Fortune's End Part One By: Beverly McIntyre In the shadows of the Big Horn Mountains, Indian Territory a bitter day in December, 1866 "Goddamn these bastards," Captain Alex Summers cursed. "I've stormed rifle-pits, laid siege, and held men under artillery barrage . . . but these bastards are playing some kind of game with me." Moments ago, the captain had halted his entire force at the western edge of Lodge Trail Ridge. As soon as they decoys saw the soldiers stop, they swept along either brow of the ridge. Frankly, Summers was getting quite tired of these Sioux bastards. They had been doing hit and run tactics so often that Fort Phil Kearny was nearly overflowing with people. They were going to run out of supplies and wood if Summers didn't take care of these upstart Sioux soon. (Just give me fifty Army men, and I could wipe out the entire Sioux nation.) Captain Summers watched as the decoys taunted him and his troops, slipping behind their war ponies or waving blankets to scare the soldiers' horses. He glanced up at the thickening grey sky. (A storm's coming.) Summers heard his horse whinny slightly and felt it starting to back away. He cursed as he got his mare calmed back down. The Sioux continued to try to draw fire from the skirmishers Summers had deployed on both flanks. (I hope Wisdom and Marko can keep the boys in line.) Summers himself was just itching to give chase to these Sioux warriors. The Sioux got atop their ponies and began prancing them in front of the troops, yelping like coyotes at the soldiers. Captain Summers looked at those savages parading around in front of him and his troops. His jaw set. These savage bastards were making a fool out of him in front of his own troops. "Shoot!" he shouted at his infantry skirmishers. Frozen puffs of his breath steamed out of his mouth. "What are you just standing there for? Shoot! They get close enough, knock them off their bloody saddles!" Each volley of fire pushed the decoys back farther and farther so they could dance their ponies slightly on the edge of harm. When the volleys died, they would surge forward to mock the soldiers and scatter back just before another volley started. Summers felt his hackles start to rise. These primitive savages were making fools out of one of the best units in the entire United States Army. He would show these bastards who were circling and taunting him with coyote yelps. They were urging the soldiers off the high ground. "Cap'n, requestin' permission t' engage the bastards that yuir infantry canna hit." Summers wheeled, seeing Tom Cassidy's wolfish grin. "No," he snapped in frustration. "We'll do damn well better than yuir infa-" Summers shot a glare that shut Cassidy's mouth before he could finish the sentence. It said quite clearly Summers would brook no insubordination. He turned in his saddle. "Logan!" Before his second in command could answer, Jack Monroe darted over atop a calico. "More devils coming!" He flung his arm toward a ridge where a group of about thirty warriors racing across the brow of the ridge. Summers squinted in the bright sunlight at the group rushing towards them. He let out a low growl. He motioned Monroe back to his cavalry unit and turned toward his approaching second-in-command. "I don't know what they're playing at," Logan began without preamble. "but we should wait for Captain Lehnsherr and his boys." Summers watched as the party of thirty warriors melded with the decoy group. The decoys kept up their beckoning from the Bozeman Road down below. As Captain Summers watched them, a few stray shots rang out from the back of the ranks. Summers turned in his saddle. "Sergeant Cassidy," he growled. "Those shots came from your cavalry. Find out what the hell's going on." Sergeant Tom Cassidy saluted smartly and tore back to the cavalry on his brown charger. He was no more than half-way there when the brow of the ridge was crested by more than two hundred warriors. The warriors had crept up the south side of the ridge, hidden for the most part from the eyes of the regiment. They became blazingly visible when they began to take shots at the white horsemen. "Cap'n," Remy LeBeau called out from behind him. "they're moving down the ridge. They'll join de others in no time." "I can see that for myself, soldier," he snapped. Logan watched Summers brood on it. Summers' hard, blue eyes squinted in the sun-drenched distance, mentally weighing the odds. "We'll hold here." Summers looked down at Logan. Logan gave a small nod of approval. Summers may have been higher in rank, but Logan had years of experience on him. He could have been farther along in the chain of command had he not had a problem with the Army's pretty-boy general Custer. Custer made sure that Logan got nowhere quick. "Hold!" screeched Sergeant Marko. "Dammit, Captain, we've gotta kill those bastards in front of us before those others on our tail can join-" "Shut up, Marko!" Captain Summers pointed to the ground. "I'll hold my ground here." "We can cut them up quick, you give me the chance." Marko demanded. "Marko's right, sir," Logan admitted. We charge 'em, they'll scatter. Have to fight them in pieces. Better than lettin' them get two hundred strong." "Give me thirty men, Captain," Marko pleaded. "I'll show these red bastards a thing or-" "Sit tight, Cain!" Summers hollered as shouts rang up and down from the columns of his soldiers exposed atop the ridge. "Dammit, Alex, you-" "Don't try bullying me, Cain!" "Bully you?" Cain bellowed. "We may never get another chance like this in our lives!" "A chance for what?" "To show those red throwbacks that the United States Army is not something to be trifled with. They've made us retreat like little women into the walls of the fort. We can beat the entire Sioux Nation with these men here." "Don't be so damn hot and ready to chase those Sioux, Marko," Logan gestured at jeering Sioux. "They know this terrain better than we ever could. They've got something up their sleeves." Cain pointedly ignored the short man and pleaded with his captain and his friend. "Aren't you willing to take a risk a little to be a soldier again? Hell, I remember the warrior you were. He coulda made these red bastards tremble in their moccasins. Now you and Xavier sit like old ladies-" "I have a strong notion to order you back to the-" "You won't order me back there, Alex. You know I'm on of the few real soldiers riding with you. And I know you . . . you're