Heart of the Sandhills Read online

  Powell studied Willets’ face for a moment. “If you don’t mind my asking, Captain, do you have any experience fighting Indians?”

  “In Minnesota.”

  He jerked his head toward where the Dakota scouts stood listening. “What about them?”

  “Do they have experience?”

  “If they’re Sioux, they know how to fight. The question is, who will they fight with when the shooting starts?”

  Daniel stepped forward. “I swore allegiance to that flag, sir,” he said, nodding toward the American flag hanging on the wall. “And I keep my word.”

  Big Amos and Robert Lawrence nodded their agreement.

  Powell studied the men, who met his gaze. “Well then,” Powell said. “As long as we understand each other.” He nodded. “The woodcutters just got started last week. Already they’re threatening to quit. Can’t say as I blame ‘em. One of ‘em was found scalped yesterday.”

  “We’ll go,” Daniel and the scouts said at once.

  Powell nodded. “See you at dawn.”

  When they arrived at Piney Island, they learned that the woodcutters had been divided into two parties. One group was camping on a bare plain, the other in the thick of the pine woods about a mile away. Powell sent twelve of his men to guard the camp in the woods and thirteen to escort the wood trains to and from the fort, before establishing his headquarters on the open plain. It was here on the open plain he requested Willets and his volunteers build a strange kind of fort.

  “The woodcutters only use the running gears to transport logs. Their wagon boxes are over there.” He waved in the distance. “I want those boxes positioned like this.” Holding a long stick in his hand, Powell outlined an oval in the dirt. “Put a complete wagon here,” he scratched an X at one end of the oval, “and here,” a second X went to the opposite end of the oval. “It all needs to be up there,” he indicated the highest point on the plain.

  “Do we set ‘em on their sides?” Willets asked.

  “No.” Powell shook his head. “I want the men to be able to lay inside them. We’ll drill holes about a foot above the ground.”

  “Portholes,” Willets said, nodding.

  “You got it. If we end up defending ourselves inside those wagons, I don’t want a man to have to raise his head out of the wagon to shoot.”

  Captain Willets and his men got to work, arranging the wagon boxes, piling sacks of grain and logs—anything that might stop a bullet—between the wagons, dragging all the camp supplies inside the corral and distributing rifles and ammunition.

  “They don’t know what they’re getting into if they attack,” Powell said, demonstrating the Springfield’s tremendous range and power by firing at a distant target. But what was even more amazing about the Springfield was how fast it could fire. No more long pauses to reload. “Who’s your best shot?” Powell asked Willets.

  “Picotte. The man can hit a dollar at fifty yards. I’ve never seen him miss.”

  “All right, then. If it comes to a fight, give him the most guns.” Powell nodded at Aaron. “You get beside Picotte and reload as fast as he can shoot. Can you do that, son?”

  Aaron nodded. He looked at Daniel and gulped.

  High on a hillside overlooking the island, Hawk watched the soldiers get ready for battle. He was painted for war, but he was more concerned about watching the movements below than fighting. He’d joined the warriors recently, having broken away from Spotted Antelope’s band. He’d followed the soldiers to Fort Laramie and then beyond. He was certain they had no idea he was following them, but even so there had been no chance to accomplish his goal until now. One of the first things the warriors would do in an attack would be to run off the mules and some horses. Hawk was perfectly positioned now to do that. He settled back against a tree and waited, confident that by day’s end he would own a white warhorse.

  Aaron Dane kicked at a clod of dirt. He knew he was acting like a spoiled child, but Captain Powell had trusted him enough to assign him to load Zephyr Picotte’s guns in the fight, and he resented Daniel’s interference.

  “Go help guard the mules,” Daniel had said that morning within Captain Willets’s hearing.

  When Aaron protested, Captain Willets’s had made Daniel’s suggestion an order. Aaron couldn’t disobey. And so he went.

  “I know what you’re doing,” he told Daniel before he left. “The hostiles will be more intent on running off the herd than shooting, and I’ll have a better chance of getting away. You’re putting me where it’s safer.”

  Daniel had looked at him steadily and, without expression said back, “Head for the fort as soon as there is any shooting.”

