Chapter 4

October 1868

Only one of Carr’s cavalrymen was wounded in the daylong fight. And from what his officers reported after the confusion of the battle, the major dispassionately listed thirty warriors killed in his official report.

Beginning early that next morning, 26 October, the advance guard had several brief skirmishes with the warriors protecting the flight of their village. They lasted until dark, when the soldiers finally gave up the chase and went into camp on the North Fork of the Solomon. Throughout the following day the closest Cody’s scouts got to the warriors was to follow the distant dust cloud raised by the many horses and travois.

During that late morning and into the afternoon, Donegan noticed not only that the cloud was becoming thinner, but that the dust billowing over the fleeing Indians appeared to be widening. That could mean but one thing.

“They’re scattering, Bill,” Seamus said, offering his canteen to Cody as they sat atop a low rise in the endless swell and fall of land, allowing their horses to blow.

“No doubt of it now.”

Behind them in the distance plodded Carr’s cavalry, with Pepoon’s civilians out as flankers to protect the unit from any surprise hit-and-run attacks by the warriors who might double back on the soldier column.

“You take one trail, I take another?”

“Not yet, we don’t,” Cody replied. “They’re bound to be heading same place we need to be.” He gave the canteen back. “Water.”

“Where they going?”

“My guess is the headwaters of the Beaver.”

“Been across it meself.”

“With Forsyth?”

He nodded. “You want me go back and tell Carr what’s on your mind?”

Cody shook his head. “No, not just yet. We’ve got two jobs now, Irishman. Staying with the Indian trail—and being sure these soldiers have water.”

“You ask me, I’ll tell you how important water is to a sojur!”

They laughed easily as the canteen strap went back over the saddlehorn and Cody led off. Both kept their eyes on the shimmering distance where the dust cloud dispersed across the hazy, shimmering horizon.

Three hours later the pair stopped on another low rise, where they dismounted, loosening the cinches for a few minutes while they waited until the rear column came in sight once more. Four riders loped into sight. Two of the group waved their hats when it appeared the two scouts had spotted them. Cody took his floppy slouch hat and signaled with it.

“Carr and Royall?” Cody asked as they waited for the four riders.

“I doubt Royall’s with him. The old man probably left Royall in charge of the column while he rode up here to have a chat with us, Bill.”

They waited, Cody more irritated than impatient for the delay caused by the soldiers.

“Glad to see you boys held up,” Carr said as he reined up with three junior officers, each of them sweating in their wool tunics although it was a cool autumn day on the high plains.

“We figure we’ll have to split up soon, Major,” Cody announced.

“The village breaking up?” Carr asked, his face showing that he already knew the answer. “Stay with the biggest trail, Cody.”

“We’ll do the best we can.”

Carr inched closer, his voice softer. “Cody, one of Pepoon’s scouts says he figures today’s march to water is a lot longer than the twenty-five miles you told me it would be when we broke camp this morning.”

Cody glared at the major. “One of Pepoon’s boys want to be your chief of scouts, eh?”

“Don’t go getting testy on me, Cody.”

“You’re right, Major. No right of me doing that—”

“What Bill’s trying to say is—we got a choice of trails right now,” Donegan interrupted. “But the Injins are going to water just like us.”

“That’s another thing Pepoon’s men tell me. They say we won’t find any water where you’re leading us, Cody.”

The young scout squinted his eyes and shifted the hat on his head, grinding his teeth angrily. “Who the hell you want guiding you, Major? Me? Or this other fella?”

“Which one is it, Major?” Donegan asked.

“You know them, don’t you?” Carr inquired, studying the Irishman.

“Most. Which one tell you Cody’s steering you wrong?”

“Name’s Alderdice.”

“Tom Alderdice,” Seamus repeated. “He’s a Kansas boy all right. But I’ll still put my money on Bill here.”

Carr appeared to reckon with that a few moments, then measured Cody once more. “Will we find water by nightfall?”

The scout peered into the northwest. “Before slap-dark, Major.”

“How far, Cody?”

“Eight … maybe nine miles.”

“What’s there—a spring?”

“Beaver dams, on a small creek.”

Carr sighed, glancing at his junior officers, then swiped a kerchief over his face. “All right, Cody. I’m going back to hurry the column along. Take us to this water of yours.”