itching just as much to go lay those bastards low, like me." "Wait for Lehnsherr," Logan reminded simply. "We'll have the numbers when he shows up." "I'm not ordered to cross that ridge," Summers said in a bit of reflection. "Who's orders?" Marko shot. "That woman Xavier? He's a coward Summers and you know it. "Why are you listening to that fool? He's no fighter like you or me. We're soldiers, Alex. Let's do what soldiers do best." Minutes ago, the decoys had watched the soldiers stop and deploy skirmishers along their flanks. Time and again, young warriors dashed along the fringes of the columns atop their swift war ponies, attempting to seduce the soldiers down the ridge. Sheer frustration gnawed on them as the soldiers didn't budge. One warrior, Stands By His Brother, sitting atop his pony painted with lightning bolts and hailstones, flung his blanket coat to the ground. His big, strapping chest becoming a pelt of goosebumps when exposed to the frigid air. He had been given the singular honor of drawing the soldiers into the trap below. Now, he embraced this challenge of leading the white men off the ridge. Wheeling his pony, he shouted encouragement to his companions. In turn, they sang out their prayers to him as he galloped headlong for the lines of soldiers. Unlike the rest of his fellow decoys, who zigzagged to escape soldier bullets, only intent on taunting the soldiers, this solitary warrior sped on a collision course with the spear point of the enemy's column. He would force the day. "By damn, dat buck's mine," muttered LeBeau as he raised and cocked his Spencer repeating rifle. "No such luck today, LeBeau," Logan said as he knocked aside the rifle. "Maybe not for him, but definitely for me," Marko smiled as he raised his Starr carbine. He watched the young warrior on the painted pony race right towards him. Marko squeezed off a shot before Logan could stop him. The warrior skidded to a stop, threw up his hands, and screamed at the soldiers. He stood no more than fifty feet away and totally unharmed. "Goddamn, you missed," cursed Summers as he watched the warrior prance his pony to the side, urging the chase. "I won't miss it again," Marko growled. "If you're not man enough to fight these bastards, Alex, I sure the hell am! Go ahead and sit here like the desk-soldier Xavier ordered- I'll have that son of a bitch's scalp! He'll scream in hell before this day is out!" Marko savagely flayed his pinto's sides, tearing downhill after the lone warrior. Instead of fleeing from the on-coming soldier, Stands By His Brother turned his back on Marko, raised his rump in the air, and exposed her bare, brownish flesh to the soldiers. Marko's maddened cry hung in the frigid air as his pinto charged downhill. "Cap'n Summers, ye canna jus' let 'im go down there alone!" Cassidy yelled from back with his men. Summers shook his head. "Those goddamn orders-" "Cap'n! Blood's the only thing those bastards understand!" Cassidy fumed at the top of his lungs. "Give them what they want!" "By damn," muttered Summers under his breath. He straightened up in his saddle and raised his voice so it would carry to all his men. "Alexander Summers has never been a coward! And he isn't about to start now! Let's give those bastards a taste of steel and blood!" "Whaaaaaaaaaa-hoooooooooooo!" Cassidy flung his arm in the air, signaling his cavalry enthusiastically. "C'mon boys, let's show them how real men fight!" "At a walk, dammit," roared Summers. "Keep the infantry in sight!" "At a walk, Cap'n!" Cassidy cheered. "As long as we gut some of those devils in the process!" Cassidy watched his men strain at the bit, controlling their nervous mounts. The screaming, gunfire, and waiting playing havoc on equine nerves as well as the soldiers'. "Front into a line, goddammit! By fours . . . guide center, forward at a walk, HO!" Cassidy shouted at his horse soldiers. The last he saw of Summers was him looking back at Fort Phil Kearney, far across the valley. Logan moved away, shaking his head sadly. (Short, hairy runt underestimates us . . .) A moment later, Cassidy and his men dropped down off the northern rib of Lodge Trail Ridge, both Cassidy and Summers could no longer see the fort. For the moment, neither Xavier or his orders mattered. ***** By the time Cassidy and his company of cavalry caught up to Marko, he sat reloading, cursing at his poor weapon. Cassidy stared after the enticing decoys flitting farther and farther down the ridge. With his next breath, Cassidy cursed the plodding infantry Summers prodded down the windswept ridge on the double, straining to catch up with cavalry. Off the spur, the decoys raced, time and again stopping, turning, taunting and hollering. They urged the soldiers on and watched the cavalry surge against itself restlessly. Following the decoys relentlessly, Marko led the mounted troops onto a snowy rib that pointed like a bony, skeletal finger to the northwest, down into the valley of Peno Creek. Down into the maw of the valley, the horse soldiers plunged; the infantry behind them winded, struggling to keep up. They surged past a field of huge boulders, chasing the warriors who circled and jeered down near the creek itself. Once Cassidy's horse soldiers plunged off the end of the spur, the Sioux whirled, hollering amongst themselves. Their ponies broke ice scum on the north shore of the Peno Creek. Summers' infantry thumped along at a ground eating double-time, plodding after the eager cavalry that was inching away from them. As the foot soldiers crossed the maw of the valley itself, the decoys across the creek split into two groups. Each band dashed away like scattering quail, suddenly turning, doubling back, and crossing the path of the other. With the signal, the valley erupted into life. Two thousand shrieking Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho leapt from bushes and tall grasses.From hiding places behind rock and tree, they shouted, shot guns, fired arrows, screamed, hurled lances, and wielded axes and clubs. Cassidy yanked back on his reins. His mount stumbled and pitched forward. His mouth went dry, as if he had just swallowed trail-dust. He scrambled to his feet, the reins still in his hand. his ears pounded with demon shrieks. Summers' foot soldiers slammed the trap shut. Across the creek, the hillside throbbed with warriors springing from hiding. From both sides of the spur, hundreds sprang. Cassidy realized they