  “I’m not going to run away like a coward,” Aaron said quickly. “I’m not a boy.”

  “Then do a man’s job and go for reinforcements,” Daniel shot back. “Be a hero.”

  Aaron had climbed aboard his pony, only partially mollified. Now, as he sat with the morning sun on his back watching the mules graze, he grew more and more resentful of being sent away from where the real fighting would take place.

  Suddenly a mounted party of braves swept down to stampede the herd of mules. At the same time, Aaron heard shots from the direction of the wood train a mile away. Hostiles were attacking two fronts at once.

  Daniel heard the shots in the distance. He saw smoke rise from the direction of the woodcutters’ camp. Yelling at Robert and Big Amos, he ran for his horse. Without bothering to saddle up, he mounted the white stallion and headed off toward the herd, nearly burying his face in the stallion’s mane to keep himself low.

  Up on the hillside above the action, Hawk watched the stallion streak across the earth, nodding with satisfaction. When the horse entered the fray, Hawk waited for the rider to fall, but no one managed to kill him. Instead, Hawk saw the horse brought alongside a soldier on a gray pony. He saw the two racing away together toward the fort.

  But then, to Hawk’s delight, the white horse wheeled around. While the soldier on the gray pony headed for the fort, the white stallion tore back across the plain toward the fighting. He mounted his pony and, raising his coup stick in the air, headed down the mountainside in the direction of the white stallion.

  While war whoops filled the air a short distance away, the thirty-two men inside the wagon-box corral prepared for battle. Supplies stored in the only two complete wagons were broken into, and when all the arms were passed out, each man had at least two rifles at his disposal.

  “If you aren’t a good shot,” the word was passed, “then just reload for a man who is. Make every shot count.”

  Powell had taken some men and gone out to deflect the charge from the woodcutters’ camp. While he was gone, while the men were passing out ammunition and getting ready, Aaron Dane came charging up on his gray pony. He pulled the animal to a sliding stop, dismounted, and found Picotte, who grabbed him and dove into a wagon.

  “Where’s Daniel?” Aaron asked, raising up to look around.

  “Get your head down, boy, if you mean to keep it.” He ignored the question about Daniel, concentrating instead on getting ready for battle. “Cover up,” Picotte ordered, throwing a blanket at him. Aaron obeyed without question. “A good blanket can stop an arrow. I got away from a war party once wrapped in a blanket. When I finally got free and pulled it off, there was a dozen arrows in it. Blanket saved my hide.”

  Aaron nodded. His hands were shaking so badly he wondered if he would be able to help Picotte at all. He peered through the porthole before him. What he saw made his blood run cold. In all his dreams of battle, this was never what he envisioned.

  “Have you seen Daniel?” he whispered.

  “I saw him streak out toward the herd. Haven’t seen him since. I assume he came after you. Looks like he got ya.” Picotte studied Aaron for a moment. “Look at me, son.” When Aaron obliged, the older man said, “Just fight. Worry later.”

  Aaron swallowed hard and peered through the hole drilled in the wagon. “How many are there?” he
whispered.

  “Enough,” Picotte said. “You know how to eat an elephant, son?”

  Aaron looked at him, puzzled.

  “One bite at a time.” He grinned. “It’s the same way here. One at a time. We make every shot count.”

  “No one fires until I give the order,” Powell said, just loud enough for his men to hear.

  Big Amos and Robert exchanged glances. “I’m glad Captain Leighton didn’t ride out with us,” Big Amos said. “He was a good soldier, but only one hand is not enough for a day like today.”

  Robert nodded. “Did you see Daniel come back?”

  Big Amos shook his head.

  The two men stared toward the enemy coming slowly across the plain, mounted on beautiful war ponies, painted for war, bedecked with feathers, intent on annihilation.

  “Hold,” the commander ordered. “No one fires until I give the order.”

  The Sioux quickened their pace, raised their lances, and gave the war cry designed to unnerve the enemy.

  “Hold,” Powell shouted, never taking his eyes off the advancing warriors.

