Black Sun, The Battle of Summit Springs, 1869 (29 page)

Tall Bull cursed her—why could she not enjoy the rut as much as Cheyenne women? Before, she had fought back: crying, lashing out and kicking at him. It had been more exciting in those first days. Now, for many suns, the white woman had become a different animal—passive unlike anything he knew in the animal kingdom. It unsettled something inside him, and he resented her for it.

Not good to have this feeling about this place and the medicine men and the nearness of the soldiers … not good to have the woman lay beneath him, staring up at the circle of poles while he hit and bit, slapped and pinched and rutted with her.

She was not an eager partner like his wife. He cursed the white woman because she made him feel alone. Cold and eerie as he gyrated over her body, exacting his vengeance on her flesh.

He toyed with the fire smoking at his feet in the lodge lit with nothing more than the stars bursting forth at twilight through the narrow smoke-hole overhead.

Tall Bull stared at her a long time. She seemed to be gazing back at him in the dim light of the lodge. But he was sure she wasn't looking at him. Instead, she must be looking somewhere in the distance at that place she went each time he came to possess her body.

He hated her for that. If she could not throw herself into the mating like a good woman should, then at least she should fight him, just as she did the first time he spread her white legs. But something inside him told Tall Bull this white woman would never do either.

Too quickly she had learned how to hurt him.

And when Tall Bull was hurt, he hurt back.

One day he might get angry enough to kill her. When most men tired of a female prisoner, they sold her to another warrior. But he would not sell this one. She had caused him too much pain and stabbed his pride. He would kill her someday.

And if the soldiers came to rescue her, Tall Bull would glean such pleasure in driving the tomahawk into her brain. Watching the horror on her face as he plunged the blade into her head … wondering now if that look of terror would be any different than the fear on her face that first time he plunged his flesh within her, there beside her burning cabin.

Those soldiers gave him pause. An unsettled brooding came over him as he stared at the white woman gazing with empty, lifeless eyes back at him.

If the soldiers came—he vowed she would be the first to die.

Chapter 24

July 11, 1869

Carr rousted the men out at two
A.M.
They were moving at four
A.M.
, well before first light.

No time for coffee.

Donegan listened to the grumbling soldiers and civilians in the darkness. The moon was sinking into the western quadrant, leaving enough light to march on, cutting away at the enemy's lead.

By mid-morning they had covered fifteen miles, when the column came across the camp the hostiles had used the night of 9 July. One hundred fifty miles already covered in four days of forced marches had brought them to the brink of battle.

“General—the Pawnee say the Cheyenne are breaking up into three bands,” Luther North announced as he climbed down from his horse.

Carr regarded him a minute. “That's what Cody's already told me.”

“With your permission, General—I suggest you put out a reconnaissance in force in three parties.”

“Cody believes the Cheyenne will regroup before camping.”

North glowered at Cody a moment, the turned back to Carr. “Nonetheless—we're close, sir. We follow any one trail—the other two groups escape.”

“They won't escape, General,” Cody protested.

“The Cheyenne're breaking up on you, General Carr—you're about to lose them,” North pleaded frantically, stepping closer.

Carr appeared troubled at that prospect. He looked at Cody. “Why won't they escape, Cody? Wishful thinking?”

He shook his head. “No. They're in the same fix we are. They need water just as bad as your outfit does. It may look like they're splitting up … but that's just to throw you off 'cause they know your cavalry is back here. They'll regroup at the Platte.”

“The South Platte?”

“That's right, General. You get your outfit to march north from here on the double—we'll get between the river and the Cheyenne. They get there before you—you'll never catch 'em.”

“What's there going to be to catch, General?” North asked. “You don't follow these trails, you don't have an idea where they're going. All you've got is Cody's word that they're pointing to the Platte.”

“They've got to have water, General.”

