Lakota Ambush

The Advance-Guard, or The Military Sacrifice (The Ambush)
Frederic Remington
Source

The arroyo was just starting to open up onto a large grassland by a small lake. A small stand of lodgepole pine crested a small ridge to the left. Herbert Jones, Jonesy to his buddies, saw all that as he urged his horse forward, she was a bit skittish in the tight confines of the arroyo. He was hoping for the chance to water his mount, she was laboring in the heat.

He was looking towards the pines when he saw a puff of smoke, "Odd," he muttered to himself.

He heard a soft grunt and looked towards Peters, the man at the head of the party. His carbine was in the dirt and his head was starting to slump forward onto his chest. It was then that Jonesy realized they'd ridden into an ambush.

More rifle fire issued from the stand of pines as Jonesy turned his mount, fleeing back down the arroyo. They stood more of a chance under the cover of the walls of the arroyo than out in the open. He glanced back over his shoulder, at least fifty mounted hostiles had burst from the pines and were galloping towards the cavalryman.

"Cover! Get to cover!" He screamed, the young lieutenant had a puzzled look on his face, he looked like he wanted to ask questions, then gruff old Sergeant Major Wilcox pushed him out of the way and started barking orders.

Gray Bear looked up in disgust as the young men charged out of cover at the bluecoats. If they'd just stayed in the trees they could have cut the whites to shreds with aimed fire. Beaver Tail was in the lead of the young men, hot-blooded and excitable, Gray Bear realized that he should have kept the youth nearby.

Walks With A Limp looked over with a question on his face, Gray Bear said, "Mount up, while the young men keep the bluecoats' attention in this direction, we'll go around, hit them on their long flank."

The older warriors, personally picked by Gray Bear, mounted their ponies. When everyone was up, he led them silently to his right. A slight rise would cover their advance until they were where Gray Bear wanted his party. With luck, they could cut the white soldier column in half and destroy them piecemeal.

Jonesy was in pain, shot in the lower leg, he couldn't walk, his calf muscle was nearly severed. Jackson, one of his messmates, was in a similar pickle. He'd taken a slug to the hip, it was nearly expended but it had cracked the top of his femur.

The two men now sat back to back, taking aim, firing and trying to whittle down the rush of warriors coming into the arroyo. There were already a number of dead and badly wounded hostiles piled up at the opening he'd just made it through. Some of the troopers were using the dead bodies as cover.

"Goddamnit, Lieutenant! Get down!"

Jackson and Jonesy had both turned as they heard the Sergeant Major's voice bellowing above the rifle fire and the screams of the combatants. They clearly saw Wilcox aiming and firing, shaking his head as he did so. They couldn't see Lieutenant Marshall. Neither man knew that the young West Point graduate was lying at the Sergeant Major's feet, coughing up blood and moaning quietly.

The young man would die soon.

"Carlson, look to your left, party of mounted Injuns coming in around the rise!"

Even as he shouted the order, Wilcox had a sinking feeling in his gut. They'd used up a lot of ammunition shooting down the hostiles attacking the mouth of the arroyo. Now here were at least fifty more warriors advancing towards them, oddly enough, many of them were on foot, advancing in what he swore was a skirmish line.

Gray Bear sat on his pony, watching the whites' reaction to his advancing party. He'd had the younger men of his group, grizzled warriors all, but mostly in their early thirties, dismount and spread out. They would walk forward, firing their rifles as they advanced. He'd heard that the whites had done this during their "War to Kill Each Other" as he called it.

He'd talked to a Cherokee who had been in that fight who had told him that and other stories. He had been glad for that fight, it kept the white soldiers in the east. But when that had ended, they had spread to the west. Overrunning the land and ruining the hunting.

"Walks With A Limp, when Little Raven's party gets within a sort bow shot of the whites, lead your men to the right, harass their rear." Gray Bear wondered if this was how the white chiefs did things, he supposed they must. It made sense.

"Teddy, you got any spare rounds?" Jonesy asked his partner, nudging him as he paused to shoot at the advancing Indians to his front.

"Teddy?"

Jonesy turned and was startled when Jackson pitched face first into the dirt. He looked for a long moment at his friend and shuddered. He noticed that the fire from his own side was lessening, desultory shots here and there.

The pressure at the mouth of the arroyo was gone, those hostiles had fallen back to lick their wounds. But these fellows coming in along the side of the arroyo were worrying Jackson.

Sergeant Major Wilcox fed his last few rounds into his carbine, a lot of his men were down, he could count maybe fifteen still on their feet. Most of the horses, those which yet lived, had run off. They were on foot, low on ammunition, and running out of options.

If it had been later in the day, they might have stood a better chance, but nightfall was still hours away.

As he watched, the hostiles advancing on foot had stopped and were now taking their time and firing at the soldiers with patience. He could hear some of them calling to each other and laughing.

His face burned with embarrassment.

Jackson had been hit again, high in the chest, he was having trouble catching his breath. He was down to his last few rifle rounds, he was thinking of getting his pistol out. Maybe the hostiles would tire of their sport and go away. If not, well, he'd cross that bridge when he got to it.

He turned to his left and his heart sank, more hostiles, mounted and coming up the arroyo from the other direction. He fired in that direction, couldn't see if he'd hit anyone, then levered in another round. It didn't feed, the constant firing and the dust of the arroyo had clogged his carbine. Without thinking he began to draw his knife, that's when he heard Wilcox's voice again.

"Last round, boys! Keep it for ..."

Wilcox was silenced as a Lakota bullet took off the top of his head.

Jonesy tried gamely to stand, using his jammed carbine as a crutch. When he was upright, barely, he drew his pistol. A Lakota warrior was close by, he hadn't noticed Jonesy in the swirling dust.

Jonesy fired, hitting the Indian just below the armpit. The man dropped to his knees and turned to look at Jonesy in dismay.

As Jonesy began to turn his pistol on himself, he saw the warriors stop. Those who had dismounted, hurriedly remounted and galloped up and out of the arroyo.

Walks With A Limp rode up to Gray Bear, "The soldiers from the fort by the bluff are here. Many of them!"

Gray Bear nodded, "Another time then, let's go home and count our losses."

Jonesy couldn't believe his eyes, the hostiles were leaving, in some haste. Why? What is causing this? As he stood there, wondering, he heard it.

The clear, pure notes of the bugle.

They were rescued!