Springfields, the crack of the Winchester repeaters from the encircling warriors. “Goddammit—form a square and hold those bastards off!”
Then Pope was kneeling over McPhelan in the next moment, his hand on the old sergeant’s shoulder. “You gonna be all right, gunny?”
The red-rimmed, smoke-ravaged eyes were tearing in gratitude. “Ain’t nothing but a flesh wound, sir.”
Pope’s eyes glistened too. “That’s good, ’cause I’d hate to lose you, I would. We still got work to finish here.”
“L-looks like we can hold ’em off, Lieutenant,” McPhelan whispered. “Just keep the boys in their square—and we’ll make the devil dance a different tune.”
Gesturing with a nod up at Yellowstone Kelly, the lieutenant said, “The scout here brought word from the general: Miles wants us to drive off the last of the warriors around those watering holes right over yonder and hold on to ’em for the night.”
McPhelan coughed, then said with a rasp, “We get the sons of bitches drove off—have some of the boys drag me over to them water holes and bring me my rifle. I can still shoot with the best of ’em if they come at us again, sir.” He coughed a loose, fluid-filled rasp. “I’d like me a drink, in a real bad way.”
Patting the sergeant’s shoulder, Pope replied quietly, “Damn right you can have that drink of water.” He signaled to have a canteen brought to him. “And your rifle too. God, am I proud to have you fighting on my side, Sergeant.”
With E Company holding its own and the water holes securely in their grasp at the rear of the column, Miles continued to pursue the hostiles until sundown, then turned about and led the rest of the command back to the ridge Lieutenant Rousseau’s H Company had cleared of hostiles. Here on the high ground that commanded a view of the entire countryside the order was given to bivouac for the coming night.
During the day the tenor of battle had constantly reminded the soldiers that these were the warriors who had mutilated the Custer dead. But the gallant Fifth had fought hard since first light, scratching their way after the fleeing Sioux across more than eighteen miles of uneven, rugged ground, through smoke and flames. Now, as night came down, the weary, blackened, cinder-smudged men found their spirits raised.
They had held off odds of two, perhaps three, to one … and survived against the best Sitting Bull and Gall could throw at them. No longer would anyone boast that the Sioux were invincible.
“From what I can make of the various reports,” Miles said, raising his head from his concentration over his field desk strewn with papers as twilight oozed light from the sky, “there were at least half a dozen Sioux casualties.”
“Hard to tell,” Kelly said with a shrug, then sipped more of his coffee nearby. “The way they always drag off their wounded. Could’ve been more.”
For a moment the colonel pressed his full lips together thoughtfully. “Their biggest loss isn’t in the casualties—is it, Kelly?”
Luther wagged his head. “No, General. You hurt ’em worse by getting your hands on everything they had to leave behind.”
“Not just getting my hands on it,” Miles replied, staring down at the ruins of the abandoned village, “but in destroying it. Among the captured herd we found some of the Seventh Cavalry horses. Damn well used up, they are—no more than skin and bones now.”
“Doesn’t surprise me a wit, General,” Kelly replied. He stuffed a hand inside his coat, patting among his vest pockets for a cheroot, maybe even some chew. Something to enjoy with his coffee. “You decided if you’re marching back to Tongue River in the morning?”
Miles looked up at Kelly, stared hard for a moment as if his scout had gone crazy, then shook his head. “No, by God—I plan on following Sitting Bull all the way to Canada if I have to!”
Chapter 12
22–23 October 1876
General Sitting Bull Ready
to be Rationed.
Red Cloud and His Braves on the Rampage.
Indications that Crook will
Settle Their Case
THE INDIANS
Sitting Bull Wants to Winter at
Some Agency.
WASHINGTON, October 21.—The following telegram was received at the Indian Bureau this morning: Fort Peck, Montana, Oct. 13, via Boseman—To the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, Washington:—Messengers from Sitting Bull’s camp report that the entire hostile camp has crossed the Yellowstone at the mouth of the Big Horn, en route for this place. They claim to want peace. What course shall I pursue toward them?
[signed] THOS. T. MITCHELL Indian Agent.
After consultation with Gen. Sherman instructions were telegraphed to Agent Mitchell as follows: Inform Sitting Bull that the only condition of peace is his surrender, when he will be treated as a prisoner of war. Issue no rations, except after such surrender and when fully satisfied that the Indians can be held at the agency. The military will cooperate as far as possible.
[signed] S. A. GALPEN Acting Commissioner.
Through that long, cold night the grass fires glowed like flickering, crimson patches across the prairie below as Nelson Miles moved back and forth through his command like a man possessed.
The Sioux shouted and called out on all sides of their bivouac. Occasionally one of the pickets fired a shot or two at some noise, at a shadow, at one of the ghostly forms flitting in and out and around the abandoned village, intent on salvaging what they could from the army’s destruction.
At long last the eastern sky showed signs of resigning itself to day. Miles had his men awakened, guard rotated, and coffee put over what fires the men could keep lit with the meager supply of wood they scrounged after the Sioux had set the prairie ablaze the previous day. As soon as it was light enough for the command to move across the uneven ground, the colonel gave the order to form up and moved out that Sunday, 22 October.
Almost immediately two dozen warriors appeared along the high ground beyond the decimated village, backlit with the rose of sunrise. They swept far to the right, heading for the rear of the march where Pope’s E Company easily drove them away from the supply wagons. Then it grew eerily quiet as the Fifth continued its march into the coming of sunrise. After the deafening racket and din of yesterday’s fight, the utter stillness of this morning lay like a heavy, suffocating cloak upon each and every wary man.
The scouts led them east along the clearly marked Sioux trail. Easy enough to follow the travois scars on the prairie. That, and the wisps of smoke from the fires the hostiles set all along their flight. Stifling curtains of thinning gray obscured the rising sun, turning it a pale-orange button as the soldiers plodded on across the blackened prairie where ash rose up to clog their nostrils, sting their eyes, choke their every breath.
As much as his brain told him the enemy had fled on through the night to put as much ground between them as possible, Nelson’s heart nonetheless hoped that for some reason they didn’t have as much of a jump on his
