Looks like it’s come time we’re gonna find out what this Major Carr is made of,” Seamus said, slapping his big hand into Stillwell’s. “See you come evening camp, Jack.”

*   *   *

Retracing Major Royall’s inbound steps, Carr marched his Fifth Cavalry and Pepoon’s scouts north to Prairie Dog Creek in two days. There, on the morning of 25 October, Captain Jules Schenofsky’s M Company and Seamus Donegan joined the civilian scouts to form the advance guard for the day’s march north by west to Little Beaver Creek. With flankers out, the Irishman joined the point riders carefully picking their way along, searching the country for fresh sign as they ascended a hill.

“Little Beaver should be over this rise,” Sharp Grover said, pointing.

“You got any idea what would be kicking up that much of a cloud off over there?” Donegan asked, the only one looking in that direction.

A dozen heads turned to the west, only then noticing the fine film of dust rising up the valley of the Little Beaver.

“Ain’t no whirlwind, that’s for sure,” Grover said with a growl. He brought his horse about, hammering it with his heels. “Lieutenant!”

Schenofsky galloped to the top of the next rise to join the point riders. The tree-lined Little Beaver meandered through the wide, grassy valley just below. And off to their left ambled the tail end of a Cheyenne village on the move.

“They know we’re here?” Schenofsky asked.

“They do now,” Grover replied, pointing at the rear of the procession.

Half a hundred warriors streamed past the rear of their march, bursting through the milling squaws and children, barking dogs and travois ponies.

“How many you figure in that village, boys?” Schenofsky inquired after he had dispatched a rider to dash back across the miles, carrying word to Major Carr.

“Four hundred,” said scout Tom Alderdice.

“Closer to five hundred, I’d say,” Grover replied.

“You’re probably right,” Alderdice agreed. “That makes at least a hundred warriors.”

Schenofsky regarded the scouts a moment before speaking. “That makes us almost equal in manpower, gentlemen.”

“Just what I was thinking,” Grover agreed, a big smile crossing his tanned face. “We have one of two choices: stand here and take their charge, or we can take the fight to them.”

“I’m all for taking it to ’em!” Alderdice shouted.

“Hit ’em hard and make ’em reel!” Donegan said.

“Let’s fight ’em on the run!” Schenofsky hollered above the clamor. “Skirmish formation—flankers in!”

The columns quickly rattled into formation at the top of the hill, sending that old shiver of anticipation down Donegan’s spine as the restless horses snorted and pranced, sensing the coming of battle through their riders.

“Right flank loaded!”

“Left flank report!”

“Left flank loaded and ready, sir!”

“Forward at a walk—to gallop on my command!” Schenofsky shouted above the squeak of dry leather and the rattle of bit-chain, the noisy thunk of bolt and the mumbled curse of a green rookie worried of soiling his pants.

“Forward!”

“Jesus God!” grumbled someone to Donegan’s left as more warriors broke from the trees like maddened wasps, splashing across the shallow, late summer flow of the Little Beaver.

“Weapons ready!” bawled Schenofsky as the line of soldiers loped down the slope into the valley.

It was the last order Donegan heard clearly, for in the next heartbeat there arose a resounding clamor up and down the line as they began to take the first fire from the warriors. With a wild whoop the skirmish line broke into a ragged gallop.

At two hundred yards the warriors turned, racing down the line of soldiers. Dropping from the side of their ponies, they fired beneath the animals’ straining necks as soldier bullets whined harmlessly over their heads.

“Aim for the ponies—their ponies, goddammit!”

Frustrated, many of Forsyth’s veterans hollered at the green troopers, knowing from firsthand experience that a man must shoot the target presented him by the enemy.

“Drop the horses, by damn!”

A few of the ponies spilled, pitching their riders into the grassy sand. Some held up a hand for rescue, others crouched, awaiting riders in the midst of the powder smoke and swirling dust.

Two dozen warriors suddenly swept back on the end of Schenofsky’s column, effectively bringing the charge to a halt as the horses wheeled back on themselves. With the white men stopped in the open, the warriors began to circle back and forth, firing into the confused soldiers.

“They’re gonna get chewed up down there!” Grover shouted from the hilltop where the civilians had watched the soldiers charge into the fray.

Stillwell nodded. “We’ve got to help.”

“Look there, boys,” Cody said, pointing west. “The village is getting away.”

“That’s what this is all about,” Grover replied. “Them bastards are covering the escape.”

“I’m for going after the village!” Alderdice shouted. Several others hollered their agreement. “Those soldiers can take care of themselves.”

“Don’t think so,” Donegan said. “Those men will be butter if we don’t get down there now.”

“The Irishman’s right,” Cody shouted. “Time enough to chase squaws and travois!”

“Let’s ride!” Grover bawled.

It was a mad dash made by the whooping civilians as they tore down on Schenofsky’s command, splitting at the last minute to race past the pinned-down soldiers, racing among the ring of warriors. The Cheyenne scattered, regrouped and tore off for the west, where once more they would cover the retreat of their village.

