“WE ATTACK AT DAYLIGHT”
It was a long, long forced march. Wide and white lay the desolate
desert beyond the Canadian, and through the foot of snow ploughed the
eager column. Not a moving figure broke the white expanse; not a moving
figure save the figures of California Joe and Romeo and Little Beaver
and Hard Rope and the other scouts, as far in advance and on either
side they rode seeking the Elliot trail. As the major, following the
Indians, had been heading southeast, a course south ought to strike his
tracks, soon or late.
Late it proved to be; for not until within an hour of sunset, and after
a day’s ride without halt for food or drink, did the column see Little
Beaver stop short, and with uplifted hand signal a trail.
Such had been Thanksgiving Day, Thursday, November 26, 1868.
By the tracks, Major Elliot was still upon the trail of the
village-bound Indians. After reading the pony sign, Little Beaver and
his Osages declared that the Indians had passed on their way this very
morning. Much relieved, the general ordered a trot; and forward pressed
the column, to overtake the major. Dusk descended. Before were visible
the outlines of timber, along a stream in a little valley. The general
sent ahead a squad of soldiers and scouts, to catch the major and tell
him to halt, at wood and water, and to wait.
“Tell him not to make camp, but to be ready for a night march when I
join him,” added the general.
As for the column, at last they were given an hour, for rest and for
coffee, and to feed the horses.
The zealous Major Elliot had gone further than anybody had expected.
Not until nine o’clock at night, and after another hard ride through
snow and timber and darkness, finally was he found, waiting as ordered,
by a stream with high banks.
“An hour for rest, again,” ordered the general, briefly. “Then the moon
will be up and we can take the trail. There are to be no bugle calls or
other noise. Sound carries far, in this country. The men may make fire
for coffee, small ones down under the edges of the banks so that the
flames will not show. Send the Osages to me. I want to talk with them.”
The Osages were certain that this was a branch of the Washita River,
and that the Cheyennes and Kiowas and all had their village not far
down stream. The trail seemed to be leading straight for it. But
through the half-breed interpreter Little Beaver kept insisting that
the soldiers stay here concealed in the timber until daylight, and then
march upon the trail again.
General Custer snapped his fingers impatiently, and laughed.
“That is the Indian way of fighting,” he promptly said. “They hate to
attack anybody concealed by the dark or by entrenchments. No, tell
Little Beaver that we are going to fight white man’s way, and that we
march in one hour, when the moon rises.”
This did not seem to satisfy the Osages, who murmured gutturally among
themselves. Evidently, like Pawnee Killer, although for different
reason, they did not regard any too highly the skill of the white
chief, whom they called the Chief with the Long Yellow Hair.
The hour passed; the half moon rose; and one by one Captain Hamilton,
Colonel Cook, Captain Yates, Captain Smith, Major Bell, and all the
other company commanders reported to Adjutant Moylan that their
detachments were ready for the march.
No bugles were sounded; but in column of fours the eight hundred
horsemen rode in dim column down the course of the creek, following the
Indian trail so plainly showing in the white snow.
Two of the Osages, Hard Rope and a warrior, led, three hundred yards in
advance. They were on foot, the better to read sign; with long, silent
moccasined tread they stole swiftly across the snow. They saw scalps,
to be taken from their hated enemies the Cheyennes and the Kiowas.
After them rode in single file the white and red scouts, California Joe
on his mule to the fore. His old Springfield musket lay in the hollow
of his left arm; but for the once the reek of his pipe did not drift
back. The orders forbade any smoking. Beside California Joe rode the
general himself, to be on hand to catch the first word or signal. Close
behind him rode Ned, trumpeter orderly.
At a quarter of a mile the column cautiously followed. Now and then
one of the officers advanced at a trot, and whispered to the general,
making suggestion or query; but even this did not break the silence.
Ever the march continued, as if for hours and hours.
Suddenly California Joe pointed, significantly. The two Osages picking
the trail had halted; at short command from the general Ned must fall
out and tell Adjutant Moylan to halt the column also.
When he returned, at trot, the general was with the two Osages. One of
them could speak a little English.
“What’s the matter?” asked the general.
“Me don’t know,” replied the Osage. “But me smell fire.”
Adjutant Moylan, Colonel Myers (who was an old plainsman) and Colonel
Benteen, arrived; they all sniffed hard, as did Ned; but none of them
could smell a trace of smoke.