  One hundred yards, then ninety, then eight, and still Powell told his men to hold. Not until his men could see the designs painted on the breasts of the horses did he finally allow them to fire, but when they did, a continual stream of bullets poured out of the little corral.

  The advance divided and swept around the corral, ringing the men with fire. Later it was reported that the battle raged so close that sometimes two enemies were killed with one bullet. Finally the Indians retreated, leaving in their wake scores of the dead and dying on the ground around the wagons.

  Inside the corral, one private and one officer lay dead.

  Picotte nodded at Aaron who had pressed himself against the corner of the wagon box and was trying his best not to vomit. “You did good, boy,” Picotte said. “Now get yourself collected. They’ll be back.”

  “H-h-ow many are there?”

  Picotte shrugged. “Lots more’n there is of us.” He looked at Aaron. Presently he picked up a Colt revolver, inserted a bullet, and spun the chamber. He held the revolver out to Aaron. “You listen to me, boy. You pay attention to what’s happenin’. If we lose this here fight and you’re not dead yet, you put this to your head and pull the trigger. You hear me?”

  Aaron’s eyes widened in horror.

  “I mean it,” Picotte snapped. “You do not, I repeat, you do not want to know what they will do to you if they take you alive.” His voice softened. “It probably won’t come to that, son. I’ll take care of it for you—if I live long enough. But you promise me if I mess up and don’t get the job done in time, you’ll do what I say. You hear?” Picotte grabbed Aaron’s shirt and shook him. “Listen to me. That Injun mama of yours is going to need the comfort of knowing you didn’t suffer. So you do it for her, even if you can’t do it for yourself.” He shook Aaron again.

  Aaron nodded. ‘All right,” he croaked. “I will.” He moistened his lips. “I will.” Then, he leaned over the edge of the wagon box and vomited.

  In the next wave, unadorned warriors crept forward along the ground, using every depression in the earth as protection. Once near the corral, they let loose a volley of bullets and arrows. The defenders ignored them. Zephyr’s insistence that Aaron stay covered with a woolen blanket paid off, as an arrow struck, but failed to penetrate the blanket just above his left shoulder blade. Bullets crashed against the wagon boxes until it sounded like they were inside a tin-roofed building in a hailstorm. Still, the soldiers resisted useless firing.

  When only silence emerged from the corral, the main body of Indians mounted another attack. Once again a great semicircle of warriors advanced slowly, filling the air with war songs. Artists would one day try to capture the terrible beauty of streaming warbonnets, buffalo-hide shields, painted faces, and war ponies, all advancing beneath the majestic mountain backdrop. But Aaron Dane was not an artist and he saw no beauty in the scene. He felt the Colt revolver against his side, he wondered about Daniel, and a horrific sensation of fear crept inside him.

  In the end, the Springfield rifles made the difference. The attacking warriors circled the corral waiting for the pause when the enemy would have to reload. That pause would be the end of the battle, for they would easily overwhelm the soldiers then. But the pause never came. Instead, the enemy kept firing almost constantly. With modified Springfields, the soldiers could eject empty cartridges and slap new ones on, almost without even needing to take their eyes off their targets. Constant gunfire was causing too many Sioux to fall on the battlefield.

  After a brief retreat and war council, a final attack on foot was launched. Screaming warriors streamed out of a ravine just north of the corral. Some fired guns, others sent flaming arrows into the hay piles in the middle of the oval.

  “Get the canteen!” Picotte screamed at Aaron over the din. “Keep the barrels cool!” He snatched up another rifle while Aaron obeyed, one hand on the canteen, one on the Colt revolver in his belt.

  In an instant, in a lifetime, the warriors broke and retreated, carrying what dead and wounded they could off the battlefield with them. Unnatural silence descended. Momentarily bugles sounded in the distance. Help was coming.

  Across the open plain, the Sioux chiefs ordered their men to break off. They had had a good fight, captured a great many horses and mules, and killed a few whites. It was a good day to die.

