Molly McDonald Part 38

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

THE BATTLE WITH THE INDIANS

Corbin had gone with the detachment circling to the left, and "California Joe" was with the other in the valley, but Hamlin remained with the chief. About them was profound silence, the men standing beside their horses. There was nothing to do but wait, every nerve at high tension. The wintry air grew colder, but the troopers were not allowed to make the slightest noise, not even to swing their arms or stamp their feet. After the last detachment swept silently out into the night, there still remained four hours until daylight. No one knew what had occurred; the various troops had melted away into the dark and disappeared. No word, no sound had come back. They could only wait in faith on their comrades. The men were dismounted, each one holding his own horse in instant readiness for action. Not a few, wearied with the day's work, while still clinging to their bridles, wrapped the capes of their overcoats over their heads and threw themselves down in the snow, and fell asleep.

At the first sight of dawn Hamlin was sent down the line to arouse them. Overcoats were taken off, and strapped to the saddles, carbines loaded and slung, pistols examined and loosened in their holsters, saddles recinched, and curb chains carefully looked after. This was the work of but a few moments, the half-frozen soldiers moving with an eagerness that sent the hot blood coursing fiercely through numbed limbs. To the whispered command to mount, running from lip to lip along the line, the men sprang joyously into their saddles, their quickened ears and eager eyes ready for the signal.

Slowly, at a walk, Custer led them forward toward the crest of the hill, where the Osage guide watched through the spectral light of dawn the doomed village beneath. To the uplift of a hand the column halted, and Custer and his bugler went forward. A step behind crouched the Sergeant, grasping the reins of three horses, while a little to the right, beyond the sweep of the coming charge, waited the regimental band.

Peering over the crest, the leader saw through the dim haze, scarcely five hundred yards distant, dotting the north bank of the Was.h.i.ta for more than a quarter of a mile, the Indian village. There was about it scarcely a sign of human life. From the top of two or three of the tepees light wreaths of smoke floated languidly out on the wintry air, and beyond the pony herd was restlessly moving. Even as he gazed, half convinced that the Indians had been warned, the village deserted, the sharp report of a rifle rang out in the distance.

Hamlin saw the General spring upright, his lips uttering the sharp command, "_Sound the charge!_" Even while the piercing blare of the bugle cut the frosty air, there was a jingle of steel as the troopers behind spurred forward. Almost at the instant the three dismounted men were in saddle. Custer waved his hand at the band, shouted "Play!" and to the rollicking air of "Garry Owen," the eager column of hors.e.m.e.n broke into a mad gallop, and with ringing cheers and mighty rush, swept over the ridge straight down into the startled village. To Hamlin, at Custer's side, reins in his teeth, a revolver in either hand, what followed was scarcely a memory. It remained afterward as a blurred, indistinct picture of action, changing so rapidly as to leave no definite outlines. He heard the answering call of three bugles; the deafening thud of horses' hoofs; the converging cheers of excited troopers; the mingling ring of revolver shots; a sharp order cleaving the turmoil; the wild neigh of a stricken horse; the guttural yells of Indians leaping from their tepees into the open. Then he was in the heart of the village, firing with both hands; before him, about him, half-naked savages fighting desperately, striking at him with knives, firing from the shelter of tepees, springing at him with naked hands in a fierce effort to drag him from the saddle. It was all confusion, chaos, a babble of noise, his eyes blinded by glint of steel and glare of fire. The impetus of their rush carried them irresistibly forward; over and through tents they rode, across the bodies of living and dead; men reeled and fell from saddle; riderless horses swept on unguided; revolvers emptied were flung aside, and hands closed hard on sabre hilts. Foot by foot, yard by yard, they drove the wedge of their charge, until they swept through the fringe of tepees, out into the stampeded pony herd.

The bugle rang again, and they turned, facing back, and charged once more, no longer in close formation, but every trooper fighting as he could. Complete as the surprise had been, the men of the Seventh realized now the odds against them, the desperate nature of the fight.

