Chapter Three

During the long march from Fort Ridgely, Dawson mourned the absence of Rory and his daughter. Traveling northwest into Dakota Territory, and hindered by drought, blistering heat and a lack of transportable water, he thought about them every hour of every day. Littering the landscape, behemoth cottonwoods, black walnuts, hackberry and ash competed with a cloud of gritty, arid sand, churned up from fourteen hundred infantrymen, five-hundred mounted cavalry and one hundred pieces of artillery.

When he wasn't thinking about home, he brooded about the ill-fated mission to seek and destroy the Indians. Of course, espousing that opinion could land him in the brig. The army mounts plodded on through the haze of dust, heads down, paces measured like the men surrounding them. His recent promotion to Sergeant pulled him from infantry ranks and put a horse beneath him, affording him limited respite from the monotonous march . . . and a lighter load.

Infantryman hit the trail with a Springfield rifle and blanket roll slung across one shoulder. A canvas satchel the army called a haversack occupied the other shoulder or hung down their backs. Like the canteen and field glass the soldiers carried, the haversack was a man's lifeline, well stocked with eating utensils, a sewing kit, soap, a razor, tobacco, hardtack crackers, coffee beans, a tinned iron plate and an enamel cup.

Today, late in the afternoon, a noiseless chatter filtered throughout the ranks. An army scout rode in under a cloud of dust. After dismounting, he sought out the General and pointed to a cluster of adobe cliffs in the distance.

The lieutenant's voice echoed across the windswept plain. "Dismount and set up camp!"

Overhead, the sun disappeared and dismal clouds rolled in. Torrents of rain fell from the sky, a welcome reprieve from the merciless heat. Shovel in hand, his boots sliding against the muck at his feet Dawson paused when the Lieutenant called out to him. "You're needed at the head of the column, Sergeant Finch."

Stabbing the handle of the shovel into the ground, he turned to Rory's nephew, Clark. "Sorry to be missing out on all the work."

"Sure, you are," Clark responded with a grin. "Think I'll entrench my way to the front where I can keep an eye on you."

"Probably nothing serious. One of the scouts just barreled in. Must have something to report."

Dawson remounted and headed for a spot where the officers had gathered. Moments later, several painted warriors appeared on the horizon.

Seated atop a tall buckskin gelding, the Lieutenant turned to him. "Sergeant Finch, the scout sighted six hundred lodges not far from here—Santee lodges."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, they've sent half a dozen warriors out to parley."

"Parley, sir?"

The Lieutenant looked down his glasses at him. "My sentiments exactly. More likely trickery of some sort."

"Yes, sir. What would you like me to do?"

"I'm sending you out to see what they want. Take the translator, a scout and two volunteers with you."

"Yes, sir."

"Sergeant Finch, watch your back. Remember the white flag they're waving is backed up by the same hostiles that killed dozens of settlers last August."

With a nod to the Lieutenant, Dawson selected the closest privates, Wheaton and Davis, to accompany him. The General's favorite scout rode point and the translator, a buffalo hunter who spoke the Sioux language rode abreast of him. Riding forward at a brisk gait, Dawson's stomach lurched. Ominous undertakings charged the air. Beyond the warriors, a rifle appeared over a ledge, another sign they could be riding into an ambush.

The wind pushed sheets of cold rain into his face, making it difficult to see the faces of the stoic enemy. A shot rang out. Despite prior warnings from his gut, his mind launched into a state of shock when the army scout took a bullet to his torso and toppled from his mount. The translator's horse reared up; his ears flattened against his mammoth brown head. While struggling to turn his mount toward camp, another volley echoed across the land. The buffalo hunter clutched his chest, fell from his horse and hit the ground, his body as still as a marble statue.

Dozens of warriors rushed forth from the cliffs and rounded crests, their faces awash in brilliant shades of red, blue and black. Dawson glanced over his shoulder toward camp with bullets whizzing by him, so fast and close, he felt their speed.

Caught in the crossfire between hostiles and the army, he spurred his mount in the ribs and headed for a narrow stand of rust-colored buttes to his left. When a bullet grazed his temple, he slumped into his mount's mane and closed his eyes to stop the waves of dizziness overtaking him. Another bullet whirred past, finding a home in the mare's withers. She fell to her knees with a panicked scream, catapulting Dawson into the hard ground. Gasping for breath, he squinted across the bleak landscape and focused on his mount's gaping wound. Her chest heaved with labored breath, and if he didn't move, he'd find himself in the same situation.

The ground exploded in a hail of gunfire. Exploding clumps of dirt pummeled his body. Crab-crawling toward his horse, he reached for his rifle in the scabbard but could not free it. He had to salvage the haversack, and thank God, he hadn't lost his pistol. Without them, he'd never survive the harsh elements.

A sharp pain ripped through the upper part of his body. He slapped a hand to his chest and watched the bright, red blood seep through his fingers. Horses screamed, voices echoed in the distance, sounding as if they came to him through a tunnel. Hang on, don't pass out now. Digging and dragging himself through the dirt, relief washed over him when he reached the lip of an overhang. Mustering what little strength remained he pulled his broken body onto the precipice and peered into a small cave. Lightheaded and blighted by pain, he curled into a fetal position and surrendered to the black void.

* * *

Clark and Obie had managed to work their way to the front of the regiment, shovelful by shovelful.

Watching through a field glass as the grisly scene in the clearing unfolded, Clark screamed. "Damnation!"

Obie narrowed his eyes through the driving rain. "What's happening?"

"The scout's been shot, and oh, no, the translator is down too."

"Give me that long glass." Arm outstretched Obie grabbed the strings.

Clark slipped the eyepiece over his head and clutching his gut paced the small area around them. "They're all down, Wheaton, Davis and Dawson too."

Obie dropped to his knees. "Heathens!"

"What?! Tell me what's going on out there."

His voice cracking, he passed the long glass to Clark. "They scalped them."

Clark didn't bother slipping the leather straps over his neck. He held the field glass in front of his eyes with tears streaming down his cheeks. "Dear, God, they're headed for cover, the bloody scalps dangling from their lances." Racing toward the closest mount, he slid his foot into the stirrup and heaved his body into the saddle.

"Private Caldwell, rein in your horse and dismount this instant."

"Lieutenant, sir, the renegades killed my uncle. I have to retrieve—"

""I said dismount, private. Now!" The Lieutenant tossed his hat into the mud at his feet. "It's too late; they rode off, the bodies slung across the rumps of their mounts."

Clark slid from the saddle, fell to his knees and broke into sobs.

The Lieutenant's voice rang out again. "I need volunteers to pursue those murderous Indians."

Swiping tears from his cheeks, Clark came to his feet and raised his hand.

"Not you, Private Caldwell. You are in no condition to chase Indians. I need clear heads for this assignment, and I won't rest until we chase them into the gates of Hell."

Clark clasped his head and looked at his friend. "What in the hell will I tell Rory?" Her face rose behind his ravaged eyelids. Her lips trembled and pain-filled eyes closed in agony. The vision crushed him.

Obie placed a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, Clark. There's nothing we can do until they return."

In robotic motion, Clark followed his friend back to where the main camp was entrenched.