Oushata Massacre Page 7

  “His name is Dog Runner,” a voice said from the dark behind him.

  “What?” Marcus turned around quickly and saw Missouri Joe coming toward him.

  “That tall fella layin’ there,” Missouri Joe said. “His name is Dog Runner. Indians, you know, got a way about names. They got to mean somethin’. Now, Dog Runner here, when he was just a young buck, all full of piss and vinegar, made a bet that he could run faster’n any dog in the camp. ’Course he couldn’t, but the fact that he was foolish enough to think that he could, give him his name, an’ it stuck with him for the rest of his life. He’s the one you kilt, ain’t he?”

  “Yes,” Marcus said. Morbidly, his eyes were drawn back to stare at Dog Runner. “Yes, he is. I didn’t know you knew him.”

  “Oh, yeah, I been knowin’ him a long time. He’s my wife’s cousin.”

  “Oh. I ... I’m sorry.”

  Missouri chuckled. “What are you sorry about, boy? Are you sorry that you kilt him? Or are you sorry that I know him?”

  “I’m sorry that he’s your relative,” Marcus said.

  Missouri Joe pulled out a plug of tobacco and carved off a piece, offered it to Marcus who declined, then put it away.

  “Hell, I ain’t sorry that you kilt him,” Missouri Joe said.

  “Why would you say a thing like that?” “Boy, let me tell you somethin’ else about Dog Runner. He was as mean as they come. Three winters ago he let his mother-in-law starve to death ’cause he wouldn’t take no responsibility for her. He wasn’t put down none by the other Indians for that, ’cause they figure it’s pretty much live and let live as far as a person’s own family is concerned. He beat his woman an’ kids, too, but it won’t do no good to stand here spoutin’ off all the evil things about Dog Runner. He wasn’t much of a man in my book, and if there ever was somebody that needed killin’, why, I reckon it was ol’ Dog Runner here. He ain’t gonna be missed much back in his village—especially not by his woman and his kids. But that ain’t the point I’m trying to make here, Lieutenant.”

  Marcus looked up at him.

  “The point I’m tryin’ to make here is, they’s some folks need killin’ be they white or red. But them’s that need it, need it for what kind of men they be, and not just ’cause they happen to be Indian. Do you get what I’m sayin’, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, I do,” Marcus said.

  “The thing is, you a brand-new shavetail. I figure you got twenty, maybe thirty years in front of you. You probably gonna have the chance to kill lots of Indians in that time. You not gonna always know that they was once dumb enough to think they could run faster’n any dog in camp, or mean enough to let their mother-in-law starve. But they are men. Men, Lieutenant . . . not heathens or animals or targets. They’re men, an’ some of ’em’s good and some ’em’s bad. ’Member that, son.”

  “I’ll remember, Joe,” Marcus promised. “I’ll remember.”

  6

  They had been on the trail for half the morning the next day when Missouri Joe came across Indian signs indicating a hundred or more horses, plus the tracks of dozens of travois. He pointed it out to Colonel Pettibone, and the regimental commander halted the march, then immediately ordered his trumpeter to sound officers’ call.

  The shrill summons of the trumpet carried back along the column to D Company, where Captain Forsyth twisted around in his saddle and looked at his two lieutenants to see if they’d heard it. Their curious and anxious expressions told him that they did.

  “First Sergeant!” Forsyth bellowed, and the first sergeant rode up to the head of D Company’s column. “Take over.”

  “Aye, sir,” the first sergeant responded. He stood in his stirrups and looked back over the entire company. “At my command,” he shouted, indicating that he was now in charge of the troop.

  Because Army regulations for mounted and dismounted drill and ceremony state that an officer is never a part of a formation commanded by an enlisted man, both Marcus and John fell out of ranks immediately—no specific order was necessary—and moved up alongside Forsyth. The three officers then urged their horses into a canter, hurrying them to the front of the halted regiment, where all the other officers of the 4th were also gathering.

  Pettibone was sitting casually in his saddle with one leg hooked across the pommel. He was distractedly tapping that leg with his riding quirt and he smiled broadly at his officers.

