The Red Hills (11 page)

Crow looked at the watching Simpson, trying to see ahead to what was going to happen. Menges had effectively signed the death warrant for his own wife, and Crow could hardly expect anything better for himself. His thoughts were those echoed by Kemp a few minutes later as they waited to set out. There could be little doubt that the Captain intended to simply abandon him when the Indians attacked. But there was no way he could prove that. Not until it was too late. To refuse would be cowardice in the face of the enemy and refusing a lawful command.

Either of those could easily end up with his getting shot.

'No questions, Sir.'

Menges looked surprised, and even, maybe, disappointed. As though he'd hoped Crow would refuse. Or cause a great scene that would give him the rightful excuse to kill him. With Trooper Simpson there it wouldn't have been hard to get away with that. If their roles had been reversed Crow would have shot him down without the least hesitation.

'Very well, Mister Crow. Take your ten men. I suggest using Cantwell, Stotter and Baxter for a start.'

That was an interesting suggestion. With all of them dead it would be easier to edit history regarding the previous day's defeat.

'One thing, Sir.'

'What?'

'Small matter.'

Menges glanced at Simpson and Crow was amused to see both of them looking edgy and worried.

'What is it, Mister? Be quick. There's a deal of planning to arrange for this fight.'

'Unless I'm mistaken, Sir, I imagine most of the planning is already done.'

'What in hell do you mean by that, Crow?'

The tall man's voice remained quiet and gentle. 'Not a thing, Sir. Just a comment in passing, Captain.'

"Well, what was it you wanted to ask?'

'My orders, Sir.'

'Yes?'

'I'd like them in writing, Sir.'

'Why?'

'I have the right to ask for them, Sir, and I am not prepared to say more.'

Menges smiled. 'Very well. Your orders will confirm your part in this mission. That you lead your men in pursuit of any hostiles that appear. That is all they'll say.'

'And that you will immediately come to our support, Sir? Will they say that?'

'Dismissed, Mister Crow. I've told you what to do in the presence of this honest witness.'

There was no point in pursuing it any further. Crow knew that and saluted, swinging on his heel, nearly catching the trailing saber on the leg of the desk. As he reached the door of the tent, Menges called him back.

'Crow.'

'Sir?'

'I'll also say this to you, in front of this witness and not in your damned orders.'

'Go ahead.'

The Captain stood up, thrusting his face close to Crow so that the taller man could smell the stink of his sweat and the sweet scent of whisky on his breath. There was so much hatred in Menges that Crow almost expected it to burst through the flushed skin like wriggling white worms.

'You're goin' to die, Crow. Like that slut of a wife will die. She might get to live a little while the bucks have their way with her, but in the end they'll kill her.'

'If they get her back to the camp they'll probably let her live. It's only white women taken in a raid and killed on the spot that suffer. The Sioux and lots of tribes have kept white women for years without harming them.'

'Yeah. Indian-lover like you would say that. I guess that they'll kill her. Shame there's nobody here but Simpson to hear this, ain't it, Mister Crow? But don't worry on it. I figure you'll be buzzard-meat before this day's out and not a damned thing you can do about it. Refuse and I'll have you shot. Obey and they'll cut you apart while I watch. And there isn't a move you can make.'

'Is that all?'

'Yeah.' Menges laughed.

Without another word Crow left him.

An hour later they were all on the trail Crow had thought out a plan that might work but it depended on so many factors that he didn't bother passing it on to anyone else. The biggest factor of all that he would be depending on was luck.

The troop as they rode out kicked up a great towering cloud of dust from the dry grass of the Dakotas. Crow and his band of ten Troopers led the column, with Menges and the main body of men a couple of hundred paces behind.

And a quarter of a mile back from them came Lieutenant Kemp with the supply wagon and the wounded. Sergeant McLaglen refused to ride with the sick and maimed and insisted on straddling a huge bay mare, his injured arm bandaged to his side.