Cody spoke before Carr could rein about. “You believe me, don’t you, Major?”

He finally nodded. “Looks like I’ve got one of two choices, and you’re the best game in town right now, Cody. You lead the way.”

Some three hours later Cody and Donegan ascended a low rise of land to look down on the valley of a small stream that would feed Beaver Creek several miles farther north.

“It’s there—just like you said, Cody,” Seamus cheered.

“Sounds like you doubted it yourself.”

He smiled. “I’ll admit there was a time or two the last few hours I had me doubts.” He reached over as Cody reined up alongside him, slapping the young scout on the back.

“I’ll teach that Major Carr to believe in me yet.”

Both waited atop the rise for the flankers to come in, including Alderdice, about the time the advance guard hoved into view. Cody and Donegan waved them on.

“I’ve got to hand it to you,” Carr said, beaming. “The water’s where to said it would be, and what you said we’d find.” His eyes ran up and down the narrow, green valley, its entire length dotted with small beaver dams that pooled the trickle of water at this late season of the year.

“This settle things for you, Major?”

Carr nodded. “Yes. I won’t doubt you again. Only, tell me what the devil this creek is named.”

Cody shrugged. “Far as I know, doesn’t have a name. But—you might go check with them scouts of Pepoon’s. One of them might know.”

“No need of that,” Carr replied, grinning in his dark beard. “We’ll name it ourselves, here and now—for the record. The military record, that is. Adjutant, note that this creek where we spent the night of twenty-seven October is to be called Cody’s Creek.”

Donegan laughed, then gave the young scout a hearty slap on the back. “That’s the kiss of fame, me boy! A creek named for Bill Cody!”

*   *   *

That next morning the sun was barely awaking over the eastern rim of the prairie when the column was put on the march, moving north by west toward a creek known as the Beaver to some, the Sappa to others.

Cody enjoyed riding out ahead of the scouts at times, and this morning it suited him just fine. The crisp air of late autumn, with no sound to clutter the morning save for the wind soughing through the dried buffalo-grass, the rhythmic crunch of hooves as his horse picked its way, added to the occasional, faint call of the great long-necks sweeping overhead in great vees against the blue canopy, moving south once more.

He twisted in the saddle, assuring himself that Donegan and some of the others on point could see him far to the rear across the softly undulating land, then urged his mount down into the valley of the Beaver. Before the column came up, Cody had to find a suitable ford for crossing the men, animals and bulky wagons.

Dropping to his belly, his hands supporting his weight as he extended himself out over the water, he drank of its cool refreshment alongside his noisy mount. Cody soaked his bandanna in the creek, wrung it out then retied it around his neck before crawling back into the saddle. He nudged the horse downstream, his eyes on the creek all the time as he worked in and out of the trees, searching for a suitable ford.

As the gurgling creek slowly swept around a gentle bend, a loud crack rang out.

The horse stumbled backward a few halting steps, then keeled to its knees sideways as Cody leaped out of the saddle, his heart racing. A rapid spread of crimson just behind the animal’s foreleg bubbled with froth.

Cody wasn’t quick enough getting out of the way.

The animal tried rising for an instant, heaving against the scout, throwing him off balance. Cody was pitched straight down into the grass on the creekbank while the horse settled with a loud, humanlike scream on one of Cody’s legs. A second, then a third shot whistled overhead as he struggled to heft the dying animal from his trapped foot. It flashed vividly in his mind—those days he had made a living running trap-lines along creeks just like this one. His prey being caught, a foot held in the jaws of an iron trap.

Every bit as unrelenting as this.

Peering over the heaving ribs of the animal, he watched puffs of white smoke dot the dry leaves of the cottonwood and willow just yards across the creek. Still struggling to free the foot from his boot, he fired a few shots at the powder smoke that marked his targets. A bullet whistled past his cheek, causing him to jerk about in surprise.

Upstream, to his left—another rifleman. And this new warrior had him dead to rights in the open.

Cody stretched out on his back, not only to make himself as small a target as possible, but to push against the rear flank of the great animal with his free leg. His trapped foot popped free, without his boot.