“Humph!” grunted Colonel Myers. “He’s scared; that’s what ails him. You
know, these Indians don’t favor this march, and they’re trying to find
an excuse to stop.”
“Me smell fire,” insisted the Osage; and his companion nodded violently.
“Do you smell anything, Joe?” queried the general.
California Joe wagged his head slowly, as he inhaled through his
frosted brick-red whiskers.
“No, I don’t, gen’ral. Nor Corbin neither. An’ we got first-class
smellers, too, though jest at this moment they’re froze stiff.”
“Very well,” responded the general. “We’ll proceed. Tell the trailers
to go slow, and keep their noses and eyes open.”
More than half a mile was covered; and again the Osages had halted.
This time they were triumphant, and received the general with conscious
dignity. The English-speaking Osage pointed before, to the left.
“Me told you so,” he uttered, in whisper.
Sure enough. In front, one hundred yards beside the trail, at the edge
of the timber, was low gleam of a camp-fire almost dead. It was only a
handful of embers, and still Ned could not smell it; but there it was.
Truly, those Osages had good noses.
Although through the drifting clouds of winter the moon shone brightly
upon the long column waiting in the snow, from the fire no movement was
made. The Indians who had built the fire must be sleeping.
“Joe, you and Little Beaver take a few of your men and scout around
that camp,” whispered the general. A quaver in his voice told of his
excitement. “Find out all you can. We’ll wait here.”
To the snow swung California Joe and Jack Corbin and Little Beaver and
all the Osages. With click of rifle-lock they stole forward, on circuit
to enter the timber above the fire and thus spy upon it. Presently they
disappeared. Sat tense every officer and every soldier, peering, keen
to meet any vicious volley which surely would empty saddles. For the
column was a fair mark.
Was the hard, cold march of three days to be a failure? Were the
Indians already on the alert? See! Now, bending low, out from the edge
of the timber issued an Osage. California Joe followed close. One after
another the scouts all issued, approaching the fire. They reached it,
they straightened up—apparently nothing happened, and a great sigh of
relief swept through the tense column, where the companies sat at their
intervals.
After prying about, and examining shrewdly, the scouts returned.
California Joe reported.
“Tain’t no reg’lar camp-fire,” he uttered. “The party we’re trailin’
never made it, ’cordin’ to them Osages. It’s the work of Injun herders;
boys, like as not, to warm ’em while they watched the ponies. Village
ought to be within two or three miles, at most.”
That was good news. The general gave the word to advance again, but
more cautiously than ever. And taking Ned, as orderly, with his usual
impulsiveness he rode forward accompanying the two Osage guides who had
done so well.
The trail had left the stream, to cut across a big bend. The guides
kept just at the head of the general’s horse. Whenever they came to a
rise, one would creep forward and peer over. Seeing that the coast was
clear, he would signal for the others to come on. Breathless work was
this, and Ned’s heart thumped so that he feared he would be ordered
to stay where he was. Now from the crest of a long brushy divide the
Osage, reconnoitering, had put his hand to his brow, peering from
under it. He crouched lower, and came hastily back. Something had been
sighted.
“What is it?” asked the general, eagerly.
“Heaps Injuns down there,” grunted gutturally the Osage, at the saddle
flaps. And he pointed ahead.
Off from his horse swung the general; he signed to Ned, and leaving
their mounts in charge of the other Osage, with the first one they also
stole forward.
“Drop that sabre,” whispered the general to Ned, sternly. Ned unbuckled
his belt and dropped it, with the dragging scabbard. He was making too
much noise.
Low in the moonlight, peeping over the top of the ridge they scanned
the valley before. About half a mile beyond, upon the snow which edged
the timber skirting the icy stream was a large blackish mass, like a
great mass of animals.
“Buffalo!” hazarded the general, after looking long and earnestly.
The Osage said not a word.
“Why do you think Indians?” whispered the general. “Maybe buffalo.”
The Osage shook his feathered head.
“No. Me heard dog bark,” he asserted, softly.
Again they listened. The freezing air was very quiet. Ned’s heart
thumped; he wished that he need not breathe. Then, clear, through the
night did sound the yappy bark of a dog, from the timber near the black
mass.
“That’s right,” murmured the general. “Wait! Isn’t that a bell—a pony
bell? Yes. Ponies those are. Buffalo aren’t in the habit of wearing
bells in this country.”
He turned quickly, and took a step, to carry the news to the column.