were out numbered better than twenty to one. (Then we'll make a stand o' it.) "Holy shit!" Marko hollered, whirling as a bullet struck the soldier standing next to Cassidy, brain splattering hot blood across Tom's cheek. Nearby, Jack Monroe's horse crumpled, pinning his leg. Amid the crush of warriors and the panic ridden raw recruits, Cassidy pulled him free. By the time Cassidy turned back to his own horse, it had already dashed across the creek, arrows sticking out of its flanks and whithers. "Get back to Summers!" Cassidy roared. He turned to see Marko still in his saddle with pistol in hand, his carbine dropped because it wouldn't load fast enough. He pointed and shot, yelling out for everybody to get back up the hill. Urging the soldiers back up the spur where Summers was having a hot time of it. From all sides the warriors swarmed like maddened red ants. Marko raced among the soldiers, kicking, shouting, and shooting. He was covering the retreat as best he could. He closed the file as the cavalry dragged their wounded with them. Most of the soldiers were terrified at the horror of battle. Some like, Toynbee and Wyngarde, went to pieces and screamed. A few, like Dayspring and Bishop, threw useless weapons away. Into their midst plunged two civilians, Benjamin Russel and Wade Wilson held fast, blunting the first wave of Black Shield's Miniconjou who were given the honor of making the first assault. Cassidy whirled, sweeping an abandoned carbine from the frozen ground. He ran in a crouch back to the two civilians and a handful of soldiers kneeling in a small fortress of boulders and horse carcasses. "Glad you could join us, Sergeant!" Wilson hollered over the clamor. His scarred face set in a deadly smile. "No place like home!" Cassidy slid behind a horse still jerking in its death throes. "Don't waste time," Ben Russel growled. "More'n enough for all of us." Cassidy swept his sights to the left and fired. Then he swung right, seeing Marko drive the cavalry up the spur, joining Summers' infantry at the foot of the ridge. As he turned back, one of his young cavalrymen buckled, crumpling into the snow. He thrashed on the ground for a moment until he lay still. White powdered his back. Private Shaw. Cassidy pulled his trigger again. (By God, the boy was a soldier after all!) Lead slammed into the horse carcasses about them, going home with the flat thud like a hand slapping wet putty. None of the carcasses moved anymore. Arrows hissed through the grass nearby. Bullets hummed overhead. Behind it all rose the constant drone of eagle-wingbone whistles, keening for white blood. Soldier's blood. Out of the swirl of Sioux flitted blurred forms. One moment atop their ponies, the next gone. Arrows whispered through the cold air: whit. Whit-thukk! Swiss-thung! Cassidy watched the last soldier in the little horse-fort sink over a carcass, a shaft buried deep into his throat. A moment later, he could no longer hear the wet gurgle in the trooper's throat. Wilson, Russel, and Tom Cassidy remained. In the span of five minutes, the Sioux had killed Shaw and four seasoned veterans around him. Cassidy's gun jammed. He ducked, dragging another Spencer rifle from beneath a cavalryman's body. Once, twice, and three times he aimed and fired. He watched as a warrior fall for each bullet. Those last three marksmen exacted a terrible toll on the Sioux that day beneath the milk-pale sun hidden behind the thickening, snow-swollen clouds. "My gun . . . God . . . dammit!" Cassidy whirled, watching Russel catch Wilson. A long shaft quivered from the base of Wilson's neck, the bloody iron point dripping from the other side. "I'll pull it-" "No!" Wilson shouted. "Give the soldier . . . my gun. Give 'im my . . ." Russel looked up, imploring Cassidy. "Take his rifle, goddammit!" he growled, tears clouding his eyes. "He dinna need it any longer." Cassidy pulled the weapon up to his shoulder and fired. He fired until it clicked empty. His hands dug through Wilson's pockets, finding the loose .44/40 shells. Four. Five. Six. He jammed them into the rifle. Then he sprang upright to fire. He lurched forward slightly. Cassidy looked down at his chest. He saw an iron tip poking like a stickpin from a gentleman's tie. It dripped with his own fluid. "You reloaded yet, soldier?" Russel hollered, his back turned, pumping and firing his repeater. He knocked a warrior from the saddle with each round. His Henry rifle blasting death with every pull of the trigger. "C'mon, goddammit-you don't have all day to reload the sonuvabitch!" Tom Cassidy turned slowly, jaws pumping, trying to speak.He tried to say anything. He put his cold, bloody hand on Russel's shoulder. Then he sank into silence. The eagle-wingbone whistles ringing in his ears. His dull eyes locked on the dirty sky overhead. ***** End Part One Fortune's End Part Two By: Beverly McIntyre Trevon Longshot was an eleven year veteran. He'd seen plenty of bloodshed and survived as much in the past four years of warfare. Being moved into the wilds of the west to help keep the Indians down didn't phase him much. He was a grunt in the army, and he'd die a grunt in the army. He gripped his tin bugle tightly in his four fingered hand. He'd lost both of his pinkies at Gettysburg. He was fortunate that was the only things he lost on those three days of battle. His revolver was clamped in his other hand as time and again he galloped back to fight at Logan's side. The weathered infantry lieutenant had taken a small clump of men with him to help drive the cavalry back up the ridge toward Summers. Warriors swarmed over him and fell back just as quickly. He had picked up a fallen sabre and slashed through the cold air with a whistling hiss. Logan lopped off the head of another attacker. He fired his pistol into the chest of another, so close that the warrior's blanket coat smoldered. The Sioux ran him over again. Logan swinging his sabre as more of his small band fell around him. His sabre bedded itself into the side of a warrior who galloped away, already dead. Logan ran out of luck. His sabre was gone. His pistol was out of bullets. The lieutenant stumbled backward. A stain like dark gravy ran moist across his chest. He sank slowly to the ground as if he was tired. His legs buckled. He sat in the muddy snow beside the dead bodies of his men, his pistol clutched tightly in his glove. Longshot raced up and vaulted himself off of his horse. He