Out from the sheltering tepees poured a flood of warriors; rifles in hand they fought savagely. The screams of women and children, the howling and baying of Indian dogs, the crack of rifles, the wild war cries, all mingled into an indescribable din. Black Kettle was almost the first to fall, but other chiefs rallied their warriors, and fought like fiends, yielding ground only by inches, until they found shelter amid the trees, and under the river bank.

In the cessation of hand to hand fighting the detachments came together, reforming their ranks, and reloading their arms. Squads of troopers fired the tepees, and gathering their prisoners under guard, hastened back to the ranks again at the call of the bugle. By now Custer comprehended his desperate position, and the full strength of his Indian foes. Fresh hordes were before him, already threatening attack. Hamlin, bleeding from two flesh wounds, rode in from the left flank where he had been borne by the impetus of the last charge, with full knowledge of the truth. Their attack had been centred on Black Kettle's village, but below, a mile or two apart, were other villages, representing all the hostile tribes of the southern plains. Already these were hurrying up to join those rallying warriors under shelter of the river bank. Even from where Custer stood at the outskirts of the devastated village he could distinguish the warbonnets of Cheyennes, Arapahoes, Kiowas and Comanches mingled together in display of savagery.

His decision was instant, that of the impetuous cavalry leader, knowing well the inherent strength and weakness of his branch of the service.

He could not hope to hold his position before such a ma.s.s of the enemy, with the little force at his disposal. His only chance of escape, to come off victor, was to strike them so swiftly and with such force as to paralyze pursuit. Already the reinforcing warriors were sweeping forward to attack, two thousand strong, led fiercely by Little Raven, an Arapahoe; Santanta, a Kiowa, and Little Rock, a Cheyenne.

Dismounting his men he prepared for a desperate resistance, although the troopers' ammunition was running low. Suddenly, crashing through the very Indian lines, came a four-mule wagon. The quartermaster was on the box, driving recklessly. Only Hamlin and a dozen other men were still in saddle. Without orders they dashed forward, spurring maddened horses into the ranks of the Indians, hurling them left and right, firing into infuriated red faces, and slashing about with dripping sabres. Into the lane thus formed sprang the tortured mules, sweeping on with their precious load of ammunition. Behind closed in the squad of rescuers, struggling for their lives amid a horde of savages. Then, with one wild shout, the dismounted troopers leaped to the rescue, hurling back the disorganized Indian ma.s.s, and dragging their comrades from the rout. It was hand to hand, clubbed carbine against knife and spear, a fierce, breathless struggle. Behind eager hands ripped open the ammunition cases; cartridges were jammed into empty guns, and a second line of fighting men leaped forward, their front tipped with fire.

Dragged from his horse at the first fierce shock, his revolver empty, his broken sabre a jagged piece of steel, Hamlin hacked his way through the first line of warriors, and found refuge behind a dead horse.

Here, with two others, he made a stand, gripping a carbine. It was all the work of a moment. About him were skurrying figures, infuriated faces, threatening weapons, yells of agony, cries of rage. The three fought like fiends, standing back to back, and striking blindly at leaping bodies and clutching hands. Out of the mist, the mad confusion of breathless combat, one face alone seemed to confront the Sergeant.

At first it was a delirium; then it became a reality. He saw the s.h.a.gginess of a buffalo coat, the gleam of a white face. All else vanished in a fierce desire to kill. He leaped forward, crazed with sudden hate, hurled aside the naked bodies in the path, and sent his whirling carbine stock crashing at Dupont. Even as it struck he fell, clutched by gripping hands, and over all rang out the cheer of the charging troopers. Hamlin staggered to his knees, spent and breathless, and smiled grimly down at the dead white man in that ring of red.