But he stopped short. The bell had ceased, no dog barked, but high
and plaintive welled through the lonely waste the cry of a baby. Ned
fairly started; it sounded so like home and fireside. Of course, the
Indians had their babies.
“That’s tough,” muttered the general. “Those Indians have not spared
our women and children—but I wish that village held only men.”
With Ned he hurried back to the scouts while the two Osages remained on
lookout over the sleeping village.
“My compliments to the adjutant, and tell him to have all the officers
join me here,” he directed, to Ned. And Ned carried the message.
Speedily the word was passed, and from along the column filled with
rumors the officers promptly gathered in a circle about their colonel.
“The village is ahead, about three quarters of a mile, gentlemen,”
spoke cautiously the general. “Remove your sabres, and come forward
with me, as quietly as possible, and from the top of that rise yonder
where the two Osages are I’ll show you the lay of the land.”
This they did, gladly. From the rise they reconnoitered, in a cautious
knot. The pony herd was as plain as before; still ruled the lonely
night; somewhere down there the Indian village slept. They believed
that they could trace a collection of tipis.
After pointing and explaining, and receiving nods of understanding, the
general as quietly withdrew. All followed.
Now a council of war must be held, where the sabres had been left.
California Joe listened approvingly; Little Beaver and Hard Rope
anxiously, trying to comprehend the white chief’s plan. The Osages had
loosened their buffalo robes, as if prepared for instant action. But
that was not the scheme.
The attack was to be made at dawn, as soon as there was light enough
for aiming. The village was to be surrounded, first, and charged from
four sides.
Now was it after midnight; the moon was floating high. At once set out,
under cover of the ridge, with troops G, H and M, about 200 men, Major
Joel Elliot, on wide circuit to take station whence he might charge
the village from below; set out in the other direction, with B and F
troops, Colonel William Thompson, to take similar position above.
“The attack will be made promptly at daylight, gentlemen,” were the
general’s last instructions. “The band will play Garryowen, and at the
first note you will charge from whatever position you are in.”
The veteran Colonel Myers and his “right center” column might remain,
until time to take their posts also, not so far away, on the right.
The fourth or “center” column was commanded by the general himself;
but of the four companies, A, C, D and K, Captain Hamilton commanded
the one squadron, Colonel West the other. And there were Lieutenant
(Colonel) “Queen’s Own” Cook’s sharpshooters.
Ah, but it was cold up here, behind the ridge. The time was two
o’clock, and four hours must pass before daylight. Nobody might make a
fire, and orders forbade stamping of the feet or walking up and down,
because such a creaking of the snow might give alarm to the village.
The men, huddled in their overcoats, stood or crouched, each holding
to the lines of his horse. The officers gathered in little knots, and
sitting or standing, talked low.
The general’s group was the largest: Adjutant Moylan, Lieutenant Tom
Custer, Captain Hamilton, Colonel West, and others.
“It’s been a long Thanksgiving day, and a fast instead of a feast,”
said Colonel West.
“Oh, we’ll have our celebration later,” quoth Lieutenant Tom. “You know
the verse:
“For gold the merchant plows the main,
The farmer plows the manor;
But glory is the soldier’s prize,
The soldier’s wealth is honor.”
“How about it, Hamilton? Are you glad you came?” asked Lieutenant
Moylan.
“Perfectly. The only person I’m sorry for is poor Mathey.”
“He’s liable to miss a rousing good fight.”
“And one in which some of us are likely to get hurt. Those Indians will
fight like demons, to defend their families and property.”
“Well, as for me, gentlemen, you know how I feel,” spoke young Captain
Hamilton, earnestly. “I want the soldier’s death. When my hour comes, I
hope that I shall be shot through the heart, in battle.”
By all the low talk, among men as among officers, the approaching
battle must be regarded as a serious problem. Nobody might tell how
many Indians were housed down below, on their own ground, with plenty
of ammunition and food and cover; and no harder fighters could be found
than the Cheyennes and the Kiowas.
The Osages, in their war-paint of red, white, black and yellow, sat
under blankets and robes, in a circle, murmuring gravely as if they,
too, were doubtful of the white chief’s ability. One of them was not
in war-paint. His paint all was black, for mourning. The interpreter
explained that this warrior had lost his squaw, to the Cheyennes, and
that he could not wash off his mourning until he had taken a Cheyenne
scalp.
Ned thought much upon the village. It probably would contain some white
captives. Among them might be little Mary. He resolved to keep his eyes
open for trace of anybody looking as she might look.