rushed over to his fallen comrade, easing him back onto the trampled snow. Logan stared up into Trevon's face coming into focus over his. "Tell Mariko-" Longshot had heard that gurgle too many times before. "You're a brave soldier, Lieutenant. Your wife will know you hung back to cover the retreat. I make that promise to you," he whispered. His fingers pulled the pasty eyelids down. Longshot whirled and fired his pistol. One, then a second warrior tumbled out of the saddle before Longshot realized he was alone. Not a single horse was left. He had a choice. He could race over to where Cassidy and the two civilians worked their devastation on the Sioux with every shot. In a scattered ring around the the stone fortress lay the bodies of better than fifty dead or dying Sioux. Some were trying to crawl away. Most were still as stone while other horsemen surged at the fortress. Or he could run the gauntlet to rejoin Summers. (Chances are better with more soldiers.) He burst off on a dead run, hunched over like a crab as he scrambled the the grass and brush. "Fekt!" Longshot cursed under his breath watching the mounted troops clatter uphill , abandoning Summer's infantry. Lead by Marko and confused, they plunged through the infantry, headed up the ridge. They were stopped a hundred yards beyond the infantry where a group of huge boulders blocked their path. Milling about like some headless, crazed beast while warriors swept around them, among them. They swept over them, knocking the green recruits from their saddles with shrieks of bloody glee. A blood-chilling scream rolled down the slope. Longshot wheeled and fired. He dropped a warrior that was close enough to touch him with a lance. Longshot turned toward the small stone fortress and watched Russel stand. He was alone now in his little fortress. He swung his rifle like a club. He knocked the warriors aside like sheaves of wheat until they swarmed over him. A second later Russel stood alone again, bloody from a hundred wounds. A warrior swung a cruel, nail-studded war-club, taking the top of Benjamin Russel's head with it. Longshot's stomach pushed against his tonsils. He turned away, racing up the hill and gulping cold air. He neared the boulders as the cavalry farthest up the ridge dismounted like ragged tin soldiers. They lead their horses onto the crest of the ridge. Longshot glanced south. He figured the the horsemen hoped to cross the top and retreat back to the fort. Longshot watched as they drew up the glazed, icy snow, short of the top. The south slope of Lodge Trail Ridge erupted with hundreds more mounted, screaming warriors. Any hope of escape had been cut off like the last whimper of wind. ***** Private Carl Denti whirled and fired again. Downhill from where he stood, a solitary cavalry soldier scrambled uphill on foot. Denti aimed and fired, dropping another warrior. He would cover the soldier, the way he covered the retreat of his infantry bunkies. As he swung and fired the carbine he had picked up from the slope, Denti recognized the irony in his joining the army to escape a family and trouble in Chicago caused by a hunger for excitement. At the moment he had more than a lifetime's excitement staring him cold in the face. As the soldier neared Denti, a warrior on horseback swung alongside. Denti fired, dropping the Sioux on top of the trooper. The fallen man dragged himself out from under beneath the Indian's body and scrambled alongside Denti. "Za's vid, thank you," he growled. "Let's go!" Denti shouted, watching the veteran soldier scamper up the slope toward the boulders and the rest of the waiting infantry. He leapt to his feet , running backward. He stumbled over brush and snowdrifts, firing at the Sioux surging up the hill. ***** Miniconjou warrior Thundering Bird snugged the war-shield along his wrist. He swung his feathered lance through the air and urging his war pony up the slope. He burst through puffs of gray gunpowder that stung his nostrils. The reek of death and voided bowels profaned the cold air. Three more warriors joined him. While they carried bows, Thundering Bird preferred his lance. Though he was closest to the solitary soldier, an arrow from one of those who rode beside him struck the trooper first, bringing him to his knees. Slowly the soldier crumpled backward. Thundering Bird charged in, the first to count coup. As he galloped over the soldier, the Miniconjou warrior slapped his lance point across the enemy's head, knocking off the blue hat. Man of The People reined up beside Thundering Bird, bullets hissing around them like mad hornets. The young Lakota whirled as warriors nearby shouted. Word came that there were more soldiers coming from the fort. They were already crossing the first creek on the valley side of the ridge. "We must finish these quickly-now!" Man of The People commanded. "Fight! Sweep these soldiers from the face of our mother!" "Aiiyeee!" Thundering Bird shouted, following the young Lakota's courageous charge up the hill toward the boulders. Spurred by Man of The People's exhortations, his brothers in war charged from all directions. Down from the ridge. Up from both sides of the road along the narrow spur. And closing the circle rode those joining Man of The People in a wild assault charging up the hill. Throwing themselves against volley after volley of soldier fire, the Sioux pressed closer. Yard by bloody yard they moved closer, caring little for the bullets singing overhead or hissing into the frozen ground under their feet. On the outer fringe of the low boulders, soldiers stood to meet the Sioux charge. They flailed away with their rifles while warriors swung clubs , jabbed with lances, slashed with scalping knives, and hacked with axes. Man of The People trampled over warriors riddled with arrows. On all sides of the boulders laid the scattered bodies of his brothers sacrificed in the cross-fire of a savage attack. Already, this place stank of death. Blood turned black on trampled snow. Hair clotted the nails of his war-club as he swung again and again. He screeched his wild cry of death as he leapt from the back of his pony into the fray. His moccasins slipped, and he nearly fell. Across the ground wriggled coils of greasy, blue intestine streaming from a soldier's belly. Streaming. Stinking. He stared down into the wide eyes filled with fear and pain. Then he slammed his war-club into the face. Pict. Pict. The bullets rang off the rocks around him. He swung down again. The side of the soldier's face disappeared in a halo of red that splattered Man of The People like hot grease. He wheeled looking for another, his blood lust at fever pitch. He watched the brave soldier spirits rise toward the heavens like like breathsmoke from a dying man's mouth in winter. Many of his brothers died around him, paying for this victory before the other soldiers could arrive. Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho died bravely. Their deathsongs lilting in their mouths. Many were dead, for very few fought with guns. But they were close, staring into their enemies' eyes. ***** Yard by yard, Trevon Longshot fell back. , reaching the center of a tiny ring of boulders. He realized it was only a matter of minutes, perhaps only seconds now. "Cain!" Behind him, he recognized Summers' voice. Marko lumbered past the tall bugler. Only a handful remained now, surrounded. Longshot wheeled, watching a warrior fly off the rocks overhead. The warrior landed on a soldier, swinging his club. Longshot stumbled back against the rocks. Just beyond, Summers and Marko pressed their pistols against each other's temple. "One . . ." Summers rasped. "Two . . ." Marko quickly echoed. "NO!" Longshot shouted, leaping. "THREE-" Longshot flinched as both heads were flung backwards, spraying red coronas as bullets slammed through brain and bone. Marko and Summers were gone. (Only cowards lead other men to their deaths.) Click. The hammer fell. Again he pulled the trigger. Click. His .44-caliber revolver was empty. Longshot hurled it at a warrior crouching on the boulder overhead, about to leap. Longshot backed up, searching for a weapon. Scooping up Summers' pistol, he pulled the trigger. Click. Empty. (Saved the last bullet for himself.) Longshot stumbled over bodies, searching. His back slammed against the rocks. The bugle jabbed his ribs. He yanked the braided cord over his head, gripping the bugle like a short club. He swung it at the on-coming Sioux. He listened to the whistle of a dry breeze in the horn's bell. He heard the startled grunts from the warriors he hit as they swarmed over him. His tin bugle turned into a shapeless thing in his hands. (Za's Vid, I am the last one!) Left to right, then back again, Longshot swung, battering his enemies with that dented horn. It sang in his hand, as beautiful as any call to Boots and Saddles. He thought now of only twilight . . . and taps. (No suicide. I have always been a soldier. I will die a soldier.) He remembered the mountains of his boyhood home. He heard the sweet, sweet notes of a distant bugle call. It brought the soldiers home at last. ***** Man of The People heard the others shouting from the top of the spur, relaying that the soldiers had reached the crest of the ridge. Like fevered ants, the warriors set about their grisly work. They shouted. they laughed. They cut and hacked. They stripped the dead of clothing. They cut off hands and feet. They gashed legs. They disemboweled. They scalped from forehead to nape, including the ears. They fired one arrow after an another into the naked soldiers. Every corpse stiffened in the cold. Each body looked helpless, like a pale, white-belly of a fish snagged from a summer stream. Man of The People jerked, hearing the iron-hoofs clatter up the frozen slope. It was only a soldier horse being chased by two young Miniconjou. It was a big, white soldier horse. Reins dragged from its jaw. The saddle swayed beneath its belly. Arrow shafts quivered from its whithers and rear flanks. It clattered over the hill, the boys in joyous pursuit. The warrior next to him screeched a victory song, holding aloft a soldier's manhood parts in his bloody hand. The Oglalla danced a moment with his trophy, then he stuffed them into the soldier's gaping mouth. Next he pried apart the white man's belly, hauling the entrails across into the dirt and trampled snow. Blood turned the ground black and slick as it quickly froze. Man of The People watched the first soldiers appear along a brow north of the Lodge Trail Ridge. They stood there unmoving. The soldiers dared not ride into the valley. "Brothers!" Man of The People exhorted his friends, "Invite these soldiers to come and join these." Many laughed, jeering the soldiers. They urged and taunted these new troops. Each warrior felt they could defeat anything the soldiers might throw at them this day. They were unafraid. Daring. Mighty. A dog darted past him. Man of The People leaped back, hand clamped to his mouth. Blindly scurrying in and out of the warriors, the animal scampered for the top of the ridge. "Kill the soldier dog!" one warrior shouted. "I saw it march into the trap with the soldiers!" "No!" shouted Man of The People. "Let it go. We have our dead. Let the dog carry his news to the soldier fort." "No!" Thundering Bird screamed, surprising himself. From the wolfskin quiver at his back, he ripped his bow and a single arrow. His arrow struck the dog midstride. It toppled over, legs a'quiver. They it lay still. "Nothing!" Thundering Bird glared at Man of The People. "Nothing shall live this day. No one is to allow even a dog to escape our great victory!" With no more whitemen to butcher, the warriors retrieved every arrow that had not been broken, blunted or bristled from a soldier's body. Although he had no way to accurately count, Man of the People marveled that so many arrows had been fired in such a short time. More than two thousand warriors, each having more than twenty arrows in his quiver . . . all that in the space of time it takes the sun to move two lodgepoles. A very short battle. Below him, near the creek, others dragged their dead and wounded aboard ponies and travois. The marched back across the icy creek and over the hills to their battle-camp. They left nothing but their dead ponies behind. Dark smears upon the cold ground marked where each warrior had fallen. While it had been a great victory, Man of The People realized theirs had been a costly fight. He nosed his pony toward the creek, assured he was the last to abandon the battlefield. Steam from soldier wounds tissued like filmy gauze into the cold air. A trooper's horse struggled in death, legs flailing. Man of The People's nostrils stank with death. As he gazed over his shoulder at the soldiers waiting atop the bare spur of ground, the young Lakota warrior sensed that his people had won but the first