It was over, yet that little body of troopers dared not remain. About them still, although demoralized and defeated, circled an overwhelming ma.s.s of savages capable of crushing them to death, when they again rallied and consolidated. Custer did the only thing possible. Turning loose the pony herd, gathering his captives close, he swung his compact command into marching column. Before the scattered tribes could rally for a second attack, with flankers out, and skirmishers in advance, the cavalrymen rode straight down the valley toward the retreating hostiles. It was a bold and desperate move, the commander's object being to impress upon the Indian chiefs the thought of his utter fearlessness, and to create the impression that the Seventh would never dare such a thing if they did not have a larger force behind. With flags unfurled, and the band playing, the troopers swept on. The very mad audacity of the movement struck terror into the hearts of the warriors, and they broke and fled. As darkness fell the survivors of the Seventh rode alone, amid the silent desolation of the plains.

Halting a moment for rest under shelter of the river bank, Custer hastily wrote his report and sent for Hamlin. The latter approached and stood motionless in the red glare of the single camp-fire. The impetuous commander glanced up inquiringly.

"Sergeant, I must send a messenger to Camp Supply. Are you fit to go?"

"As much so as any one, General Custer," was the quiet response. "I have no wounds of consequence."

"Very well. Take the freshest horse in the command, and an Osage guide. You know the country, but he will be of a.s.sistance. I have written a very brief report; you are to tell Sheridan personally the entire story. We shall rest here two hours, and then proceed slowly along the trail. I antic.i.p.ate no further serious fighting. You will depart at once."

"Very well, sir," the Sergeant saluted, and turned away, halting an instant to ask, "You have reported the losses, I presume?"

"Yes, the dead and wounded. There are some missing, who may yet come in. Major Elliott and fourteen others are still unaccounted for." He paused. "By the way, Sergeant, while you are with Sheridan, explain to him who you are--he may have news for you. Good-night, and good luck."

He stood up and held out his hand. In surprise, his eyes suddenly filling with tears, Hamlin felt the grip of his fingers. Then he turned, unable to articulate a sentence, and strode away into the night.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII

AT CAMP SUPPLY

There are yet living in that great Southwest those who will retell the story of Hamlin's ride from the banks of the Was.h.i.ta to Camp Supply.

It remains one of the epics of the plains, one of the proud traditions of the army. To the man himself those hours of danger, struggle and weariness, were more a dream than a reality. He pa.s.sed through them almost unconsciously, a soldier performing his duty in utter forgetfulness of self, nerved by the discipline of years of service, by the importance of his mission, and by memory of Molly McDonald. Love and duty held him reeling in the saddle, brought him safely to the journey's end.

Let the details pa.s.s unwritten. Beneath the darkening skies of early evening, the Sergeant and the Osage guide rode forth into the peril and mystery of the shrouded desert. Beyond the outmost picket, moving as silently as two spectres, they found at last a coulee leading upward from the valley to the plains above. To their left the Indian fires swept in half circle, and between were the dark outlines of savage foes. From rock to rock echoed guttural voices, but, foot by foot, unnoted by the keen eyes, the two crept steadily on through the midnight of that sheltering ravine, dismounted, hands clasping the nostrils of their ponies, feeling through the darkness for each step, halting breathless at every crackle of a twig, every crunch of snow under foot. Again and again they paused, silent, motionless, as some apparition of savagery outlined itself between them and the sky, yet slowly, steadily, every instinct of the plains exercised, they pa.s.sed unseen.

In the earliest gray of dawn the two wearied men crept out upon the upper plateau, dragging their horses. Behind, the mists of the night still hung heavy and dark over the valley, yet with a new sense of freedom they swung into their saddles, faced sternly the chill wind of the north, and rode forward across the desolate snow fields. It was no boys' play! The tough, half-broken Indian ponies kept steady stride, leaping the drifts, skimming rapidly along the bare hillsides. From dawn to dark scarcely a word was uttered. By turns they slept in the saddle, the one awake gripping the others' rein. Once, in a strip of cottonwood, beside a frozen creek, they paused to light a fire and make a hasty meal. Then they were off again, facing the frosty air, riding straight into the north. Before them stretched the barren snow-clad steppes, forlorn and shelterless, with scarcely a mark of guidance anywhere, a dismal wilderness, intersected by gloomy ravines and frozen creeks. Here and there a river, the water icy cold and covered with floating ice, barred their pa.s.sage; down in the valleys the drifted snow turned them aside. Again and again the struggling ponies floundered to their ears, or slid head-long down some steep declivity.

