Killdeer mountain, p.9
Killdeer Mountain, page 9
“Yes, sir.”
“Two of Colonel Herrick’s scouts will guide you in. We can give you artillery support for getting in, if needed. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. Quite clear.” The general was already in motion, glancing back at him only once, frowning as though puzzled, and then spurred his horse on toward the artillery batteries.
The cannons were firing again. The tipi village was a tangled clutter of mangled poles and skins, with smoke rising from the ruins. He could hear the artillery officer shouting new commands. The bombardment to drive the Sioux down the slope would soon begin. Infantrymen and dismounted cavalrymen were already moving cautiously forward from the front of the hollow square.
Two of Colonel Herrick’s veteran scouts came up quickly from the rear. One of them was the chief of scouts, a man named Ward. Long strands of grizzled hair hung over his ears. His wiry chin-beard thrust out belligerently when he spoke. “Ready when you are, major.”
As the men were already mounted, he gave the march command and as soon as the column was clear of the square he increased the gait to a trot. When they were about a hundred yards from the mouth of the timbered ravine, twenty or more warriors came rushing out on foot, some firing rifles, others holding bows in readiness for the approaching cavalrymen.
Selkirk felt a wave of exultation flow through his body, the first such sensation since that summer day a year ago when he’d raced across the Ohio hills with John Morgan, the day before the Union boys surrounded and captured the remnants of his company.
“Form fours! Draw sabers! Charge!” As he shouted the last command he remembered the green Minnesotans had no sabers, but he knew it made no difference. The Sioux were already vanishing into the ravine, and he ordered a quick countermarch as a signal to Colonel Herrick to clear the entrance with artillery. A few moments later the batteries began raking the ravine with case shot.
After the smoke lifted, Ward suggested they dismount and lead the horses in. “Not much underbrush,” he explained. “We can get out in a hurry if need be.”
Selkirk gave the commands to halt and dismount. “March by file,” he added, and began following the two scouts through the battered scrub. In some places it would have been possible to remain in the saddle, but too many narrow passages and low tangles interrupted the trail. They passed one dead Sioux, his blood-soaked hair already covered with biting flies.
After no more than ten minutes the scouts signaled a halt. They picketed their horses and then motioned to Selkirk to follow them up a steep knoll. The narrow top was almost flat, covered with rabbit brush and small shrubs. Just below was a wider trail pocked with hoofprints and furrowed with travois markings. From above, the trail snaked down the mountain, turned sharply at the base of the knoll, and then dropped off toward the north. Far below they could see the dust of several ponies dragging travois.
“They’ve already started,” Ward said. “This is their best way out. Blind cannon fire won’t stop the buggers, but if they try to break through, sixty rifles concealed along the sides of this knob can pile ’em up like a jackrabbit kill.”
Selkirk sent the horseholders back several yards with the mounts and deployed the dismounted men in the brush along both sides of the rise. The second scout volunteered to go forward about a hundred yards to the first bend in the trail so that he could signal the approach of any fleeing Indians. Ward took a position on a ledge directly across from Selkirk’s left.
While they were preparing the ambush they could hear the roar and thump of concentrated cannon fire against the heights above them. Between the artillery explosions, the rattle of rifles was more intense than it had been at any time during the afternoon. Although he could no longer see the battlefield, Selkirk heard the cries of La Prade’s infantrymen surging up the steepening slope of the mountain. He lay on his belly in the rabbit brush, his field glass fixed on the upper trail.
Ward turned on the ledge, jerking a thumb toward Selkirk, who rose up on one knee. “Make ready!” Selkirk called to the sergeants. “Fire only at my command.”
Up the trail a dozen warriors on foot showed themselves at the first turn. They were moving cautiously, the ones in the lead darting in and out of the brush. Selkirk could feel the tension of his men concealed in the undergrowth. He glanced across at Ward. The scout had flattened himself against the rock, his pointed chin-beard thrust upward, waiting.
