Not a chance, this one.”
“K-kill … it.” Butler struggled to get the words out. “Kill it now!”
As the captain lunged to his feet, surged forward out of the snow, the half-dozen soldiers stepped aside to allow Butler through. He stood motionless as the lone infantryman stepped back, brought up his Springfield, then stalled.
Now Butler’s voice was calm, suddenly devoid of emotion. “Shoot my horse, soldier.”
Bringing the hammer back, the soldier started to shake as he brought the muzzle down behind the horse’s ear and pulled the trigger all in one motion. Donegan turned away at that instant, pushing on into the snow. He’d seen more than his share of good, strong animals die on the ground with bullets in their brains.
Behind him he heard Butler call out to his men.
“Company C—get moving!”
Everywhere now the voices took up the call again.
Donegan heard the huffing behind him. He turned to find Captain Butler trudging forward on the double through the deep snow, leading his soldiers on foot, straining to stay out in front, having made a fine target of himself—good officer that he was.
“Bring up the left flank!” Butler’s voice cried out.
A moment later the captain ordered, “Don’t string out on the right!”
As they moved forward, that one man’s voice rang above all the rest. “C’mon, men! C’mon and look ’em in the eye. This goddamned day is ours to win or lose!”
Right when they reached the sharp side of the slope, the men began to cheer; a few fired back at the hundreds of warriors on the top of the ridge above them, now no more than a hundred yards away. Many of these soldiers could do little more than cheer and march, stumble and follow along, as Butler led them against the enemy. Most had no ammunition left.
Seamus suddenly wondered if this was the place. If this hillside would be where it would all come to an end, fighting among men who were flat out of bullets, these men who were long on courage.
He wondered if a good Catholic should say a prayer at the very moment he stared death in the eye, wondered if he should say something silently to Samantha and the boy that God Himself might whisper to her heart the next time Sam prayed.
On all sides of him now the men were yelling, working up their courage as they flung themselves against the sheer face of the ridge, the Sioux and Cheyenne close enough that he could make out feathers and paint, the birds tied in the hair, the amulets hung around the necks—even in this Montana blizzard.
Seamus was among brave men once more. He was a warrior, making war on other warriors. Though they might not have many bullets left, Butler’s C Company was not without its courage that cold winter day.
Marching into the face of enemy guns until they could get close enough to throw rocks, close enough to turn their Springfields around and use them for clubs.
Suddenly Butler called again, “Fix bayonets!”
Seamus had none, so he stuffed a hand inside his buffalo coat, down into the side pocket of his mackinaw. That pocket was empty. He did have the skinning knife. If it came down to that—
Up and down the line the soldiers yanked their bayonets from the black-leather slings, jamming them over the muzzles of their Long Toms. Down, twist, and lock.
He quickly pulled the mitten from his left hand and stuck it into his other mackinaw pocket—searching. He sighed his prayer; then his fingertips touched them. All he had left was … a handful. Less than a full load for the tube nestled beneath the Winchester’s barrel.
A voice steady and sure cried out, “Bayonets fixed, Major!”
“Come on, you doughboys!” Butler shouted against the screeching of the enemy, waving his pistol. “Show ’em the stuff you men are made of!”
“Permission to take Captain Butler his ammunition, General!” Frank Baldwin said enthusiastically as soon as Lieutenant Hobart Bailey came galloping up the plateau to report to Miles.
“How in the hell do you expect to—”
But Baldwin interrupted. “I’ll take a case of it myself, sir.”
“Those men need more than one case!” the colonel retorted. He started to turn aside, searching for Baird. “I’ll order some men from the supply train to pack up some cases on the backs of our mules—”
“We don’t have time, General.”
Miles jerked around. That was the second time in as many seconds that the lieutenant had interrupted him. “We don’t have time, Mr. Baldwin?”
“Begging pardon, General—I meant to say that Butler’s men don’t have time,” Baldwin tried to explain. “You can order up the mules with more cases to come behind me. But—please allow me to go to their aid immediately.”
The colonel began to shake his head, saying, “Perhaps it would be far too dangerous—”
“You’ve always depended upon me to do my duty, no matter how dangerous, General. In all those years you’ve known me.”
For a long moment Miles considered the man standing before him. Then he pursed his lips in resignation and said, “Permission granted, Lieutenant.”
Frank wasn’t about to wait on Miles to change his mind.
With a salute to the colonel Baldwin turned immediately and snatched the reins away from Bailey. “I’ll leave your horse down at the wagon yard, Lieutenant!”
In one motion the lieutenant was stuffing an arctic boot into the stirrup, rising to the saddle, and wheeling away at a lope. As he came down on the McClellan, and stuffed the right boot in the hooded stirrup, Baldwin gave the animal a kick. It had worked hard all morning, racing back and forth across the open ground through the deep snow. Not only were the men on short rations, these animals were too.
He would leave the horse among the others, grabbing one already saddled if it was handy. At the same time he would get one of the supply sergeants to pull him a box of cartridges from the tailgate of a wagon, hoist it up to him, and then he would be on his way.
Swinging out of the saddle at the wagon corral, Baldwin was already yelling for Carter’s soldiers into double time. “Get me the strongest horse you’ve got saddled, pronto!”
A handful of them stopped and turned on their heels immediately. The high-pitched wailing and keening of the women and children nearby raked a fingernail of dread down his spine. He watched a sergeant racing up.
Frank asked, “How long they been singing like this?”
“That?” the sergeant replied with his salute. “Ever since the fight started, sir.”
As he landed in the snow and looped the reins to Bailey’s horse around a wagon wheel, the lieutenant returned the sergeant’s salute. “Grab me the first case of rifle ammo you can pull from the wagons, Sergeant.”
“Yessir,” he replied with enthusiasm, starting to turn.
“Sergeant,” Baldwin said, reaching out to grab the man’s arm, “I need more than that one case.”
“Lieutenant?”
“As soon as you help me get that first case loaded up, I want you and your boys to pack up a couple of mules with two cases each and hurry them double time to the foot of the ridge.”
Quickly glancing at the distant ridge where the action was clearly the hottest, the sergeant echoed, “The ridge, sir?”
“Follow me with the four cases just as quick as you can get them loaded up and yourself on a mule to ride.”
“Yessir,” the soldier answered this time without hesitation.
“Now, get me that case I’ll be carrying.”
In a matter of moments two soldiers reappeared with what appeared to be a strong piebald, saddled and ready to ride. Frank walked around the animal one time, flipped up the stirrup fender, and tugged on the cinch. He lifted a front hoof, then a rear hoof, and by that time the sergeant was leading another pair of soldiers back to the scene. They had between them a heavy wooden crate of Springfield ammunition, .45/70 caliber.
“All right, soldiers,” Frank said as he took up the horse’s reins and stuffed the bulky arctic boot into the stirrup, rising eagerly to the saddle, “pass that box up here to me.”