battle of a long, long and ugly war. ***** End Part Two Fortune's End Part Three By: Beverly McIntyre At the Big Piney, Lehnsherr's soldiers removed their shoes and wool stockings before crossing the ice-swollen water. After reaching the opposite bank, they stopped and put the warm, dry socks and shoes on once more. They quickly formed into columns, all seventy-six of them. Captain Erik Lehnsherr and Lieutenant Scott Summers, along with surgeons Henry McCoy and Karl Lykos, rode toward the back. To Scott Summers, it had seemed like a dreadfully long time, But Lehnsherr had moved his troops out in less than a quarter hour. The foot soldiers had jogged double-time down the road to the icy crossing. As they left the creek behind, Summers listened to the distant rifle-fire echoing beyond the ridge. The shots were growing more scattered. There were no more volleys. It was sporadic. And fading. He looked at Lehnsherr. "I hear it, Summers. Sounds like your brother beat of the attack . . . run the savages off." Summers wagged his head. "That, or it's all over, Captain." Lehnsherr steered clear of Captain Summers' route along the base of the Ridge. Nor did he stay on the Bozeman Road. Instead, the cautious captain led his rescue detail to the right. "Captain, why're you taking us way off over here?" Lieutenant Summers demanded. "The high ground ahead's better for a defensive stand. I'll take the men-" "Defensive stand?" the lieutenant snorted. "Better to show these red bastards we're ready to attack . . . or we'll need rescuing ourselves!" "If I want something from you, I'll ask for it." Lehnsherr said in a low, threatening voice. "The colonel said you were-" "Xavier isn't here, is he, Lieutenant?" Lehnsherr snapped. "I'm taking the advice of Creed there." Lehnsherr gestured at the scout with his chin. "I'm leading the men to the safety of that high point ahead. From there we can see what lies before us . . . and defend ourselves if need be." The young lieutenant glared icy daggers. He wanted to get down by his brother's side as soon as possible. The last gunshots echoed from the heavy sky as Lehnsherr's soldiers reached the crest. He signaled a halt. Like black, maddened ants scurrying over the snow, the valley of the Peno below swarmed with warriors. "Oh my stars and garters. There's not one of Summers' men in sight!" Surgeon McCoy gasped, bringing his horse to a halt beside Lehnsherr. Up the slope raced some young warriors, slapping and thumping their buttocks. They yelled obscenities. Taunted. They urged these new soldiers down into the valley. "Summers' men are down there." Creed said. Both Lehnsherr and McCoy glanced at him, disbelieving. "We just don't see what's left of them yet." "Orderly!" Lehnsherr cried out. "Captain?" Private Pietro Maximoff raced to Lehnsherr's side. As he dragged a small tablet from his tunic pocket and licked the end of his pencil, Lehnsherr ordered, "I want you to take this message to the colonel. Fast as that horse will carry you." Maximoff blinked, seeing only the officers and surgeons on horseback. He realized he was handed the dangerous assignment because he left the fort mounted. Pietro swallowed. "Mark the time, orderly," Lehnsherr demanded. "Twelve forty-five, sir." "Very good," and he saluted Maximoff. "God's speed, son." Maximoff bolted away, across the spur to the crest of the ridge, heading for the Big Piney Crossing and Fort Phil Kearny. "Captain," Creed announced, "looks like the Injins are done with our boys down there. Lehnsherr followed the scout's arm. Like a wave ebbing from the shore, the Sioux fell back from the slope. They still taunted as they went. A stunned gasp swept over Lehnsherr's foot-soldiers as they witnessed the first of the carnage from Long distance. Naked bodies were starkly white in the hazy, winter light. The bodies were mottled with dark, black patches. Bits and pieces of once-warm humanity froze beneath a sky that spat loose an icy flake now and again. Gettysburg had been about the worst of it. The rains coming like a blessing from heaven at the end of that final, third day-settling the dust that choked every man's nostrils . . . washing the blood and brains from the rocks and the leaves. The rain settled the stench of young lives snuffed by the gods of war. Erik Lehnsherr has seen his fill of death. Yet even he was unprepared for what he found at the bottom of Lodge Trail Ridge. ***** Just past the Big Piney Crossing, orderly Maximoff watched twenty-eight soldiers jog down the road from the fort. Maximoff reined up as the soldiers ground to a halt. "Where you coming from?" a young private demanded of Maximoff. "Who's asking?" "Private Rusty Collins, C Company, Second Cavalry-that's who." "What the hell's cavalry doing out here?" Maximoff inquired. "And where's your horses?" "Don't have any," he answered. "'Bout every last horse rode out with Captain Summers. So, the colonel dispatched us to help Captain Lehnsherr." "That's where I just came from." "Where's he?" "Up the ridge." He pointed. "Yonder a ways." "We'll push on," Collins said, turning to fling an arm toward the twenty-seven behind him. "Doesn't look like there's any of your cavalry left that rode with Summers!" Maximoff hollered after the dismounted, double-timing horse soldiers. When no one answered him, the orderly nudged heels against his fatigued mount, kicking the animal into a hard gallop once more. His mind raced as the cold wind scarred its way across his cheeks. (Maybe the colonel saw something from the fort we didn't. We were behind the ridge for a long time. Maybe the men in the fort watched Summers whip those Indians.) Halfway up from the crossing a rumble of iron--tired wheels clattered over the brow of a hill. It was close enough to cause Maximoff's mount to shy to the edge of the road. he watched as three drivers sang out to their teams, yanking back on reins and leaning into their brakes. Behind two wagons and an army ambulance rode some forty armed men. "Ho, son!" the lead driver hollered out. He was dressed in civilian clothing. "You with Summers?" "Un-unh," and he shook his head. "Colonel's orderly, Private Maximoff." "Name's David North, son." "You coming from Pine Island?" "Nope. Me and the rest come out of the fort. Civilians. Your colonel had us load three thousand rounds of Springfield and two cases of Spencer for Summers' men. Where's the fight?" "There is no fight, Mr. North. Likely all dead." "Don't