At the bend behind the warriors appeared a confused clutter of travois, loose ponies, dogs, women and children, all hastening down the slope, setting stones to rolling and swirls of dust to rising. The scarlet blankets and bright-colored clothing of the women formed irregular spots of color against the drabness of the oncoming mass.
He thought he heard a low birdcall, then caught the frantic motion of Ward’s arm signaling him to some action. The forward guard of warriors was in easy range. He gave the command to fire, and the responding crackle of rifles was startling in its loudness, reverberating among the surfaces of upthrust rock.
Excitement, inexperience, he’d seen the same wretched rifle fire in the early days with Morgan’s men. And the targets, the warriors, they moved like dancers. He saw only two down in the trail, both riddled, but the others had vanished. They were loose somewhere in the brush. His unseasoned men knew that as well as he. They’d be skittery now, even less accurate in their next shots.
He’d expected the Indian women to slow the forward movement of the travois when their warriors were fired upon, but instead they seemed to be coming down faster than before. The scraping of travois poles, the barking of dogs, the cries of children all combined to create a weird windlike roar. An arrow streaked across the emptiness between him and Ward, but Ward was no longer there. He thought he could hear the scout moving somewhere below.
Already the onrushing women and children were approaching the turn in the trail, perfect targets. Several of the ponies they were driving before them bore recent wounds, their blood caked in dark maroon streaks or still oozing carmine from haunches or withers or necks.
If he was going to order his men to fire on the human components of this frenzied flight he must act now. Kill everything that comes down that trail, General La Prade had ordered. But these were not warriors. “Humanity,” he whispered to himself. “No matter how savage. Humanity.”
The face of the first Indian woman in the throng suddenly was there below him, only a few yards distant, head lifted, dark eyes searching the landscape. She was as tall as most men, and walked in long rapid strides. Her confident air gave her a certain wild beauty. She was carrying a child in a cradle on her back, and held the rope bridle of a pony that was dragging a travois. Just as she passed in profile, a single rifle shot cracked from his right. “Hold your fire!” he yelled.
The bullet had hit the tall woman’s pony. It leaped in pain and terror, overturning the travois it was dragging, spilling buffalo robes, dried meat, brass kettles, and a blanketed old woman into the trail. The pony galloped madly down the slope, dragging a broken pole. All the women now began running, some bending quickly to catch up whatever loose pouches or parfleches or pans that tumbled in their paths.
Another shot was fired from the same place. A curl of gray smoke lifted from the brush. “God dammit, hold fire!” he cried out angrily. “Let their children and women pass.”
“Squaws carry weapons,” a voice retorted. He recognized the accent of one of the sergeants.
He ignored the warning. A hundred women and children, maybe more, moved swiftly past him, a stream of humanity that was alien to his world. Kill everything that comes down that trail. He heard the horses then like a rumble of thunder, some of them neighing, their flailing hooves knocking stones loose on the slope. They were a flood of duns and bays and roans and piebalds and sorrels and pintos. As the dust whirled and lifted he saw naked warriors astride some of them, quirting the backs of the riderless animals, and behind the horse herd was a number of additional men on foot, how many he could not tell.
They were coming with such velocity that he was certain they would overrun the women and children he had allowed to pass, but when he glanced to the right he saw no women and children, only their ponies hitched to bouncing travois far down the trail. The women and children had vanished into the woods cover, no doubt joining the advance guard of warriors, or decoys as he now realized they were.
Reacting to a slight crunch of gravel, he spun quickly around, rifle at the ready. Ward was crouched on the edge of the rocks behind him. “If you’d stopped them travois, major,” he said, “the trail would be so jammed that horse herd would panic back on its haunches. Now all hell couldn’t stop ’em.”
The animals were sweeping by already, saffron dust rising in a cloud, dust so thick he could catch only glimpses of running warriors among and behind the horse herd. As the din died, he heard scattered firing close at hand, then farther away.