They twice saw Indian scouts on the horizon, appearing briefly like shimmering phantoms from the heat-haze and then vanishing. Whatever else happened, nobody could doubt that Crazy Horse was going to be able to pick the time and the place when he finally committed his warriors to the attack.

When they were ten miles from their camp-site, Menges sent a galloper spurring forwards to tell Crow to press on with his men while the remainder of the column rested up for an hour.

The dark, deep-set eyes never altered, and the mouth remained a thin slash across the pale face. Crow nodded to acknowledge the order and spurred on forwards, followed by his ten soldiers. Cantwell and Stotter were the first pair in the double columns with Trooper Baxter in the second file.

For the first quarter mile nobody spoke, the shadow of the brooding Captain Menges seeming to spread out across them, over the sun-baked grass and rolling hills.

Then Trooper Baxter called out to Crow.

'Permission to sing, Sir?'

Despite the rules of the commanding officer, Crow knew damned well that the Indians would have seen them leave their camp site and would have shadowed them all the way. Would know where they were going. If he knew anything about Crazy Horse, the wily leader would even have guessed from the splitting of the command what Menges was planning.

'Sure. Give us something sweet and low, Trooper.'

'Somethin' my Ma taught me back at White River Junction, Sir? Gospel Song?'

'Sure. Go ahead. But keep your eyes skinned for an ambush. That means all of you.'

His voice clear and high in the afternoon heat, Baxter sang out the popular old hymn,
We Shall Gather At The River.
The rest of the patrol joining in with him on the chorus. Far away from Menges and his menace, even Crow found his lips moving to the words.

'Ere we reach the shining river,

Lay we all our burdens down,

Raise our spirits and deliver,

And provide a robe and crown.'

Then the chorus.

Ringing out over the prairie and sending the hunting birds circling higher.

'Yes, we'll gather at the river,

The beautiful, the beautiful river,

Gather with the saints at the river,

That flows by the throne of God:

They were reaching the place where Crow most expected the attack. There were deep draws to right and left and a long valley that cut across their path about a hundred paces ahead. Scattered groups of trees struggled for their existence, giving enough cover for a dozen or more braves.

But it was the valleys that provided the maximum cover.

Enough shadow and dead ground to hide a thousand of Sitting Bull's Hunkpapa Sioux, or twice that number of Crazy Horse's mixed band of warriors.

With only ten men there was no way that Crow could provide adequate cover with scouts. It was better to stick together.

And hope.

There was a little more than just hope.

While out on patrol a couple of days earlier with Sergeant McLaglen, Crow had noticed a peculiar knob of yellow-grey rock, sticking out a hundred feet above the grasslands. He had been so interested that he had ridden his black stallion clean around it noting that there was a sheer cliff on the far side, while it sloped more gently on the west and south. Stark and bare among the grass it towered over the prairie like a natural fortress.

It was that hill, combined with a lot of luck that featured in Crow's plans.

But it would only work if he'd managed to use the years of knowing Indians and living with them to second-guess Crazy Horse and sit there waiting for the ambush. If it didn't come then... well, that was a bridge that could be crossed when, if, the time came.

He'd checked the patrol, holding up his hand as a signal to top, reining in and looking all around. The hill was to the flank, about two hundred and fifty paces to their right.

Ahead of them ran a valley and to their left was one of the clumps of trees, around a hundred paces distant. Crow rose in the stirrups, looking back along their trail, seeking a sight of Menges and the rest of the column. All he could make out was a dust-cloud, indistinct, way back on the horizon.

There was still no sign of the Indians attacking and Crow wondered whether he had guessed wrong. The price for guessing wrong was about as high as it could be.

'Sir?'

'What is it, Cantwell?'

Thought I saw something, Sir.'

'Where?'

'There,' pointing to the trees to their left. 'Thought I saw a glint of something.'