Twice Hamlin was thrown, and once the Osage was crushed between floating cakes and submerged in the icy stream. Across the open barrens swept the wind into their faces, a ceaseless buffeting, chilling to the marrow; their eyes burned in the snow-glare. Yet they rode on and on, voiceless, suffering in the grim silence of despair, fit denizens of that scene of utter desolation.

At the Cimarron the half-frozen Indian collapsed, falling from his saddle into the snow utterly exhausted. Staggering himself like a drunken man, the Sergeant dragged the nerveless body into a crevice of the bluff out of the wild sweep of the wind, trampled aside the snow into a wall of shelter, built a hasty fire, and poured hot coffee between the shivering lips. With the earliest gray of another dawn, the white man caught the strongest pony, and rode on alone. He never knew the story of those hours--only that his trail led straight into the north. He rode erect at first, then leaning forward clinging to the mane; now and then he staggered along on foot dragging his pony by the rein. Once he stopped to eat, breaking the ice in a creek for water. It began to snow, the thick fall of flakes blotting out the horizon, leaving him to stumble blindly through the murk. Then darkness came, wrapping him in a cloak of silence in the midst of that unspeakable desert. His limbs stiffened, his brain reeled from intense fatigue. He dragged himself back into the saddle, pressing the pony into a slow trot. Suddenly out of the wall of gloom sprang the yellow lights of Camp Supply. Beneath these winking eyes of guidance there burst the red glare of a fire. Even as he saw it the pony fell, but the exhausted man had forgotten now everything but duty. The knowledge that he had won the long struggle brought him new strength. He wrenched his feet free from the stirrups, and ran forward, calling to the guard. They met him, and he stood straight before them, every nerve taut--a soldier.

"I bring despatches from Custer," he said slowly, holding himself firm.

"Take me to General Sheridan."

The corporal walked beside him, down the trampled road, questioning eagerly as they pa.s.sed the line of shacks toward the double log house where the commander was quartered. Hamlin heard, and answered briefly, yet was conscious only of an effort to retain his strength. Once within, he saw only the short, st.u.r.dy figure sitting behind a table, the s.h.a.ggy gray beard, the stern, questioning eyes which surveyed him.

He stood there straight, motionless, his uniform powdered with snow, his teeth clinched so as not to betray weakness, his face roughened by exposure, grimy with dirt, and disfigured by a week's growth of beard.

Sheridan stared at him, shading his eyes from the glow of the lamp.

"You are from Custer?"

"Yes, sir."

He drew the papers from within his overcoat, stepped forward and laid them on the table. Sheridan placed one hand upon them, but did not remove his gaze from Hamlin's face.

"When did you leave?"

"The evening of the 27th, sir. I was sent back with an Osage guide to bring you this report."

"And the guide?"

"He gave out on the Cimarron and I came on alone."

"And Custer? Did he strike Black Kettle?"

"We found his camp the evening of the 26th, and attacked at daybreak the next morning. There were more Indians with him than we expected to find--between two and three thousand, warriors from all the southern tribes. Their tepees were set up for ten miles along the Was.h.i.ta. We captured Black Kettle's village, and destroyed it; took his pony herd, and released a number of white prisoners, including some women and children. There was a sharp fight, and we lost quite a few men; I left too early to learn how many."

"And the command--is it in any danger?"

"I think not, sir. General Custer was confident he could retire safely. The Indians were thoroughly whipped, and apparently had no chief under whom they could rally."

The General opened the single sheet of paper, and ran his eyes slowly down the lines of writing. Hamlin, feeling his head reel giddily, reached out silently and grasped the back of a chair in support.

Sheridan glanced up.

"General Custer reports Major Elliott as missing and several officers badly wounded."

"Yes, sir."