“The humanity,” he said, rising to his knees. “Women and children—”
“Was it that white woman made you hold fire?” Ward asked bluntly.
He raised his head. “I saw no white woman.”
“They had one. A captive, I reckon. I think I seen her before—that Steever woman. With the immigrant wagons. I thought maybe you—”
The more distant firing off to the right resumed, and another arrow hissed through the air above the now empty trail. A sergeant called out: “Indians on our right, major.”
“Them raw Minnesota boys of yours,” Ward observed casually, “won’t stand a chance, woods-fighting.”
“Yes, we’re outflanked,” Selkirk said. He shouted to the sergeants to withdraw the men toward the company’s horseholders.
The cavalrymen came out of the brush quickly, turning to fire their weapons without aiming as they retreated into the narrow ravine. A few were helping to carry the casualties, a dozen at least. They fell back quickly to the horse herd. The second scout, the man who had concealed himself up the gulch to signal, was waiting for them there.
“What in hell happened, Ward?” he asked, forcing a false laugh.
Ward shook his head, saying nothing. Three horsemen were coming up the ravine from the prairie. The one in front was Colonel Herrick.
Leading his mount, Ward hurried forward to meet the colonel. Herrick dismounted quickly, tossing his reins to one of the aides. They were too far away for Selkirk to hear what was being said, although Herrick gestured wildly as he spoke. Once Ward turned and pointed either toward Selkirk or the knoll. Then both men mounted and started back toward the prairie.
For Selkirk everything held a dreamy quality; even the sepia light of the dying day was trancelike. He was walking, fairly rapidly he supposed, following the others out of the ravine, but he felt as if were floating slowly through the shell-torn brush. He had to lead his mount to one side when a team of draft horses came charging into the ravine with a six-pounder gun. The artillery officer shouted a command to halt. “Drop the trail, drop the trail!” he cried. “Right there on that hump of ground. It’ll give you enough elevation.”
The cannon was already shotted, and before Selkirk had gone a dozen paces a gunner was standing beside it, lanyard in hand, preparing to fire the first shell. They were still firing blindly toward the gulch when he led his horse out of the brush and got into his saddle.
His cavalrymen were scattered along the open slope, some mounted, some dismounted. The casualties lay in the dry grass, two or three of the men moaning, most of them quite still. Dr. Lieber and his hospital steward were hastily cleaning and bandaging the worst wounds. Colonel Herrick and General La Prade were just beyond the casualties, their knees touching when their horses jostled together. Both were looking at him as they talked rapidly, snatches of their words being borne to his ears on a rush of air flowing down the shadowy face of Killdeer Mountain. “Unfit … seven dead! … white woman … inquiry … his father the senator … under garrison arrest … convalescent … us off … Surgeon Lieber … hush … inquiry.”
Some of the words stung; others made no sense to him. He was about to shout an order to the sergeants to form the company when General La Prade abruptly slapped his horse into motion and came slowly toward him, his face turning grim when he glanced at the casualties.
Selkirk stared calmly into La Prade’s angry eyes as the general pulled his horse up sharply in front of him. “You failed,” La Prade said accusingly.
“I know, sir.”
“You are relieved of command and charged with conduct unbecoming an officer. Until your return to Fort Standish I’m placing you under the medical care of Surgeon Lieber.”
“Yes, sir.”
La Prade looked toward the dead and wounded on the grass. “There must be an official inquiry, of course. Because of the casualties.” He sighed. “To spare your father we’ll try to keep the incident within the Dakota command.”
“Yes, sir.”
La Prade turned his horse and rode rapidly away, leaving Herrick there in his place, facing Selkirk.
“Damn you,” Herrick said in a hissing undertone. “If you were a nobody I’d have you court-martialed and shot. La Prade blames me for letting Spotted Horse and his braves out of the trap. His commander will blame him. God knows who Senator Rawley will blame if he finds out he has a coward for a son.”