Crow felt his pulse speed up a little, the palms of his hands suddenly moist with sweat. It could be. There wasn't enough room there for too many braves but they could be the bait. Or the shepherds, driving the small patrol towards the main band.

'See it now?'

The soldier shook his head. 'No, Sir. Maybe it was the sun off a bit of quartz. Something like that.'

'Maybe. Keep alert. Come on, Baxter. Let's have another verse of that hymn.'

The soldier nodded, wiping perspiration from his forehead with his yellow bandana.

'Soon we'll reach the shining river,

Soon our pilgrimage will cease,

And our happy hearts will quiver,

With the happy...

The forty-five-seventy bullet from a captured Springfield carbine hit him in the middle of the chest, kicking him out of the saddle, leaving him dying in the grass.

Crow saw the white puff of smoke from the rifle. Saw the bullet as it penetrated deep in the soldier's chest. The gout of blood from the light blue shirt. Bright red arterial blood that meant Baxter would be dead within a minute or two and nothing to be done to help his quick passing.

'Follow me!!' he yelled, digging his spurs deep into his horse's flanks, making it whinny with pain and shock as it leaped forwards, a vicious tug on the reins bringing it round towards the rocky knoll.

Quick as Crow was, the attacking Sioux were almost too fast for him, whooping out from the cover of the trees, firing as they came. Bullets buzzing around the ears of the fleeing pony soldiers. There was time during the frantic gallop for Crow to glance back and see that every one of the dozen or so warriors was armed with a rifle. The defeat of Menges and his men was costly. Not just at the time but in the harm that those captured arms would do. He figured that Crazy Horse would have set up his best shots and best riders among the trees, in the hope of surprising the whites and catching them out in the open.

That was the big flaw of Menges' plan. The Indians would not be worried about luring such a small party into a big ambush. Not when they could take them in a simple straight fight. It was a myth that the Indians shirked an ordinary battle like this. Custer had said they would never stand and fight. If he ever tested his idea against a large enough body of hostiles Crow knew the boy general could get the nastiest shock of his illustrious career.

'Faster!!' he shouted, seeing that a couple of the Troopers were slow off the mark. Among the thundering of the hooves and the screams and shots of the Indians it was difficult to hear but he heard one shout something about saving Baxter. 'Leave him you stupid bastard!! He's dead as a beaver hat!'

Courage was all very well, but Crow believed that didn't run as far as endangering his own life. Looking back over his shoulder he saw both Troopers toppled from their saddles by some good shooting from the Sioux, closing in on them and still firing at only twenty or so paces.

But the rest of them, eight in all, made it to the bottom of the rock..

Led by Crow they heeled their horses up the sloping flank of the knoll in among the scattered boulders that sprinkled the side and top. They quickly dismounted and two of them took the reins of the mounts, while the others began to fire on the attacking Indians. It was, as Crow had hoped, a perfect defensive position.

After the first flurry of shots, that tumbled five of the Sioux from the backs of their ponies, Crow called for a ceasefire from his men.

'We have enough ammunition here to hold them off for a long while.' he called. 'But guard it. Shoot only when we are threatened. Don't let them tempt us into wasting bullets by false charges. Fire only on my command.'

For the time being they were safe.

The disappointed braves knew better than to try and attack them. The soldiers had good cover and could move safely about the outcrop without exposing themselves to the fire of their enemies. And they had enough food and water to keep the Indians off for at least two or three days unless Crazy Horse appeared with massive reinforcements and simply rode over them.

Crow climbed cautiously to the very top of the hill, wishing that he had carried glasses with him so that he could better make out what was happening with the main column. But his sight was far more sharp than most white men and he could see that Menges had checked. They must have heard the sound of shooting and seen the powder smoke. But he wasn't moving. As Crow had known he wouldn't. The Captain was going to sit out there, thinking that Crow would soon be wiped out. If he'd bothered to scout that area himself he'd have known about the hill.

And would have known that Crow might have made it safely.

It was a stand-off.