It took some time to regroup the commands. Schenofsky had to get his soldiers back into the saddle, and Grover had to regroup Pepoon’s civilians before they were off again, trailing after the disappearing village. North by west, the fleeing Cheyenne hurried toward Shuter Creek, and crossed late that afternoon. Rarely did the warriors turn to fight the rest of the day, more often choosing to snipe at the outriders as the white men came on like troublesome gnats.

Only once, when the women and old ones were forced to slow their escape due to a narrowing of a canyon, did the warriors wheel and stand their ground, before breaking into a gallop with wild screeches climbing into the afternoon sky.

Shaking their rifles and bows, lances and war-clubs, the hundred charged back on their pursuers, like swallows turning about and swooping down on the nighthawk.

“Halt!” the order thundered up and down the line.

Horses were reined up in a swirl of dust.

“Dismount! Horse holders to the rear!”

“By God, this is it!” Cody shouted.

“Let’s hope it’s nothing more than a good scrap!”

“Aye, Irishman! Nothing like a good scrap!”

At a hundred yards the order was given. “Fire!”

The warriors reined in, confusion electrifying their ranks. A few ponies cried out as the white man’s bullets slapped among them. Only two went down, their riders swept up behind other warriors as the Cheyenne turned, parted, and two waves dashed up the parting slopes of two hills.

“Don’t wait, Lieutenant!” Grover advised, dashing up to Schenofsky.

“By the devil, we won’t!” Schenofsky whirled, arm waving. “Mount up! Hurry, boys—mount up!”

“Got ’em on the run now,” Tom Alderdice cheered.

The soldiers and civilians both hollered as they sorted through the horse holders for their mounts and swung into the saddle.

“By fours!” Schenofsky ordered his men as they quickly formed. “Civilians—take the east trail. I’ll follow the west. Cody, you and Donegan come with me!”

The two groups kept within sight of one another through the rest of the afternoon, chasing the dust cloud that always managed to stay just out of reach, over the next hill, in the next valley, until the light began to fail and Grover advised giving up the chase until sunrise.

“We’ll wait here for Carr to come up,” Schenofsky said.

“Good a place as any for a camp,” Cody agreed.

Darkness descended on the command as the men gathered greasewood and started their fires. Royall led an advance into camp, dispatched by Carr at a gallop to bolster Schenofsky’s skimpy command. Instead of a fight, Major Royall found beans, coffee and hardtack. The moon had come up by the time Carr brought in the rest of the regiment. Their fires twinkled along the Little Beaver.

“I’ll be glad we get a chance to do some hunting,” Cody grumped as he took his plate of beans and a steaming tin of coffee from the mess sergeant.

“That’s just what’s lacking in your education, Bill,” said Donegan. “Had you fought in the war back East, you’d be one to appreciate the finer varieties of beans.”

“Ain’t nothing finer than these white beans,” Grover hissed. “Make a man mighty gassy.”

“White beans and corn dodgers. Mmm, mmm,” Donegan replied. “Food for an army on the march.”

“Time was, Cody—we’d both killed for white beans like these. Even some moldy hardtack like this here,” Grover said, clanging his hard bread on the side of his tin plate.

“Your kind is always complaining, Abner,” Seamus said, then chuckled as he shoved a spoonful of the beans in his mouth. “You want fresh game, when you had some of the finest horseflesh to dine on west of the Republican!”

“Horse or mule—I don’t care. Just give me some meat!” Alderdice said.

The surrounding hills suddenly erupted with sporadic riflefire.

In panic, soldiers and civilians scattered back from the fires, bullets whizzing into camp, zinging tin plates and cups, exploding into the fires with firefly flares. The horses whinnied in the dark. Men shouted. A few crawled on their bellies toward the low bluff rising nearby. Above them the bright muzzle-flashes could be seen against the prairie night sky.

After half an hour of troublesome sniping, the bright orange flares of light tapered off and the night grew quiet once more.

“You think they’re done with us for the night?” someone asked.

“No way of telling,” Grover answered the voice from the dark. “They could be back.”

“I’ll gladly give ’em my beans!” Cody hollered.

The camp erupted in laughter.

“Call ’em in, Cody!” suggested someone.

“Yeah, tell ’em we got good food here we’ll trade for some of their dried buffler meat!”

“Ah, that’s the right of it,” Donegan said. “Trade these white beans for some good belly food—buffalo. And while we’re at it—we’ll throw in some hardtack to boot.”

“Just don’t throw it my way!” yelled a soldier.

“That’s right—I don’t want to get hit with those damned hard crackers!” cried another.

“You’ll all be wishing you had those beans to eat come morning, when you’ll be in the saddle before breakfast,” Schenofsky said, crawling up, staying out of the firelight.

“Why no breakfast, Lieutenant?” Grover asked.

“Carr wants us out early.”

“To find the village?” asked Cody.

“Right.”

“Way I’ve got it figured,” Cody said, “that bunch will keep moving most of the night. Might stop for a few hours for the old ones and the children. But them bucks and squaws—they can keep on running for days, they have to.”

“Cody’s right,” Grover agreed. “We have our work cut out for us catching that village once they’ve got the jump on us.”

“Well, boys,” Cody said, slapping a thigh as he got to his feet in the darkness, punching a black hole out of the starry sky. “Let’s just do everything we can, come false-dawn, to eat up some of that ground they’ve put between them and us.”