  “Well, gentlemen, it would appear this is our day,” he said. “Do you see this?” He pointed to the ground behind him where the Indian trail could be easily seen, not only by the broken and chewed grass, but by the line of horse droppings. “The hostiles have made it easy for us. They have practically sent us an open invitation.”

  Missouri Joe, who was present for the meeting, leaned over to spit.

  “Colonel, don’t that worry you just a mite?” he asked. “I mean, that it all seems so easy?” Pettibone turned to look at his civilian scout. “What are you suggesting?” he asked.

  “Well, I’m just thinkin’ that we ain’t exactly sneakin’ up on ’em. Since they’re movin’ their whole camp . . . women, children, dogs, an’ ever’thin’, it don’t hardly seem right they’d make it so easy for us.”

  “Well, Mr. Indian Scout, have you considered the fact that they may have no choice?” “I ain’t followin’ you, Colonel.”

  “I mean, even Indian horses have to eat,” Pettibone said. “And what goes in at the front of the horse, comes out at the rear.” Pettibone pointed again to the trail. “Unless they have their squaws following behind picking up turds, they are going to be easy to follow.” Several of the officers laughed at the mental image of a group of Indian women walking along behind the horses, picking up the horses’ droppings. Missouri Joe, without laughing, leaned forward and spit again.

  “Well, Colonel, now you’re gettin’ smart,” he said. “You see, I seen the squaws and young’uns do just that.”

  “Obviously, they haven’t done it this time,” Pettibone said, “for anyone can plainly see that ‘Lo’ is just in front of us.” “Lo” was often used as a sarcastic name for the Indians. It referred to the author James Fenimore Cooper’s line, “Lo, the noble red man.”

  “What are we going to do, Colonel?” one of the officers asked.

  “Here is my plan,” Pettibone replied. “I’m going to form two squadrons of two companies each. Captain Andrews, you will take your company and B Company from First Battalion, and form a squadron that will go south for one mile, then ride west, parallel with the line of march. Major Conklin, you will take the remaining company from First Battalion, and one company from Second Battalion to form a squadron that will parallel the route of march on the north. That will leave two companies of the Second Battalion, which, when joined to the three of the Third Battalion, will form a strengthened squadron for the attack. This reinforced squadron will proceed right up the middle of the Indian trail until we encounter the savages. And then, gentlemen, we will attack, leaving the squadrons on each wing in position to cut off any possible retreat. Captain Forsyth, you will command the attack squadron.”

  “Yes, sir,” Forsyth said.

  Marcus felt a sense of excitement at being part of the center squadron, the squadron that would actually make the attack. That excitement was short-lived, however, for Colonel Pettibone continued with his instructions. “I shall establish a regimental headquarters to direct the operation, and I want two officers to join my staff—Lieutenants Cavanaugh and Humes.”

  Marcus took a quick breath, ready to protest. He realized, however, that any protest would not only be futile, but would mark him as someone who questioned command. He was disappointed, but he held his disappointment in check.

  “Colonel, shall we agree upon some signal for assistance?” Andrews asked.

  Pettibone chuckled. “I scarcely think that will be the problem,” he said. “No, sir, the problem will be as it always is . . . preventing these pesky savages from running away.” Pettibone pulled out his wa
tch and looked at it. “It is now nine-thirty. I propose to make the attack by ten o’clock. I expect all of you to be in position by that time.”

  Marcus could sense that Pettibone was smelling battle now and, like a predator on the scent of blood, could scarcely wait until the battle was joined.

  Forsyth, Conklin, and Captain Andrews set their watches to coincide with Pettibone’s.

  “You remaining company commanders will take your commands from your respective squadron leader. All right, gentlemen, return to your men. Lieutenants Cavanaugh and Humes, stay with me.”

  As Marcus watched Captain Forsyth and Lieutenant Culpepper canter back to the company, he couldn’t help but feel a bit jealous. Though Culpepper was trying very hard to hide it, Marcus could see that a broad smile of excitement was on the young lieutenant’s face.

  John was going to be in on the attack, Marcus was going to merely observe it.

