Wolf Mountain Moon: The Battle of the Butte, 1877

had whipped themselves into an angry torrent that cut down a man’s visibility to no more than the fifty yards between warriors and soldiers at that moment. Through the thick, flying snow Seamus saw the three Indians wheel about and hurry for cover. The soldier fire must have been enough to drive them away from the body.

Donegan laid his head on the crusty snow, closing his eyes a moment, of a sudden feeling the weary ache that pierced him to the marrow of every one of his bones, sensing the cold settling into the core of him despite the thick layers of clothing. Oh, how he only wanted to rest for a few minutes, maybe even to sleep—eyelids so heavy. Perhaps just a few winks …

Across the open ground the Napoleon gun boomed again. This time the whistle was a sodden, muffled one. It was snowing but good now, blowing at a man sideways. And if he lay there any longer, Donegan realized he might never get up. Fall asleep and freeze to death.

“Bastards!”

At some man’s cry of frustration Seamus groggily raised his head, finding a young soldier crawling past. Behind them Butler and his noncoms were stirring the men, forcing them to move about in the ground swirl of snow whipped round and round like tiny tornado cones as the currents careened off the slopes. He peered again up the hill.

“They got ’im!” the soldier growled. “Bastards!” Then he looked at Donegan. “I wanted that scalp, you know.”

“Ever you take a Injin’s scalp?”

“Never—but I wanted that one’s,” the soldier admitted. “Brave one … wasn’t he?”

Donegan could hear the ring of admiration in the man’s voice. His own voice clotted with emotion as he replied, “Yes, sojur—that one was as brave as they come.”

“Just leave me here,” Big Crow pleaded with a voice sounding as hollow as cured horn. “I am going to die anyway. Go on home.”

Wooden Leg watched Big Crow’s eyes begin to mist with a terrible pain as he knelt over the wounded man. A Lakota man crawled up behind Wooden Leg to help.

With his soldier rifle and plenty of cartridges, the young Tse-Tsehese warrior had been fighting near the courageous and able war chief throughout the long, cold morning. And when it came time that Big Crow went out to taunt the soldiers by dancing in full view of the enemy, making his four courage runs— Wooden Leg knew better than to try to convince the man otherwise. When the war chief ran out of bullets and came back to the breastworks to ask others for some of their cartridges, no one spoke a word to try discouraging the brave man. After all, they knew Big Crow’s was a powerful medicine.

Once he had his cartridge belt loaded again, the war chief gave a mighty shout and leaped over the breastworks again, singing and yelling at the enemy, dancing and shooting at the soldiers. While some among the Ohmeseheso might one day say that he was a shaman, a medicine man—Big Crow was in reality nothing more than a very brave warrior, as courageous a fighting man as Wooden Leg had ever known.

Big Crow was clearly moving his lips, but no words were coming out. Snow was gathering on his dark eyelashes, on the side of his face where the wind blew the flakes into a hardened crust. Then the pain glazing the dark eyes was gone for but a heartbeat, and they stared into Wooden Leg’s face. For no more than a single, strong heartbeat—then the mist began to thicken over the eyes once more, and they half rolled back into his head.

“Come on!” the Lakota growled to another warrior approaching behind Wooden Leg.

Together the three of them huddled over the wounded man for a moment longer—as if none of them knew what to do—then Wooden Leg tore the blanket from his own back and laid it over Big Crow, tucking in the sides, down against the drifting snow and harsh wind. Not until that moment did Wooden Leg see the bullet holes that pocked his own blanket.

“Forget that!” one of the Lakota snorted. “We must pull him out of here!”

“Now the soldiers will charge up the hill!” agreed the other Lakota.

“Go if you wish!” Wooden Leg growled at them.

They looked at one another, shame showing on their faces. “No, we will help,” one of them said.

Crabbing around on all fours, Wooden Leg stationed himself between Big Crow’s feet. “Both of you—take his hands and pull him out!”

Without another word of protest the two Lakota warriors each snatched an arm and hauled the war chief off the ground. The three of them lumbered away with the wounded man’s deadweight between them like a sack of wet flour.

Bullets were smacking the rocks, kicking up the ground all around them by then.

“See!” one of them shrieked in terror. “There—the soldiers are charging us!”

“No, the soldiers aren’t coming!” Wooden Leg snapped at the two older men, shaking his head violently in despair as they began to settle Big Crow to the ground.

“But their bullets are coming!” the first one whimpered as he ducked away, belly-crawling into the rocks for safety.

The other turned and fled in a crouch without a word.

Wooden Leg collapsed alongside the war chief, breathing hard. “I’l1 come back,” he promised quickly, his lips brushing the wounded man’s ear, words spoken in a whisper against the howl of the wind, the rattle of the guns, the shattering, slamming, singing racket of the ricochets of lead and red rock.

In that next instant Wooden Leg heaved himself up, diving headlong, flopping onto his belly, crawling to reach the breastworks where many of the Ohmeseheso warriors had gathered to fire down on the soldiers, joined by a good number of Lakota who had followed Crazy Horse to this far southern end of the long ridge.

With Big Crow’s three rescuers no longer making targets of themselves, the rifle fire coming from the ve-ho-e slowed to a trickle.

“Listen to me!” Wooden Leg called out above the whine of the wind. “I do not ask that any of you come with me to bring Big Crow back to safety … but help me by drawing the soldiers’ bullets away.”

One of the frightened ones shook his head. “Big Crow had powerful medicine—so strong the ve- ho-e bullets should not harm him … but he is dead!”

“Aiyeee!” cried another one with desperation in his voice. “There is no hope if the soldiers can kill the most powerful among us!”

Wooden Leg pushed the two doubters aside. “Run! Run far away if you want—but Big Crow did not run! Big Crow did not believe we would lose this fight!”

“Yes!” Yellow Weasel shouted. “Big Crow was the bravest among us all! We must save him now!”

Another, Strange Owl, cried, “It is our turn to be as brave as Big Crow would want us to be!”

“Big Crow lost many relatives in the fight at the Red Fork Valley!” Wooden Leg explained. “And now, like me, one of his own relations is a captive of the Bear Coat’s soldiers. He is loyal to his people! We must be as loyal to him!”

Of a sudden more than two-times-ten were on their feet, popping up and down, bursting into sight to draw the bullets, then falling behind the rocks once again. More leaped to their feet until half a hundred of them all along the top of the high knoll moved like the undulations of a prairie diamondback.

With immediate response the soldiers’ guns began to boom again as the snow thickened into a white paste like the cattail gum Wooden Leg would smear on insect bites to draw the poison from the tiny wounds.

As he rose from his knees, Wooden Leg motioned to the two Lakota who huddled at his elbows. All three dashed faster than ever to the wounded Big Crow. Crouching between the war chief’s knees, Wooden Leg looped his arms beneath the man’s legs and lifted in concert with the others. Big Crow grunted from low in his belly as he was hoisted from the snow, his head slung back, wagging loosely in semiconsciousness.

Huffing in exertion, the trio fought the deep snow and uneven terrain, slipping a few times on rocks, dropping Big Crow once but picking him back up—until they had him behind the breastworks where Wooden Leg’s brother suddenly appeared out of the blizzard.

“Yellow Hair!”

“Yes, Wooden Leg!” he called out, leading his horse up the slope. From its nostrils came great jets of steam.

“The fight here is over!” cried a Lakota voice behind them.