Wolf Mountain Moon: The Battle of the Butte, 1877

Chapter 34

8 January 1877

With every shot he took at the Indian, Donegan grew more certain that war chief up there led a most charmed life.

The way he danced and cavorted on the hilltop, what with all the bullets kicking up skiffs of snow, lead smacking off the rocky ledges behind him, sprays of dirt and sandstone puffing into the stiff breeze—and not one soldier able to drop the red son of a bitch.

He had seen bravery like this only a few times before in his decade in the far west—as recent as Mackenzie’s fight with the Dull Knife Cheyenne. Twice warriors had come out of hiding, each dressed in their finest bonnets as they steered their ponies back and forth in front of the soldier lines: taunting, teasing, making the soldiers look the fools with their poor shooting. Nevertheless, on that cold day in hell some soldier or one of the scouts had done in the first daring warrior. And eventually the second toppled as well.

Still, for a time there back on that November day, Seamus d wondered if there truly was something to this thing of a warrior’s magic. Exactly the way he was beginning to feel again down in the gnawing pit of his all but empty belly. What little hard biscuit and half-cooked bacon he had shoved down before the shooting began did him little good now after all the exertion and strain of slogging through knee-deep snow in heavy winter clothing.

Up and down the loose skirmish line formed by Butler’s men the soldiers hollered to one another, exhorting their comrades to take their best shot at the prancing, preening, strutting cock-of-the-walk who leered at them from above, daring them all to shoot him.

But none of them could.

The first seconds and those first volleys were long-ago history now. It wasn’t only that war chief in his big bonnet, but several others who jumped up and down on either side of him across the top of the same hill—showing themselves only long enough to take a shot at the soldiers advancing no faster than a snail’s crawl. Then the riflemen in those rocks would duck back down behind their breastworks once more as the bullets smacked and zinged and whined around them. Up and down, up and down, up and down like the working of some steam piston on a locomotive. Never in the same place. Never the same warriors. No telling how many were up there the way they all dodged and zigged, twisted and zagged. There could be twenty. Or there could easily be as many as a hundred just right above the soldiers’ heads.

Yet for all their gyrations, one thing was for sure. Unlike all the rest, that war chief in the big, showy bonnet wasn’t ducking out of sight behind the breastworks the others had piled up in the snow. Instead, he stayed in full view, dancing one way a matter of ten yards, then prancing back a full twenty yards in the other direction as he sang and swiveled and waved his big rifle at the soldiers. Every now and then he would throw it against his shoulder and shoot down at the white men—then throw up the trapdoor, slipping another cartridge from the wide belt at his waist, and shove it into the breech.

A Springfield, Seamus thought to himself. Easy to recognize—what with the bands on that barrel. Carbine. Cavalry piece. Likely the son of a bitch got it at the Little Bighorn.

“Someone shoot that red bastard!” a man growled off to Donegan’s right, behind his shoulder.

No more than a hundred yards separated the enemies now.

“We’re trying, Sergeant!” a young soldier claimed with no little exasperation.

Then, as Seamus watched, the war chief on the ledge found himself out of cartridges. Hollering at those around him, he ducked out of sight.

“You think we got ’im, Sarge?”

“No,” the noncom stated flatly. “Red snapper didn’t fall. Just hidin’. So you ain’t got ’im dead to rights.”

“Went to reload,” Donegan declared quietly to those nearby.

The men only nodded grimly before their eyes went back to the ledge above, concentrating as they rocked up onto their knees and hands, dragging their buffalo coats through the snow with a slur to claim a few more precious feet of the hillside. A foot at a time, if no more than inches. Hunker behind this clump of sage, fire if you spotted yourself a target—plan out your next crawl to the next sage bush for your next rest.