  A few moments later Captain Andrews’s squadron pulled away to the south, while major Conklin’s squadron pulled away to the north. Lieutenant Cavanaugh, with the center squadron, continued right up the path of broken and chewed grass and brown-and- green horse apples. The headquarters staff followed, but from the rear.

  “Well, Lieutenant Cavanaugh, what do you think of my plan of battle?” Pettibone asked.

  The query surprised Marcus. He wondered why Pettibone would ask him such a question. “You’re asking me, sir?”

  “Yes. you’re the most recent graduate of the academy . . . you’ve studied tactics since any of the rest of us have. What do you think?” “The only fault I see with your battle plan is that I was pulled away from the squadron that is making the attack, sir,” he said.

  Pettibone laughed. “Well said, Mr. Cavanaugh, well said. However, don’t be feeling too much despair. I’m certain you will see your share of battle before this is all through.” “Yes, sir,” Marcus said.

  A few moments later they stopped while Pettibone stared through his glasses. “Damn!” he said aloud. “Missouri Joe was right. The Indians are leading us astray. But how the hell did they get over there?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  Pettibone pointed, and then, for the first time, Marcus saw a cloud of dust in the distance, north of the direction they were traveling. He was angry with himself for not having seen it before, because it was a fairly large cloud and clearly visible.

  “It would seem, Mr. Cavanaugh, that the Indians have left us a broad highway to travel while they have positioned themselves for an attack at my flank. Captain Andrews is about to be engaged. Lieutenant Humes.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Go to Major Conklin, tell him to circle around to prevent any attempt by the Indians to escape. Lieutenant Cavanaugh, I want you to overtake Captain Andrews. Tell him that I will send Conklin around to cut off any possible retreat, and instruct Forsyth to support him in the attack. He is to strike the enemy at once with everything he has. Do you have that? He should hit them with everything he has.”

  “Yes, sir. Colonel?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Request permission to stay with the captain during the fighting, sir.”

  “Permission granted,” Pettibone said. “Now get going, Lieutenant!”

  Marcus spurred his mount into a gallop and bent low over the horse’s neck. He could hear the animal’s labored breathing and the pounding of its hooves, but nothing seemed louder than the beating of his own heart. The ground before him descended in a long, gradual slope that was covered with tall, dry grass. It made riding easy, and a short time later he pulled up at the head of Captain Andrews’s column.

  “Has the colonel seen them?” Andrews asked, indicating the Indians in front of them.

  “Yes, sir, he has,” Marcus replied breathlessly. “Colonel Pettibone’s compliments, sir, and he asks that you strike against the Cheyenne from the front, as soon as you can engage them, with everything you have.”

  “A frontal assault?” Andrews questioned. “Is Colonel Pettibone fully aware of the number of hostiles there? A frontal assault would be a massacre!”

  Marcus was a little surprised by Andrews’s response. As the commander in the field had ordered a frontal assault.

  There should be no discussion. Colonel Pettibone would be proceeding upon the assumption that Andrews’s response would be immediate unquestioned obedience to his orders. For a commander in battle there could be no other way ... it was the cardinal precept of military command. And yet Andrews was questioning Pettibone’s orders, even as Marcus was transmitting them.

  “Sir, I would strongly recommend that you proceed as directed,” Marcus said.

  “Will he be holding a squadron in reserve?” “No, sir,” Marcus said. “Major Conklin’s squadron is being moved into position to block the Indians’ retreat, Captain Forsyth’s squadron is coming to your support.”

  “I see,” Andrews said. “Well, Lieutenant, here is where you get an example of contingency battlefield strategy. First I shall attack with one company. Then, while they have the Indians engaged, the second company will strike in a classic Cavalry charge. That should break up the hostiles, and the field will be ours.”

  “Captain, perhaps I do not interpret Colonel Pettibone’s orders as you have, but I believe when he says strike with everything, he means exactly that.”

  “I submit, sir, that you are merely to transmit the commander’s orders, not to interpret them,” Andrews said.

  “Yes, sir,” Marcus replied. He was silent then. To say anything else would be tantamount to insubordination.