Rolling onto his belly, Cody fired two shots across the creek, then crawled up beside the dead animal. He pulled and yanked, finally freeing his boot from its sandy prison. His toes wriggled in the sand, peeking from the holes worn in his stiffened stockings as he yanked the long boot on—just as a bullet nicked a large splinter from the butt of his Spencer carbine still in its scabbard on the saddle.

He dragged it and the canteen free from the horn once he had clambered over the horse. Its carcass was not the best protection a man could hope for—still, the big neck and legs gave him some cover from one direction, the rear flanks cover from the second sniper as he began to put the Spencer into use.

“Damn,” he muttered, looking beyond the fringe of trees lining the opposite creekbank. “Looks like you flushed ’em from their roost.”

A small band of squaws and children, with ponies pulling travois, hurried away from the scene, protected by the two warriors who had dismounted the white scout. They disappeared in the distance between two flat hills.

“By God, we do have the bunch of ’em split up and running from us.”

For long minutes as the sun continued its climb into the sky, Cody fired back only when he saw gun smoke on the far creekbank. He kept the pistol beneath him, come the time for the close work.

The bloody cry shocked him, erupting so close, driving his heart right into his throat. A few yards downstream one of the warriors had mounted and burst from the timber, screeching out his war-cry as his pony splashed into the shallow creek, droplets raining in a cascade like a thousand tiny jewels in the golden autumn sunlight.

Leaping up on Cody’s bank with a spray of water, the warrior slipped behind his pony, firing beneath his neck with a repeater. Coming on in a wide circle around the dead horse so that in a matter of seconds the white man would have no shelter. It was time for a decision.

Cody bellied the ground as flat as he could, stuffing his head between the dead horse’s rear legs. In that cramped and odorous spot, the young scout pressed the Spencer to his cheek and fired.

“Damn!” he muttered. He had missed, and cursed himself for it.

More shots rattled through the still air. He jerked backward from his hiding place, peering over the brown flanks of the horse to find Donegan and a handful of soldiers breaking the skyline directly above him.

The lone warrior immediately righted himself and tore back into the stream, looking over his shoulder at the advancing rescuers as he splashed across the Beaver. In the next moment his companion had joined him in a mad dash after the fleeing women and children.

“You hurt?” Donegan asked as he reined his horse up beside Cody, casting a big shadow over the young scout.

He looked up and smiled crookedly. “Nothing but my pride. I missed a damned good shot at one of ’em.”

A sergeant was shouting at his soldiers to return, denying them the chase just when they had the scent good and strong in their nostrils. He rode over to the two civilians.

“We’ll wait here for Carr to come up,” explained the sergeant.

“Best you keep them from running on, Sergeant,” Cody said, standing at last. “Them two we saw—and more we didn’t—might have a mind to double back and ambush your boys.”

“They’ll gripe, not getting blooded today.”

“Their time will come, Sergeant,” Donegan assured. “Your sojurs will see plenty of blood soon enough.”

*   *   *

He could almost ignore the wailing of the squaws, keening in their grief. Days ago the running fight with the soldiers had cost Tall Bull some good warriors. But this day near the beginning of the Moon of Leaves Falling had cost him no more than a half-dozen ponies and sixteen lodges some of his people were forced to abandon in their hasty flight.

After sundown a few of the small bands had come in. Two of them reported skirmishing with the soldiers throughout the day, being chased until darkness forced the white men to give up their hunt. Between them, both groups had lost some of their animals and many of their homes tied to travois, along with cooking utensils and clothing.

With his entire village of fighting men licking its wounds, the tall chief seethed, wanting so badly to gather his warriors and strike the soldiers beneath the starry night sky. But he again listened to his medicine man, who advised the Dog Soldier camp to turn about and point their noses north for the winter. The white man would eventually give up his chase and snow would blanket the land.

There were many who would sleep in borrowed blankets this night. Worse yet were the women and children, keening pitifully at the loss of home and husband and father.

There in the silvery autumn light of a quarter-moon spilling its faint brilliance on the far prairie, Tall Bull vowed he would return. When the short grass time came next spring, he and his Dog Soldiers would come to burn and steal, to kill and carry off many white women and children.

Come the short grass time, Tall Bull pledged to renew a war so bloody, exact a revenge so terrible, that the white man’s heart would turn to water.