Maybe an hour later they were no farther than seventy yards from the warriors above them, each man scrambling, slipping, backsliding until he secured another grip in the icy, crusty, wind-whipped surface of the snow. Men who stared into that raw wind, most with nothing but their eyes exposed behind wool-blanket masks, small explosions of frosty breath puffing from the holes the soldiers had cut for their mouths. Lay and shoot, fight and survive, on this steep slope while the enemy rained down bullets and arrows … while the blizzard moved in, already obscuring the hills just across the Tongue behind a curtain of frothy white gauze. The wind howled, managing to find every loose crevice of a man’s clothing, penetrating past the layers of buffalo hide, wool blanket, army wool, merino wool, and burlap sacking.

No matter how many layers—none of it could stop a man from shaking when it was no longer the cold that made him tremble so.

As the minutes dragged into another hour, as their desperate clawing advance up the steep hillside bogged down, it was becoming clear that this far southern end of Miles’s line might not be going any farther. While the soldiers’ big guns commanded the knoll on the north end of the valley, the greatest Indian strength held the tall hill on the east side of the valley at the opposite end of the ridge. Not only was it a position secured by military strength in sheer numbers, it was the one place on the battlefield where a lone warrior continued to rally his forces through the strength of his personal medicine.

Seamus wondered how long it would take before bullets won out over magic.

As Donegan lay there in the cold—some two feet of dry, flaky snow all around him as he repeatedly levered, aimed, and fired—his mind flitted back to dim, remembered glimpses of old Ireland: how the priests did all that they could to combat the pagan superstitions of the poor country people with superstitions of their own Mother Church. Centuries of druid legends were spurned, replaced with miraculous tales of water turned to wine, a loaf of bread become enough to feed a multitude … and a dead man commanded to come forth from his very own tomb, called out to walk again, his eyes able to see once more when they had been sightless for three days.

So just whose superstition was he to believe now?

“Damn, that was close,” muttered a young soldier to Donegan’s left. The man held up his arm so that it was plain to see the furrow and the hole made by the bullet’s raking path.

“Keep your head down, sojur,” Donegan advised with a wry grin. “Chances be they’ll go and shoot over you. But always remember: when you’re taking heights, keep your ever-living head flat on the ground.”

At the sound of growing excitement among the enemy, Seamus peered up the slope, finding the war chief back again—this time gesturing to his kinsmen as he pranced along the ledge above, bullets landing all around him, smacking into the rocks. For a moment he stopped, shouting to the other warriors, appearing to goad them into joining him in making an assault on the white men.

One of the soldiers cried, “You think them sonsabitches gonna try charging us?”

“Not a charge,” came the answer from off to Donegan’s right.

Seamus looked, finally recognizing the speaker as Black-foot half-breed William Jackson from nothing more than the scout’s clothing.

Donegan shouted, “Jackson—you figger he’s making bravery runs?”

The half-breed nodded behind the wolf-hide hat pulled down securely over the scrap of blanket protecting his face from the wind. “Four to do. He has made two.”

Up piped a cocky soldier, “Which means the red-belly got him just two more runs back and forth to do!”

“Get ’im this time!” came the call, which was taken up by many voices.

More of the soldiers grunted onto their knees, scrambling for foot- and handholds on the icy slope. Some firing as others crawled inches closer to that most desired target. They were closing on fifty yards of the Indians above them. Close enough that either side could make their shots count, Donegan brooded. But—as always seemed the case—the anxious soldiers seemed to be frittering away their issue of ammunition without much effect on the enemy. At the same time, the warriors appeared to be growing even stingier with their cartridges. Firing less and less down into the soldier lines … perhaps waiting for a better shot, a certain target, a sure kill.

Donegan could hear the Jackson brothers hollering at each other now—unable to understand their Blackfoot tongue laced with an English curse word every now and then. If it hadn’t been for that, the two would have been indistinguishable from the soldiers. Every man along this base of the ridge was masked in some way, a faceless battalion that struggled to hold on, more determined than ever as the minutes crawled past to knock down that strutting war chief above them.

With no more than fifty yards separating Butler’s men from the brow of the hill where the warrior in the bonnet pranced in full view, the officers moved back and forth through the snow and sage on horseback just behind the soldiers—encouraging, assuring, rallying, reminding the men to husband their ammunition.