The colonel jerked at his reins and bellowed at the sergeants: “Form your ranks and prepare to mount!”
Without glancing at Selkirk he added quietly: “Give Lieber a hand. Until we reach Fort Standish, you’re under garrison arrest to the surgeon’s ambulance wagon. I assume you are a gentleman and will confine yourself to that area.”
“Yes, sir.”
For the first time he felt a sense of disloyalty, not disloyalty to the U.S. Volunteers but a betrayal of the man they all believed him to be, Charles Rawley. He had never really liked Rawley. The man had always been arrogant, vain, self-seeking, a braggart, a poor loser with a streak of viciousness in him that repelled Selkirk.
Yet he owed Rawley something; the Rawley family had a good name. After all, that name had protected him for weeks. If he fled to Canada now, the action would be viewed as cowardly, a betrayal of the Rawley name. He let the thought of flight recede in his mind. He had failed the ghost of Major Rawley, and somehow he felt he must atone for that failure.
7
IT WAS MORNING AND the Roanoke was moving. I could feel sunlight on my eyelids and knew the hour was very late before I opened them and blinked into the beam slanting through the narrow window of the stateroom. Lying on my back in the lower bunk, I believe I had not moved a muscle since falling asleep late in the night. I’d fallen asleep after my guest on the bunk above had finished his tale of Killdeer Mountain. Or had I? How much of it was mixed in my own dreams, how much was colored by fantasies of his disordered imagination, how much was reality? At least he was real, breathing like a softly purring cat, just above my head.
The Roanoke chattered and shuddered, using the full power of its engines to stem the Missouri current. While I was dressing, I peered through the dingy windowpane. The river flow was swift after the night’s rainstorm. Dead limbs, logs, and occasional small trees raced past. I was suddenly very hungry, and wondered if I’d awakened too late for breakfast.
“I’ll bring you something,” I said to the man in the upper bunk, but he did not reply. He was curled into a bearlike hibernation when I left him.
Only two people were still at breakfast, Nettie Steever and the Indian girl, Towanjila. As the other tables had been cleared and pushed back against the walls, I asked permission to join them.
“Late sleepers can’t be choosy of their company,” Nettie replied. Her voice was not very friendly, but her eyes were bright and I could see no hostility in them. Her face was younger than when I’d last seen her in the night, and I recalled one of Dr. Lieber’s sayings—that a good night’s sleep will do more for a woman’s face than all the beauty creams in Araby.
Late though it was, a good supply of baked ham, poached eggs, and corn muffins were left on the table platters. The food was no warmer than the tepid coffee, but as Nettie remarked, late risers can’t be choosers on Captain Adams’s Roanoke.
“Your cabin mate is still asleep, I suppose,” Nettie said, her words startling me into spilling a large splash of coffee. “Don’t look so sheep-faced,” she added. “I shan’t peach on you to the captain.” She was buttering a muffin as calmly as though she had merely made an insignificant observation on the state of the weather.
“I though that was my secret,” I finally replied.
“Towanjila saw you last night when you brought him up from the main deck.” She exchanged conspiratorial looks with the Indian girl. Each seemed to be having difficulty in controlling a strong inclination to laugh at me. I remembered how last night I’d thought I saw a wraith on the outer promenade, and how my strange guest had gripped my shoulders and stopped me in my tracks. So Towanjila had been there. But why? At that moment a repressed smile showed faintly at the corners of the girl’s lips.
“What does it matter to you two?” I asked somewhat huffily. They reminded me of mischievous schoolgirls, quite unlike the somber pair I’d met the evening before.
Nettie gave me a broad teasing smile (she had remarkably white and even teeth for a woman who had endured so many hardships) and although I was provoked I could not help but admire her utter frankness. “Oh, we know this buckeen you’ve taken in, or maybe has taken you in, to put it proper.” She laughed, showing those fine white teeth. “He’s off his head. Pay him no mind, he’s never who he says he is.”
