our spirits and deliver,
And provide a robe and crown.'
Then the chorus.
Ringing out over the prairie and sending the hunting birds circling higher.
'Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river,
Gather with the saints at the river,
That flows by the throne of God:
They were reaching the place where Crow most expected the attack. There were deep draws to right and left and a long valley that cut across their path about a hundred paces ahead. Scattered groups of trees struggled for their existence, giving enough cover for a dozen or more braves.
But it was the valleys that provided the maximum cover.
Enough shadow and dead ground to hide a thousand of Sitting Bull's Hunkpapa Sioux, or twice that number of Crazy Horse's mixed band of warriors.
With only ten men there was no way that Crow could provide adequate cover with scouts. It was better to stick together.
And hope.
There was a little more than just hope.
While out on patrol a couple of days earlier with Sergeant McLaglen, Crow had noticed a peculiar knob of yellow-grey rock, sticking out a hundred feet above the grasslands. He had been so interested that he had ridden his black stallion clean around it noting that there was a sheer cliff on the far side, while it sloped more gently on the west and south. Stark and bare among the grass it towered over the prairie like a natural fortress.
It was that hill, combined with a lot of luck that featured in Crow's plans.
But it would only work if he'd managed to use the years of knowing Indians and living with them to second-guess Crazy Horse and sit there waiting for the ambush. If it didn't come then... well, that was a bridge that could be crossed when, if, the time came.
He'd checked the patrol, holding up his hand as a signal to top, reining in and looking all around. The hill was to the flank, about two hundred and fifty paces to their right.
Ahead of them ran a valley and to their left was one of the clumps of trees, around a hundred paces distant. Crow rose in the stirrups, looking back along their trail, seeking a sight of Menges and the rest of the column. All he could make out was a dust-cloud, indistinct, way back on the horizon.
There was still no sign of the Indians attacking and Crow wondered whether he had guessed wrong. The price for guessing wrong was about as high as it could be.
'Sir?'
'What is it, Cantwell?'
Thought I saw something, Sir.'
'Where?'
'There,' pointing to the trees to their left. 'Thought I saw a glint of something.'
Crow felt his pulse speed up a little, the palms of his hands suddenly moist with sweat. It could be. There wasn't enough room there for too many braves but they could be the bait. Or the shepherds, driving the small patrol towards the main band.
'See it now?'
The soldier shook his head. 'No, Sir. Maybe it was the sun off a bit of quartz. Something like that.'
'Maybe. Keep alert. Come on, Baxter. Let's have another verse of that hymn.'
The soldier nodded, wiping perspiration from his forehead with his yellow bandana.
'Soon we'll reach the shining river,
Soon our pilgrimage will cease,
And our happy hearts will quiver,
With the happy...
The forty-five-seventy bullet from a captured Springfield carbine hit him in the middle of the chest, kicking him out of the saddle, leaving him dying in the grass.
Chapter Ten
Crow saw the white puff of smoke from the rifle. Saw the bullet as it penetrated deep in the soldier's chest. The gout of blood from the light blue shirt. Bright red arterial blood that meant Baxter would be dead within a minute or two and nothing to be done to help his quick passing.
'Follow me!!' he yelled, digging his spurs deep into his horse's flanks, making it whinny with pain and shock as it leaped forwards, a vicious tug on the reins bringing it round towards the rocky knoll.
Quick as Crow was, the attacking Sioux were almost too fast for him, whooping out from the cover of the trees, firing as they came. Bullets
And provide a robe and crown.'
Then the chorus.
Ringing out over the prairie and sending the hunting birds circling higher.
'Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river,
Gather with the saints at the river,
That flows by the throne of God:
They were reaching the place where Crow most expected the attack. There were deep draws to right and left and a long valley that cut across their path about a hundred paces ahead. Scattered groups of trees struggled for their existence, giving enough cover for a dozen or more braves.
But it was the valleys that provided the maximum cover.
Enough shadow and dead ground to hide a thousand of Sitting Bull's Hunkpapa Sioux, or twice that number of Crazy Horse's mixed band of warriors.
With only ten men there was no way that Crow could provide adequate cover with scouts. It was better to stick together.
And hope.
There was a little more than just hope.
While out on patrol a couple of days earlier with Sergeant McLaglen, Crow had noticed a peculiar knob of yellow-grey rock, sticking out a hundred feet above the grasslands. He had been so interested that he had ridden his black stallion clean around it noting that there was a sheer cliff on the far side, while it sloped more gently on the west and south. Stark and bare among the grass it towered over the prairie like a natural fortress.
It was that hill, combined with a lot of luck that featured in Crow's plans.
But it would only work if he'd managed to use the years of knowing Indians and living with them to second-guess Crazy Horse and sit there waiting for the ambush. If it didn't come then... well, that was a bridge that could be crossed when, if, the time came.
He'd checked the patrol, holding up his hand as a signal to top, reining in and looking all around. The hill was to the flank, about two hundred and fifty paces to their right.
Ahead of them ran a valley and to their left was one of the clumps of trees, around a hundred paces distant. Crow rose in the stirrups, looking back along their trail, seeking a sight of Menges and the rest of the column. All he could make out was a dust-cloud, indistinct, way back on the horizon.
There was still no sign of the Indians attacking and Crow wondered whether he had guessed wrong. The price for guessing wrong was about as high as it could be.
'Sir?'
'What is it, Cantwell?'
Thought I saw something, Sir.'
'Where?'
'There,' pointing to the trees to their left. 'Thought I saw a glint of something.'
Crow felt his pulse speed up a little, the palms of his hands suddenly moist with sweat. It could be. There wasn't enough room there for too many braves but they could be the bait. Or the shepherds, driving the small patrol towards the main band.
'See it now?'
The soldier shook his head. 'No, Sir. Maybe it was the sun off a bit of quartz. Something like that.'
'Maybe. Keep alert. Come on, Baxter. Let's have another verse of that hymn.'
The soldier nodded, wiping perspiration from his forehead with his yellow bandana.
'Soon we'll reach the shining river,
Soon our pilgrimage will cease,
And our happy hearts will quiver,
With the happy...
The forty-five-seventy bullet from a captured Springfield carbine hit him in the middle of the chest, kicking him out of the saddle, leaving him dying in the grass.
Chapter Ten
Crow saw the white puff of smoke from the rifle. Saw the bullet as it penetrated deep in the soldier's chest. The gout of blood from the light blue shirt. Bright red arterial blood that meant Baxter would be dead within a minute or two and nothing to be done to help his quick passing.
'Follow me!!' he yelled, digging his spurs deep into his horse's flanks, making it whinny with pain and shock as it leaped forwards, a vicious tug on the reins bringing it round towards the rocky knoll.
Quick as Crow was, the attacking Sioux were almost too fast for him, whooping out from the cover of the trees, firing as they came. Bullets
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