Seamus had no idea how many carbine cartridges he had left in his pocket for the Winchester—but something in his gut warned him that he shouldn’t waste any more bullets on that war chief. Not the way the soldiers were throwing it away. Why, if they were ordered to push on to the top in one grand assault of the ridge, he would need every bullet he still had down in those pockets. Or if it came time that the warriors poured off the hill and Butler’s men fell back, retreating all the way back to the wagon camp to fort up, then chances were Seamus would need every last bullet until he got his hands on his cartridge belts so heavy he had to carry them over his shoulders.

“I got ’im!” some man suddenly bellowed.

Donegan twisted to peer uphill, watching the war chief stagger back a yard, a hand slapping against his chest. The Indian hobbled to the side a few more steps, then clumsily spilled out of sight on the ledge directly above the Irishman.

Shrill cries erupted from the rocks around that high knoll. Warriors had watched their leader fall. They were angrier now—perhaps furious. Chances were good they might well work themselves into a suicidal frenzy and come spilling down from their breastworks.

But all that showed themselves were two warriors who leaped from behind the rocks, pitching to their hands and knees in the trampled snow, crawling from different directions toward the war chief’s body. Then a third appeared, scurrying in a crouch toward the others as the soldiers shouted among themselves—boasting on who dropped the chief—then several soldiers had sense enough to remember to train their weapons on those who had come to rescue their daring leader.

Bullets sang against the rocks, but it was impossible to see where they were striking: both wind and snow had whipped themselves into an angry torrent that cut down a man’s visibility to no more than the fifty yards between warriors and soldiers at that moment. Through the thick, flying snow Seamus saw the three Indians wheel about and hurry for cover. The soldier fire must have been enough to drive them away from the body.

Donegan laid his head on the crusty snow, closing his eyes a moment, of a sudden feeling the weary ache that pierced him to the marrow of every one of his bones, sensing the cold settling into the core of him despite the thick layers of clothing. Oh, how he only wanted to rest for a few minutes, maybe even to sleep—eyelids so heavy. Perhaps just a few winks …

Across the open ground the Napoleon gun boomed again. This time the whistle was a sodden, muffled one. It was snowing but good now, blowing at a man sideways. And if he lay there any longer, Donegan realized he might never get up. Fall asleep and freeze to death.

“Bastards!”

At some man’s cry of frustration Seamus groggily raised his head, finding a young soldier crawling past. Behind them Butler and his noncoms were stirring the men, forcing them to move about in the ground swirl of snow whipped round and round like tiny tornado cones as the currents careened off the slopes. He peered again up the hill.

“They got ’im!” the soldier growled. “Bastards!” Then he looked at Donegan. “I wanted that scalp, you know.”

“Ever you take a Injin’s scalp?”

“Never—but I wanted that one’s,” the soldier admitted. “Brave one … wasn’t he?”

Donegan could hear the ring of admiration in the man’s voice. His own voice clotted with emotion as he replied, “Yes, sojur—that one was as brave as they come.”

“Just leave me here,” Big Crow pleaded with a voice sounding as hollow as cured horn. “I am going to die anyway. Go on home.”

Wooden Leg watched Big Crow’s eyes begin to mist with a terrible pain as he knelt over the wounded man. A Lakota man crawled up behind Wooden Leg to help.

With his soldier rifle and plenty of cartridges, the young Tse-Tsehese warrior had been fighting near the courageous and able war chief throughout the long, cold morning. And when it came time that Big Crow went out to taunt the soldiers by dancing in full view of the enemy, making his four courage runs—Wooden Leg knew better than to try to convince the man otherwise. When the war chief ran out of bullets and came back to the breastworks to ask others for some of their cartridges, no one spoke a word to try discouraging the brave man. After all, they knew Big Crow’s was a powerful medicine.

Once he had his cartridge belt loaded again, the war chief gave a mighty shout and leaped over the breastworks again, singing and yelling at the enemy, dancing and shooting at the soldiers. While some among the Ohmeseheso might one day say that he was a shaman, a medicine man—Big Crow was in reality nothing more than a very brave warrior, as courageous a fighting man as Wooden Leg had ever known.

