“All right. Captain Sumner with D Company, and Captain Maley leading C Company, you both will take the front of our charge. Major Crittenden will ride in command of this center squadron. Major Royall, your squadron of companies E and G remain in reserve immediately in my rear. Ready your units for the attack, gentlemen.”
As the company commanders passed orders down the line, Major Frank North boldly placed his Pawnee battalion on the far left flank, in plain sight of the village, awaiting the order to charge. When Lieutenant Price with A Company had moved off about five hundred yards to the right and signaled that he was ready, Major Carr finally rose in the stirrups. Since Lieutenant Price’s company had the farthest distance to cover before reaching the village, the charge would be guided on it. Like the power of a passing thunderstorm to raise the hair on his neck and arms, Sweete sensed the electrifying tension crackle through the entire outfit as Carr issued the first order of the coming attack.
“Sergeant Major: move out at a trot!”
Joseph H. Maynard turned in the saddle to bellow his command. “Center-guide! Column of fours—at a trot. For-rad!”
Prancing away with the rest, Sweete noticed that the dry, hot wind had picked up suddenly, blowing out of the west, born out of the front range of the Rockies far, far away. With a glance toward the high mountains, how he wished he were there among its beckoning blue spruce and quaky. Then he found his thoughts yanked brutally back as the clatter of those hooves and the squeak of leather, the rattle of bit chains, went unheard in that unsuspecting village of Dog Soldiers. In a matter of heartbeats, the three flying lance points had closed to a thousand yards … and still no sign they had been discovered by the Cheyenne.
In the next moment there appeared ahead of Shad a young horseman atop a white pony, standing guard among the distant herd grazing lazily on the grassy bench. As if shot, the Indian reined about abruptly, racing headlong for the village, hair flying, down the long slope into the valley.
Sweete turned his head, trying to listen to the loud voices swirling around Carr and Cody at the point of the charge, hearing only shouts and curses—unable to understand anything for the noisy charge of the three hundred. One thing was certain as sun to the old plainsman: the soldiers intended to reach the village before that lone herder could warn those in camp.
Carr hollered out again, near standing in the stirrups, flinging his command behind him at his bugler.
John Uhlman jammed the scuffed and dented trumpet to his parched lips as the entire command loped onward toward the village. But no call came forth.
Up and down the front men began hollering, adding to the confusion, as bugler Uhlman tried again to blow his charge. Then Quartermaster Edward M. Hayes shot up beside Uhlman and yanked the horn from the bugler’s hand as their mounts jostled.
Hayes brought the bugle to his mouth and blew the soul-stirring notes of Carr’s charge.
Up and down the entire line throats burst enthusiastically, raising their raucous cheer as hundreds of Spencer carbines came up and the jaded horses were ordered to the gallop. Although they had been driven far beyond endurance and the call of duty across the last four days, those gallant animals answered the brass-mounted spurs for this one last dash.
Without thinking, Quartermaster Hayes flung the bugle to the ground and pulled his pistol free.
Shad watched a clearly dismayed John Uhlman glance behind him at that trampled tin horn lying discarded among the grass and cactus. Then he too was swept along by something now out of control.
Sweete felt no different: caught up in this, swept up and charging down on a camp of his wife’s own people. Snared in something that was no longer in his control. Something he no longer understood. Perhaps, he thought, he was every bit as bewildered and as frightened as the young bugler.
Not knowing where this day would find him. And at what cost.
At the distant warning cry, High-Backed Bull shaded his eyes with one hand against the sun risen now to its zenith. Others in the camp stood or came to stop what they were doing, right where they were standing. Children still played, a few dogs barked. No one seemed particularly alarmed.
Two nights before, they had camped beside the upper reaches of a stream the Shahiyena called Cherry Creek. Yesterday afternoon Tail Bull and White Horse had led them to this place of the springs that gurgled forth from beneath the White Butte.
Five summers gone Big Wolf and his family had been killed by soldiers a stone’s throw from this spot.