Carr chewed on his lip. “Interesting point you make, Captain North. Good point. All right—despite Mr. Cody's misgivings, we'll divide into three wings here. Captain, you and your brother will take Captain Cushing along with most of your Pawnee to scout the middle trail heading due north. Major Royall?”

The officer walked up. “General.”

“Major Royall—you will have command of half our unit—companies E, G and H. Take Cody along with some of his men and scout the right-hand trail leading off to the northeast, onto that open land yonder.”

“I assume you're going to lead the third wing, General?”

“Correct. Companies A, C and D. I'm taking the Irishman, Sergeant Wallace and four of the companies with me, in addition to six of the Pawnee. If nothing else, they will serve to communicate with the other two wings. I'm leaving M Company in reserve with the supply train.”

Into the darkness that still shrouded the sand hills of eastern Colorado Territory, Major Eugene Carr dispatched his nearly three hundred officers and soldiers, civilian and Pawnee scouts. The sun rose over the three wings spreading out across the separate trails. From time to time Donegan watched as Carr sent a Pawnee tracker in one direction or another to make contact with either Major Royall or the North brothers.

“I can see now that the Cheyenne are moving toward the river,” Carr admitted quietly to the Irishman. “Just as Cody suggested they would.”

“We're in the position to flank them now, General,” Seamus reminded.

He nodded in agreement, standing momentarily in the stirrups. “We come around them from the northeast—putting ourselves between them and the river—we'll have them bottled up whether we find them in camp or on the move.”

“Let's hope you find them on the move.”

Carr studied Donegan a moment. “Why?”

“We surprise them in camp, General—the men will fight all the harder while the women put together a retreat.”

“And if we surprise them on the march?”

“They'll be running from the first shot—covered by the men only long enough to make good their escape.”

“I'd rather have a fight of it, Irishman. Like Custer made of his on the Washita—I want my chance to make a fight of it for the Fifth.” He fixed Donegan with his hard eyes. “I want to catch these Cheyenne in camp.”

“I'll pray your boys are ready for a stiff scrap,” Donegan replied as he looked away, mentally making the sign of the cross across the big dome of blue sky that had stretched over them all that morning. The sun hung white, almost at mid-sky, as hot as a blacksmith's bellows, the breeze every bit as hot as a smithy's firebox.

Less than an hour later the half-dozen Pawnee riding with Donegan began talking among themselves, pointing more frequently at the trail sign, gesturing at the skyline ahead and on the flanks. Seamus rode in among them. In sign he asked them the question troubling him.

Do we near the enemy camp?

They nodded. The Pawnee sergeant, wearing an army blouse with three gold stripes beneath his long, unbound hair, moved his hands above the horn of his saddle.

Very near,
he replied in sign, then pointed off into the distance.

It took a moment to make something out of the shimmering heat rising from the rolling sand hills. But Seamus did see them. Dark, undulating forms some three, maybe four miles off. He felt the old pull at his gut, the tensing caused by adrenaline as it dumped into his bloodstream.

Those are not buffalo?

The Pawnee sergeant shook his head.
Not buffalo—Cheyenne ponies.

I will tell the soldier chief,
Seamus signed, then pulled the big mare about, back to Major Eugene Carr.

“General—the Pawnee figure it's time you should have a better idea where the village is. We've spotted what looks like the hostiles' pony herd up ahead.”

“They believe we're getting close?”

“Meself even, I sense many of the smaller trails are converging,” Seamus replied. “The river can't be too much farther. A handful of miles at most. There,” and he pointed. “You might see the herd for yourself.”

Carr shaded his eyes and gazed into the distance for the longest time. With no other sign of recognition, he glanced over his Pawnee scouts for a brief moment, then slowly pulled the steamy slouch hat from his receding brow and wiped a damp kerchief across his forehead. “Get one of the Indians to ride to Major Royall's unit. Bring Cody back. I want him to take these six Pawnee and charge ahead to find out if that is the herd or if they can see the village—or some sign of where I'll contact the bastards.”