say!" he gasped, glancing around at some of the civilian teamsters and woodcutters who edged close. "Lehnsherr whipping the Injuns now?" Pietro shook his head. "If the captain tries, like as not he'll get his own ass whipped something fierce, too." North looked around again. "Thank you, son. We best skeddadle now. Likely someone'll need our help up yonder." Except for the pounding of his horse's iron shoes on the frozen road, the silence shrank in around Private Maximoff once more. He rode up the gentle rise, across some trampled snow, and through the main gates on the north wall, all without slowing his lathered mount. Amid shouting sentries and the excited, hopeful screams of dashing children, Maximoff skidded up in a shower of icy crystals at headquarter steps. He did it just as Xavier leaped off the porch. "Lehnsherr sent me!" he shouted, sliding from the saddle and flinging his reins to another soldier. "Tell me!" Xavier ordered. "Here, sir." He slapped the crumpled paper into the colonel's hand. Xavier poured over the scrawl, trying to make sense of it. "I can't read some of this, Maximoff! What's going on up there?" "Captain says he can't see anything . . . can't hear anything of Summ . . . Captain Summers!" "Where in God's name?" "The Indians are on the road below him . . . shouting for him to come down." Xavier shook his head, glancing at the window of his home. Seeing two worried, women's faces staring back at him. "How many Indians are there?" "I don't rightly know, sir. Just . . . the valleys for miles around are filled with the screaming bastards. I don't see how Summers could live through it . . . if he went down in that valley." "I've sent reinforcements. You met them on the road?" "Yessir. Captain Lehnsherr wanted wanted one of those mountain guns of yours." "A howitzer?" "Yessir." Xavier brooded a moment longer. "I want you to take a message back to Lehnsherr." "My horse is used up, Colonel." "We'll get another," and he waved at a soldier to bring a mount from the stables. Quickly he scrawled his message across the back of a sheet of foolscap. CAPTAIN:Forty well-armed men, with 3,000 rounds, ambulance, etc., left before your courier came in. You must unite with Summers, fire slowly, and keep men in hand; you could have saved two miles toward the scene of action if you had taken Lodge Trail Ridge. I ordered the wood train in, which will give 50 more men to spare. C.F. Xavier Colonel Commanding Maximoff leaned over the message, whispering in the colonel's ear. "Captain's afraid Summers' party is all gone up, sir." Xavier straightened, gazing into the orderly's face. "I can't send the howitzer. Explain that to Captain Lehnsherr." "I ran across some cavalry, too, sir." "They should've joined Lehnsherr by now." His voice rang hopeful. "I'm down to forty-nine men in the post . . . counting myself." A soldier jogged up, holding the bridle of a large, gray stallion. "Orderly, you'll ride my horse," Xavier announced, handing the rein to Maximoff. "Off with you, quick! My Gray Eagle will take you back as fast as the wind." "Yessir." He saluted. "Our prayers are with you all," Xavier called out as Maximoff turned sharply, putting the stallion into a gallop. Then he whispered when none could hear. "Our prayers . . . for those God can still help." ***** He had to work to keep his breakfast from shoving up around his tonsils. Scott Summers had seen his fill of death, but nothing so ghastly. Grapeshot and artillery, minie ball and sabre . . . he had seen what weapons did to a human body. never before had he set eyes on the enraged handiwork of man. The naked, half-frozen bodies had that translucent color of old honeycomb beneath a winter-pale sun. As he saw it, the battle had been fought in three groups. Farthest up the hill,Creed and the others ran across most of the cavalry and mounted infantry, bodies bunched, stripped of uniforms, mutilated and scalped. Many were rolled over on their faces after butchering. Halfway down the slope around a group of boulders lay even more of the dead men, piled like cordwood and jumbled in a confusion of army horses and Sioux ponies. Inside of the rocks they found a couple dozen more. "That's him. That's Summers, all right." Lieutenant Summers turned. He watched a soldier pull the buffalo bag from his brother's head. It took a moment, her recognized the pale face of Captain Alexander Summers. A hole in what remained of his left temple. After the Sioux finished beating his head to jelly. Tangled in Summers' legs lay another body. Scott numbly knelt down, pulling the buffalo-skin bag from the head. What he had for hair had been left untouched. His dark penis and scrotum hung from his mouth, draped over his bearded chin. A broken lance had been rammed up his rectum, the bloody point dripping with frozen gore like an obscene erection from his belly. Scott felt his own insides draw up as if they'd been salted with alum. (No trophy torn from that bastard's head.) "I'm sorry Scott." Summers turned, seeing Lehnsherr standing tall behind him. The captain's face was impassive. Scott opened his mouth to say something but grief stole his voice. Scott slowly closed his mouth. "Why don't you help McCoy and Lykos organize a retrieval crew." Scott looked over at his baby brother and nodded numbly before slowly rising to his feet. He stumbled his way out of the cluster of boulders and made his way over to where the two surgeons were trying to get some soldiers to move some of the bodies. Lehnsherr watched his second-in-command walk away before turning back to find Victor Creed standing next to him. "Look at 'em. Two of a kind, aren't they?" Creed said. "Reeky scuts! Shot themselves afore the Sioux could get their hands on 'em." "They didn't want the Indians to capture . . torture them." Lehnsherr advised. "Wrong, Captain. Look 'round you. These Injins weren't about to take a single prisoner. There was bloodletting and bloodletting only on the wind this day. The Sioux put those bags over their heads 'cause the two were cowards." "Balderdash!" an old soldier roared, shouldering Creed against a rock. "Summers was no coward!" "Shot themselves," Creed replied with a deadly glare. "See for yourself. Injins put those e bags over their heads-they aren't brave men, fit to see the next life." "Butchered by them dirty savages, that's what!" The old veteran met Creed's glare with one of his own. "Whatever you wanna