  “Always loved a good bugle serenade,” Zephyr Picotte said, smiling at Aaron, who peered through his porthole and closed his eyes to keep tears of relief from running down his cheeks. It was the most beautiful thing he had seen in a long time, Aaron thought; a long column of men dressed in blue, flags flying, rifles blasting, pounding across the earth to the rescue. They divided in half and swept around the corral. The men inside the corral raised up as one and cheered as the regiment swept by in pursuit of the fleeing enemy.

  Within the hour, the gates of Fort Phil Kearney opened to admit the twenty-eight survivors of what was to be called the Wagon Box fight. Among the wounded were two scouts named Robert Lawrence and Big Amos. Their wounds were slight and would keep them from their usual duties for only a short while. Their wounds concerned no one, least of all Aaron Dane and Elliot Leighton. Not because Aaron and Elliot didn’t care about their friends, but because when the fight was over, when the casualties were collected, Daniel Two Stars and his white stallion were missing.

  Twenty-Two

  Doth the hawk fly by thy wisdom, and stretch her wings towards the south? Doth the eagle mount up at thy command, and make her nest on high?

  —Job 39:26–27

  Running. They were always running these days, it seemed. But running didn’t always keep bad things from happening. Nowhere was there a safe place. Even the hunting grounds near the mountains were being invaded by whites. And all the while they spoke of treaties and what the Lakota should do to keep the peace. Two Moons giggled madly to herself. What the people could do, she thought, was die. They were doing that well, she thought. Certainly her husband High Hand and their child had done it well. High Hand had raised a white flag and an American flag over their tepee and told her not to worry. He was standing under those flags when a soldier thrust a long sword through his heart. Two Moons had covered her arms with cuts trying to cause enough pain that she would forget the look in High Hands’s eyes when he fell to his knees. But although she slashed her arms repeatedly, she did not forget.

  Their baby died, too. Two Moons had run into the tepee and grabbed up the cradle board before lifting the side of the tepee away from where the soldiers were and slipping away. She was at the edge of the camp when the sound of galloping made her turn – just in time to have the cradle board ripped from her arms. What happened next made her scream. At least she thought she probably screamed. She wasn’t sure. She must have screamed … but then she fainted, and the blood from the baby splattered across her face so that they must have thought her dead because they left her alone.
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br />   She woke in the night and crept away, certain a soldier would catch her—and not really caring if one did. But by some act of the spirits that ruled time, she was not noticed and she got away on a pony so ancient the soldiers had not bothered to round it up with the herd. She had been wandering for weeks, she thought, although she wasn’t sure. Whenever the pain became too much, she would stop and pick up a sharp rock and slash her arms again. Now, as she staggered up the narrow canyon toward winter camp, she wondered if that had changed, too. Maybe her people would not be able to spend the cold moons in their usual valley.

  Two Moons paused and looked about her. Up above, the birds were circling. She knew what that meant, and she decided to lie down and wait for death to come. Two Moons swooned in the heat. She dropped her pony’s lead, and the creature ambled away slurping noisily from the river.

  When no birds came to her, Two Moons opened her eyes. She did not rise from the earth. Still, lying as she was, she could see the birds were beginning to drop from the sky … after something that must lay on the canyon floor just out of sight. No matter, she thought. If she stayed here, she would be a meal for them soon enough. She slept.

  At some time in the night, a mountain lion screamed high above her, and Two Moons awoke. She shivered with fear and sat up, clutching her arms to her sides. When things were quiet, she bent down to take a drink from the river. Her pony was there, swaying as it stood half asleep by the water’s edge. Presently, Two Moons plunged her hands into the water and brought some of it to her face. The coolness of it was pleasant, and before long she had slipped out of her dress and moccasins and into the river, sighing with pleasure as the water flowed gently over her. Once she closed her eyes and sank beneath the current, but she could not will herself to remain and popped up, sputtering and coughing, looking around foolishly as if she expected someone to scold her.

  She emerged from the water clean and feeling ashamed. She remembered that her own mother had lost a young lover to the Crow and lived long enough to send several children into the spirit land. She was being weak, Two Moons scolded herself. Pulling her dress back over her head, she put her worn moccasins back on and sat, watching the shadows on the canyon wall. Her stomach growled. Again, she drank. Again, she slept.