Big Crow was clearly moving his lips, but no words were coming out. Snow was gathering on his dark eyelashes, on the side of his face where the wind blew the flakes into a hardened crust. Then the pain glazing the dark eyes was gone for but a heartbeat, and they stared into Wooden Leg’s face. For no more than a single, strong heartbeat—then the mist began to thicken over the eyes once more, and they half rolled back into his head.

“Come on!” the Lakota growled to another warrior approaching behind Wooden Leg.

Together the three of them huddled over the wounded man for a moment longer—as if none of them knew what to do—then Wooden Leg tore the blanket from his own back and laid it over Big Crow, tucking in the sides, down against the drifting snow and harsh wind. Not until that moment did Wooden Leg see the bullet holes that pocked his own blanket.

“Forget that!” one of the Lakota snorted. “We must pull him out of here!”

“Now the soldiers will charge up the hill!” agreed the other Lakota.

“Go if you wish!” Wooden Leg growled at them.

They looked at one another, shame showing on their faces. “No, we will help,” one of them said.

Crabbing around on all fours, Wooden Leg stationed himself between Big Crow’s feet. “Both of you—take his hands and pull him out!”

Without another word of protest the two Lakota warriors each snatched an arm and hauled the war chief off the ground. The three of them lumbered away with the wounded man’s deadweight between them like a sack of wet flour.

Bullets were smacking the rocks, kicking up the ground all around them by then.

“See!” one of them shrieked in terror. “There—the soldiers are charging us!”

“No, the soldiers aren’t coming!” Wooden Leg snapped at the two older men, shaking his head violently in despair as they began to settle Big Crow to the ground.

“But their bullets are coming!” the first one whimpered as he ducked away, belly-crawling into the rocks for safety.

The other turned and fled in a crouch without a word.

Wooden Leg collapsed alongside the war chief, breathing hard. “I’l1 come back,” he promised quickly, his lips brushing the wounded man’s ear, words spoken in a whisper against the howl of the wind, the rattle of the guns, the shattering, slamming, singing racket of the ricochets of lead and red rock.

In that next instant Wooden Leg heaved himself up, diving headlong, flopping onto his belly, crawling to reach the breastworks where many of the Ohmeseheso warriors had gathered to fire down on the soldiers, joined by a good number of Lakota who had followed Crazy Horse to this far southern end of the long ridge.

With Big Crow’s three rescuers no longer making targets of themselves, the rifle fire coming from the ve-ho-e slowed to a trickle.

“Listen to me!” Wooden Leg called out above the whine of the wind. “I do not ask that any of you come with me to bring Big Crow back to safety … but help me by drawing the soldiers’ bullets away.”

One of the frightened ones shook his head. “Big Crow had powerful medicine—so strong the ve-ho-e bullets should not harm him … but he is dead!”

“Aiyeee!” cried another one with desperation in his voice. “There is no hope if the soldiers can kill the most powerful among us!”

Wooden Leg pushed the two doubters aside. “Run! Run far away if you want—but Big Crow did not run! Big Crow did not believe we would lose this fight!”

“Yes!” Yellow Weasel shouted. “Big Crow was the bravest among us all! We must save him now!”

Another, Strange Owl, cried, “It is our turn to be as brave as Big Crow would want us to be!”

“Big Crow lost many relatives in the fight at the Red Fork Valley!” Wooden Leg explained. “And now, like me, one of his own relations is a captive of the Bear Coat’s soldiers. He is loyal to his people! We must be as loyal to him!”

Of a sudden more than two-times-ten were on their feet, popping up and down, bursting into sight to draw the bullets, then falling behind the rocks once again. More leaped to their feet until half a hundred of them all along the top of the high knoll moved like the undulations of a prairie diamondback.

With immediate response the soldiers’ guns began to boom again as the snow thickened into a white paste like the cattail gum Wooden Leg would smear on insect bites to draw the poison from the tiny wounds.

