Wolf Mountain Moon: The Battle of the Butte, 1877

Starting away on foot, cutting sharply to the left, Seamus heard Casey barking orders to the men who were following him into hell. After ten yards the first snow kicked up in front of him as a bullet thudded into the frozen ground with a muffled thump. Donegan quickly glanced over his shoulder—finding the men with Butler and McDonald double-timing it now. Casey was waving them on as his own A Company trudged past the captain in the deep snow that had drifted to at least three feet in places with the incessant wind.

Overhead the sky continued lowering, clouds beginning to hover right over the heights where the warriors leaped back and forth, taunting the soldiers. Seamus was getting close enough to see that they had started several fires up there on the top of the ridge, black smudges of smoke slowly rising into the heavy air as the snow continued to come down all the harder. Several warriors hunkered around each fire, warming hands and feet, then rose to return to the firing line.

Behind him Seamus heard the soldiers grunting, laboring, struggling as much as he in the cold, dry air. One of his buffalo moccasins slipped. Donegan went down hard. His knee cried out in pain. Standing the repeater under him, he got back to his feet painfully and quickly rubbed the knee.

“You think we got us a chance at this?”

Turning, Seamus found an old corporal at his shoulder. “As much a chance as we can make of it.”

The graybeard grinned a moment. “That’s the spirit. Something these young sprouts don’t have. You was cavalry, they say?”

“Yep.” They set off again in front of the skirmish line.

“I was foot. I fit all the way from Manassas to Appomattox Wood. Always been foot.” Then the old corporal turned aside to help one of the other men struggle back to his feet in the clumsy leggings and rubber-coated arctic boots. “Union man, I take it.”

“Right again.”

“I seen worse’n this, mister,” the old soldier sighed. “Atlanta. Now, that was a seige.”

“Atlanta,” Seamus huffed, having heard all the stories. His chest was starting to burn as they struggled their way along the jagged face of the ridge.

“Right up under their goddamned gun walls,” the soldier continued. “So close we could hear their gun crews talking that Johnny talk. Day after goddamned day, never knowing what day it would be my turn to get blown asshole from cock-bag with their canister and grape. So we just huddled in there and some of the boys did a little praying too. Best thing to do until they ordered us to move out. A little praying.”

“It help?” Seamus asked, hoping.

After a moment of raspy breathing the old soldier admitted, “No. Them what prayed got blowed to brains and bone just the same as the rest of us. It … it was like God wasn’t on duty them days of war. Not for four goddamned long, bloody years … God wasn’t listening to no man’s prayers. So I give up praying. No one was listening anyhow.”

Bullets slapped off the snowy tops of some loose sandstone shale nearby, ricocheting with a whine.

“Now might be a fine time for you to try again,” Seamus suggested.

The old soldier grabbed his elbow suddenly, looked into Donegan’s eyes, and quickly licked his tobacco- stained lower lip with a leathery-looking tongue. “I just might do that, stranger. Just might see if God’s back on duty for us ol’ soldiers … like you an’ me.”

Minutes ago Wooden Leg had spotted his sister among the rest of the captives as they’d been herded away from the soldiers’ camp and brought to the base of the low plateau where the Bear Coat had uncovered his two wagon guns.

His heart leaped.

At least the ve-ho-e hadn’t killed them the moment this fight had started. Such had been Wooden Leg’s greatest fear.

But his second-greatest fear was that once the warriors had the soldiers completely surrounded and under siege, the white men would use the women and children to bargain with—perhaps even kill right before the warriors’ eyes as the red hoop grew tighter and tighter around the Bear Coat’s men.

“Wooden Leg!” Black Hawk yelled. “Come with us! We’re following Big Crow to the top of the ridge to the east!”

He looked over Black Hawk’s shoulder, in the direction where more and more warriors were flowing now as some gray, dull light seeped along the edges of that cold dawn sky. “I want to stay where I can watch Crooked Nose Woman.”

Yellow Weasel loped up to say, “You can do nothing here!”

Wooden Leg felt frantic, watching the way the soldiers ducked the incoming flights of arrows, the way a stray bullet now and then sang off the iron of the wagon guns, splintered a wheel, how his sister huddled her body over that of a child with each new volley from the attacking warriors. How he wished that they could rush down and rescue the captives … wishing at least that he could stand before the hundreds of other warriors and convince them that their arrows and bullets might well kill the women and children.

He cried, “Do you see how we are endangering our own people? I must find a way to slip in there and —”

“The best that you can do to help your sister is to fight with us this day,” Black Hawk replied with an edge to his words, sounding as one would correct a younger brother. “Crooked Nose Woman knows you are a warrior, that you will be fighting to free her and the others. There is nothing to be done here.”

Yellow Weasel said, “Look, Wooden Leg! See how the soldiers are starting to walk along the bottom of the hill. Let’s follow Big Crow and the rest to stop them from slipping around behind us!”

At that moment the Tse-tsehese war chief named Big Crow stopped and turned so suddenly that the long feathered trailer on his warbonnet slurred across the crusty snow like a sidewinder snake.

“Ohmeseheso!” he shouted. “Maybe we can even circle behind them!”

Beaver Claws cried out, “And sneak up behind those ve-ho-e in their silly buffalo coats and leggings!”

“I would like to kill some soldiers today!” Wooden Leg admitted with a roar. “They took my sister, and the little ones—and now they deserve to die!”

“Quick or slow, it does not matter to me!” boasted Wolf Tooth. “Just as long as we spill ve-ho- e blood!”

“Hurry, Tse-tsehese!” squalled Big Crow. “We must be over there on top of that ridge before the soldiers ever get close to the foot of Belly Butte!”

“Look!” warned Leff-Handed Wolf. “Even more ve-ho-e are coming!”

Wooden Leg turned to peer down into the valley, his eyes narrowing with unmitigated hate. “Have faith, Uncle! No matter how many the Bear Coat sends against us—not one of the soldiers will reach the top of these hills alive!”

^*Blood Song, vol. 8, The Plainsmen Series.

Chapter 32

8 January 1877

“Captain Butler!” James Casey called out as the men of C Company struggled up behind their commander. “Good to have you pitch in with us!”

Edmond Butler saluted. “Looks like we’ve been handed the yeoman’s work of it today, Major.”

“I’ll say,” Casey replied, turning back to watch the last company approaching. “C’mon, Mr. McDonald—bring your doughboys up here so mine won’t get all the fun!”