Cody rode in, received his orders and pointed his big buckskin northwest, leading the six Pawnee in the direction he believed he would find the camp.

Carr halted his troops to await Cody's return. Time dragged itself out in the steamy heat of the plains as the horses and mules grew restless. Looking for water, wanting to graze. For what seemed like hours, Donegan had kept his eyes trained on the hills where the pony herd had been spotted. Seamus turned at the sound of a single horse's hooves.

“Donegan.”

“General Carr.”

“It's after noon.”

“You're worried about Cody?”

Carr finally shook his head. “We haven't heard any shots.”

Seamus smiled. “I don't suppose they've been swallowed up. Not yet.”

“There,” Carr said, and pointed over Donegan's shoulder.

He turned to see only one of the seven he had sent coming back at an easy lope. As the young, blond scout drew close, Seamus could see Cody wore his characteristic irrepressible grin.

“You found it, didn't you, Cody?”

“Just like I told you, General. Left the Pawnee there to keep an eye on things till your men come up.”

Carr smiled approvingly. “I've come to trust you even more now.”

Cody was clearly excited. “They haven't an idea we're about to come down on them.”

Carr had been bitten by the contagious excitement. “By Jupiter—I'll have them this time!”

“There's a route—a detour. Take the command on it through these hills … moving off on the right flank. You'll skirt the village and come in from the north. They'll never know until you're right on top of them.”

“Thank you, Cody. You've performed splendidly.”

Carr wheeled his mount and was gone.

In a matter of moments the command was moving once more, just about the time the wagon train was seen coming up from the rear. The teamsters and mules were having a hard time budging the bulky wagons in the soft soil and clinging sand of the Platte Bluffs.

But now Carr had his entire force together, ready to move in concert.

The rejoined command moved out in a clatter of hardware and squeak of dry leather, staying for the most part behind the low ridges and hills leading down to the South Platte, keeping to the ravines as much as possible, refraining at all costs from breaking the skyline.

Cody and his scouts were waiting ahead when Carr came up and halted the long columns.

“You've got less than fifteen hundred yards to the outlying lodges, General.”

“They still have no idea, Cody?”

“You've caught them napping. Warm day like this—most of the ponies are out grazing in the herd. Young bucks aren't out watching their back trail. Men back in the shade of the lodges. Children playing at the springs. It's total surprise.”

They could see a few lazy spirals of smoke caught on the hot summer breezes in the distance.

“A fairly open plain separates us from the village?”

“Good enough for a cavalry charge, General.”

Carr drove one big fist down into the palm of the other hand. Then returned to his cavalry to detail the attack squadrons.

Long before marching orders were passed down through the cavalry command, the Pawnee scouts were already at their toilet, preparing for battle. First they stripped the saddles from their horses, throwing the saddles in the freight wagons. The tails of their ponies were tied up in anticipation of action. The scouts bound their long hair back and mixed earth-paint ceremonially. Weapons were polished and small knots of men smoked a bowl of tobacco together before mounting up. Many then put on a blue army blouse so that they would be easily recognizable to the young, untried soldiers in the dust and fearful confusion of battle.

Carr assigned H Company under Captain Leicester Walker to hold the left flank while Lieutenant George Price and A Company took the right.

“You are to turn the hostiles' flanks if they attempt escape,” the senior major instructed his men. Carr watched them nod. “Their backs will be to the river. Let's keep it their only path of escape. Once you have secured the flanks, dash to the rear of the village and gain control of the pony herd.”

As one, they turned and glanced at the herd grazing on a long, narrow bench of superb grass less than two miles on the other side of the village.

“Captain Sumner, with D Company, and Captain Maley with C Company—both of you are charged with the front of the charge. Major Crittenden will ride in command of this center squadron. Major Royall, your squadron of companies E and G will serve as a reserve immediately in my rear. Prepare for the attack.”