As he rose from his knees, Wooden Leg motioned to the two Lakota who huddled at his elbows. All three dashed faster than ever to the wounded Big Crow. Crouching between the war chief’s knees, Wooden Leg looped his arms beneath the man’s legs and lifted in concert with the others. Big Crow grunted from low in his belly as he was hoisted from the snow, his head slung back, wagging loosely in semiconsciousness.

Huffing in exertion, the trio fought the deep snow and uneven terrain, slipping a few times on rocks, dropping Big Crow once but picking him back up—until they had him behind the breastworks where Wooden Leg’s brother suddenly appeared out of the blizzard.

“Yellow Hair!”

“Yes, Wooden Leg!” he called out, leading his horse up the slope. From its nostrils came great jets of steam.

“The fight here is over!” cried a Lakota voice behind them.

They both turned with the many others, surprised to find Crazy Horse shouting to his warriors, his arms outstretched in supplication to the skies.

“Shahiyela! We come to carry your brave man away,” a Lakota fighting man called out, coming up to Wooden Leg and Yellow Hair with another, both of them holding on to a frightened pony between them.

“Help me, Yellow Hair,” Wooden Leg ordered his brother. “We must put Big Crow on the back of their pony.”

The younger man asked, “Is he dead?”

“No … but he will be soon.” As Wooden Leg bent down to grab an arm and a leg, he paused a moment, looking at the war chief’s blood on his own hands. When they lifted Big Crow and draped his body across the pony’s backbone, the snow below the warrior was smeared with bright crimson. So very much blood. He stared and stared, and by the time Wooden Leg looked up again, the two Lakota warriors were moving down the slope with Big Crow’s body.

He turned with the crush and clamor of ponies and fighting men, watching Crazy Horse leading his Lakota north along the brow of the ridge, a few of them beginning to catch up their ponies and disappear down the slope, slowly swallowed by the blizzard. Yet most doggedly fanned out toward the big cone, kneeling in the snow behind a clump of cedar, or finding a rest for their rifles behind a pile of snow-covered stones. They were preparing …

Turning to peer down the slope through the blizzard, Wooden Leg could barely make out the blackened forms inching up the side of the hill toward them, figures without real definition in the storm: blurry, fuzzy, out of focus.

In a blinding rush of fury Wooden Leg darted away, racing back to the place where Big Crow had been dancing, taunting the soldiers. Sliding to a stop in the snow, he dared not look down at the white men. If he saw them coming, his courage might disappear on a strong gust of wind.

Instead he turned his back to the soldiers and went right to work stuffing his bare hands into the icy snow, scrounging with his fingertips, pulling up one piece of red shale after another. Digging with all his might to pull more free, slab after slab until he had the pile high enough.

Then he realized he was crying.

This memorial would last longer than a man’s bones bleaching on the prairie. It would always mark the spot where a brave man fell. Where Big Crow gave his life for his people.

Then he sprinted back along the ridge.

“Come, Wooden Leg!” his brother shouted as he approached. Yellow Hair grabbed Wooden Leg’s arm as he dashed back to the pony’s side. “We are going away from here now!”

As Yellow Hair tugged on him, Wooden Leg stumbled through the deepening snow—peering one last time at the soldiers below as they continued their assault up the slope. Out of the dancing mist he spotted a single horseman suddenly among the soldiers on foot, a box pitching from that rider’s grasp, splitting apart in the snow.

For a moment longer Wooden Leg stood there, watching in amazement as the thick-coated furry figures lunged out of the storm toward what the horseman had dropped, collapsing to their knees in knots here and there to dig at the snow around the broken box.

Farther down the ridge more Tse-Tsehese and Lakota warriors were still fighting as they slowly withdrew, dropping back a few steps at a time—still firing their rifles, shooting their silent arrows in the howl of the blizzard. For memory of Big Crow’s bravery, for his sister held captive by the soldiers … for them Wooden Leg wanted to join that fight, the last of this battle as the winter storm brought its heavy heel down upon them all.

That, and he wanted to know what it was the lone horseman had brought that the soldiers went after like such crazed madmen.