  “Captain, I’ve received permission from Colonel Pettibone to accompany you into battle . . . with your approval, of course.” Andrews smiled. “I would be pleased to have you,” he said. “You may join A Company. They will engage first.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Marcus said.

  Andrews called his company commanders over and issued his orders to them. “Varney, Lieutenant Cavanaugh will go with you.” “Right,” Lieutenant Varney said. “Come along now, Lieutenant. Let’s give these heathens a run for their money.”

  Marcus followed Varney back to his company, where orders were given to form in a company front skirmish line.

  “Lieutenant Cavanaugh, you take the left side, I’ll take the right,” Varney said. “If I go down, you’re in command.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marcus said. He smiled. “Lieutenant Varney?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t have that much ambition. Watch out for yourself.”

  “Right,” Varney said, smiling back at Marcus.

  Marcus hurried over to get into position, then turned and watched as the company formed into a long line abreast.

  “Draw carbines!” the first sergeant shouted, and the men pulled their weapons from their saddle scabbards. The horses seemed to sense the impending danger, perhaps from the men atop them, and grew a bit skittish. A couple of horses began nervously prancing around, moving out of the line, and the riders had to turn them in a full circle to get them back into position.

  Marcus looked over at Varney and saw that the lieutenant had his saber drawn. Marcus drew his own, then rested his hand on his saddle horn. He looked down and saw that he was shaking. Was it fear or excitement? Marcus didn’t want to admit that it was fear, but he realized that it was probably a little of both.

  “Forward at a trot!” Varney shouted, and the company started out across the plains.

  As they rode toward the cloud of dust, they were soon able to see the figures within it. The Indians weren’t retreating. They were advancing slowly, yet confidently, ready to take on the white man and defeat him.

  In this engagement the Cheyenne outnumbered not only Varney’s single company but Captain Andrews’s entire squadron. In a classic tactical maneuver that Marcus might have studied in the classroom, the Indians had managed to position themselves in such a way as to enjoy a numerical superiority on the field, even though the overall numbers favored the enemy.

&
nbsp; “Trumpeter! Sound the charge!” Varney called.

  The trumpeter lifted his instrument, and the thrilling notes of the mounted charge carried like a clarion call above the jangle of equipment and the sounds of the horses.

  With the charge sounded, the company surged forward at top speed, and soon the sound of galloping horses’ hooves was like thunder rolling across the plains. Above all the noise, the soldiers could clearly hear the Indians as they whooped and shouted in anticipation of battle. They hurtled toward one another. Two armies: one uniformed, structured and trained; the other half-naked and swarming, but no less determined.

  Marcus slashed at the first warrior with his saber but the red man leaned deftly to one side and the blade flashed by harmlessly, even as the Indian struck out at Marcus with his war club, also missing his target. Now their momentum carried them on to other targets.

  “Use your pistol, lad!” one of the older veteran privates shouted to Marcus. “That saber is as worthless as tits on a boar hog!”

  Though the private’s remarks could have been considered insubordinate, Marcus knew he was right. He drew his pistol with his free hand as another Indian was charging toward him, screaming and holding his war club over his head. Marcus quickly took aim, amazed at how calmly he was able to sit in his saddle and wait, and when his attacker was almost upon him, he pulled the trigger. The gun jumped in his hand, and a bio hole suddenly appeared in the Indian’s chest. There was a look of surprise on the brave’s face as he pitched backward out of his saddle.

  Suddenly Marcus heard a whistling sound, then a thud, and he saw the arrow buried deep in his horse’s neck. The horse went down, and Marcus was thrown over its head, rolling as he hit the ground. As he got to his feet, another Indian rode up and, holding his rifle with one hand, fired at Marcus. The bullet passed so close by his head that Marcus could feel the breeze it created. He immediately took aim with his pistol, firing off a perfect head shot, killing the Cheyenne brave instantly.

  A riderless Cavalry horse ran by then, and Marcus managed to reach out and grab the animal’s halter. The horse fell to its front knees and slid along the ground for a few feet, stunned by the sudden grab. Marcus waited until the animal had regained its footing, then swung into the saddle, ready to continue the fight.