believe, sojur. Whatever you have to believe." Creed shoved the veteran away and turned. He noticed a boot protruding from under a buffalo robe near a ring of boulders. Pulling the hide back, the scout recognized the bugler. "Sojur?" Creed shouted, wheeling on the old infantryman. "I'll show you a brave man-braver than any ten of your Summers or that bastard Marko. Look on a real sojur." In utter disbelief, the infantryman stared down at the body of Trevon Longshot. "Why, sweet god, he ain't touched!" "That's right, you stupid scut! Didn't touch him 'cause he was brave. look at the damned horn of his. Last weapon he held. Those red heathens showed their respect . . . putting his face to the sky . . . covering him this way without stripping or butchering him . . . or scalping." "I . . . I can't-" Creed grabbed the soldier's arm and jerked him back. "Hold on, friend. Don't want you to forget the face of a real sojur." He ducked as the infantryman swung. But he wasn't prepared for the other two who charged him. Creed knocked the first aside as Lehnsherr's voice cracked the air. "STOP!" Grudgingly, the soldiers released Creed's mackinaw. "I'll take the next one of you who swings back to the fort as my prisoner!" "Come a time, Creed." The soldier shoved his friend away. "Come a time. you and me talk about real soldiers, eh?" Creed nodded. "Count on it, Private." "You best stay close to me," Lehnsherr whispered. "I'm not afraid of any-" Summers had many friends here," the captain interrupted. " Even Marko was well-liked." "Never been one to have a lot of friends, Captain." Creed smugly walked past the boulders. Downhill he found the last of the soldier dead. From what he could tell of the brief skirmish, Summers' forces had splintered into three groups, none in view or hopes of support from the others. Farthest up the slope lay the cavalry and mounted infantry. Among the boulders, most of Summers' infantry laid dead. And in the tiny ring of horse and pony carcasses below laid seven stripped, butchered bodies. (Wilson,) his mind whispered as he recognized what was left of the face. (Russel, too.) Creed stepped over the frozen carcass of a pony, its legs stiff in death, remembering that Russel had a girl back at the fort. (What was her name? Julia. That's it. Good lookin' skirt. Though I do wish I hadn't caught the two near the Little Piney.) He stopped suddenly by a body. "Damn." Creed sank to his knees, gazing down into the cold eyes that stared into the darkening sky. He looked at Cassidy and shook his head. He looked about for the dead man's clothing. Nearby, Creed found the torn and bloody shirt. With a folding knife he took from his pocket, Creed set to work on the faded, crimson-stained chevrons sewn to what was left to the sleeves of Cassidy's tunic. (War changed us both, didn't it, Tom? All that killing just made some of us predators. The rest of us left behind to wonder why.) Finished, Creed blinked his sweat-stung eyes, glancing over the scene encircling the ring of boulders. More than seventy dark patches marred the trampled snow surrounding the little fortress. (Took a lot of bastards with you, didn't you, boys?) Civilians and seasoned veterans alike had been horribly mutilated. muscles of calves and thighs slashed. Stomachs, breasts, and arms hacked. Ribs gashed and exposed; eyes poked out, pendant on cheeks. "A damn bloody way to go." Creed jerked up, surprised. He found Lehnsherr standing behind him. "It is." He got to his feet. "I've got something for you to do, Creed." Lehnsherr said flatly. "No hurry. When you're done here." "I'm finished." Creed glanced up the hill, seeing the wagons and ambulance arrive. "We'll take back as many as we can," he explained. "Packing them in like butchered hogs. The rest . . . well-" "What do you need with me, Captain?" Without another word, Lehnsherr led him up the slope past the boulders, near the field where the cavalry had fallen. A gray horse lay struggling to rise, its legs flailing. Around it stood a dozen young cavalrymen. "What'm I to do with this?" Creed asked. "These boys are just shavetails. They can't handle this right." Creed watched his hand accept a pistol from a young private. He knelt by the animal's head, stroking between the ears as he eased the muzzle against the cold hide. The horse struggled, trying to rise. Closing his eyes, Creed pulled the trigger. Rising, he slapped the pistol into the private's belly, then pushed his way free of the crowd. He stumbled up to where he tethered his horse. That big, gray stallion would carry him back to Fort Phil Kearny. ***** End. WARNING: This piece is rated R for violence. Those weak of stomach and not inclined toward reading blood and guts should not read this. DISCLAIMER: All recognizable, and a couple not readily recognizable characters belong to Marvel. I am using them without permission, but at no profit whatsoever. Though my character did manage to veil himself in a different name and make an appearance. FEEDBACK/ARCHIVING REQUESTS: Should be sent to bkittle@creighton.edu SPECIAL THANKS: To kaleko for helping me pick out a good first name for a character. And a Very Special Thanks to both of my betareaders: Sabia and Redhawk. Without you two, I couldn't have made it this far. PERMISSION: Pop-Up is okay. MST is not. NOTES: This story is based on an actual historical event. In December of 1866, Captain William Judd Fetterman led his troops into a massacre set by Red Cloud-led Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho. The Fetterman Massacre is a battle on the scale of the Alamo and Custer's Last Stand. No survivors emerged from any of those battles. The Fetterman Massacre had as much drama and pathos as the other two battles yet it is largely forgotten in history. It was the first battle of a campaign laid out by the Ogalalla chief Red Cloud; a campaign where the Sioux won. Red Cloud's war pushed the the white settlers out of Indian Territory. A feat never done before or since. Some Important Substitutions: Captain William Judd Fetterman = Captain Alexander Summers Lieutenant Grummond = Lieutenant Logan Eli Garret = Tom Cassidy Fred Brown = Cain Marko Adolf Metzger = Trevon Longshot Captain Ten Eyck = Captain Erik Lehnsherr Lieutenant Winfield Scott Matson = Lieutenant Scott Summers Civilian James Wheatley = Benjamin Russel Civilian Isaac Fisher = Wade Wilson Crazy Horse = Man of The People White Bull = Thundering Bird Beverly McIntyre