MacIntosh smiled. “Well sir, Ke-Ni-Tay is up there, on his own, so I’ll be heading back to help if need be. I’m well aware of the risks, but we both are of the opinion the red devils’ll send some that way. “Shootin’ down’s a lot easier than shootin’ up, Cap’n. We’ll be okay. Best we cover every option they have.”
It was not the Army’s job to protect the scouts, but in a fight like this one, covering everything and everyplace one could simply made sense. he turned and disappeared into the foliage as he scampered up the knoll where the Apache waited, all but hidden in the brush. MacIntosh hunkered down quickly to wait.
Crabbe jammed the revolver he’d been given under his belt and ducked behind the troopers who were getting in position for the fray. He’d use the gun to defend himself or on Mercier. He had no intention on firing aimlessly at the approaching redskins, although if a rifle came his way, he would do his part. On the command of “Fire at Will!” he covered his ears against the popping of the '73 Springfield carbines which move made him look like a rube, but was later to save his life.
“Poor old Will, how come they always fire at him?!” he quipped to the young trooper he had been assigned to earlier, but the lad seemed preoccupied somehow.
Out the corner of his eye, he noticed MacIntosh as he lit out to find his Apache chum. Despite this loss to his own personal bodyguard, for so he thought of the Army detachment, he felt pretty safe and secure for a man in his position. Then things became a little more bothersome…
The oncoming Indians weren't eager to die and the sudden fusillade stopped their charge as some warriors turned their horses around to gallop off (for now) while others who had rifles began to dismount and open up fire of their own. It was typical Indian warfare, warriors could do what they willed in a fight, lacking any real command structure.
Barlow had counted on stopping the hostiles out of their own shorter ranged but faster firing weapons so while fire was now incoming on the skirmish line most of it was short or inaccurate. Nevertheless it was always an uncomfortable experience to be fired at and a few of the raw troopers quickly went to the ground rather than keep shooting. Both Barlow and his veteran sergeant noted and then attended to those recalcitrant soldiers to get back to firing.
On both flanks Indians were fanning out with the thought of encircling the white eyes, while others dismounted to fire enfilade or try to creep forward in the tall grass to close in for better shots. A few of the experienced bucks had it in mind to try and do whatever they could to stampede the cavalry's horses. It wasn't easy for the poor horseholders to manage four big animals in such a noisy chaotic situation. If they could get behind the whites then charge the horseholders, it was almost certain they could stampede at least some of them.
Mercier did not join the skirmish line, it's not like he wanted to fire on his customers after all. But he was nervous, in this pitched firefight, the Indians might just kill him with as little thought as any other soldier. He instead kept a tight grip on the reins of his horse, ready to make a ride for it if the cavalry unit couldn't hold up under the pressure. He'd already lost his cargo, his profits, but he sure as hell didn't want to lose his life.
On the skirmish line the troopers suffered their first casualty when a man gave a pained cry and collapsed to the ground dropping his carbine and reaching for one of his knees now shattered by a bullet. Right after that another trooper spun about and collapsed into a heap, this luckless fellow having taken a round in the head killing him outright.
One big warrior had managed to dismount on the flank and he was in range with his Henry and now was pouring fire into the hated white eyes, singing his war chant even as he fired and levered and fired. He might have been less confident if he only knew that he was presenting his back to the pair of scouts in the brush. And they were in range of him too.
One big warrior had managed to dismount on the flank and he was in range with his Henry and now was pouring fire into the hated white eyes, singing his war chant even as he fired and levered and fired. He might have been less confident if he only knew that he was presenting his back to the pair of scouts in the brush. And they were in range of him too.
MacIntosh had barely made it back to the top when the shooting began explode from a number of different areas. The Indians, left their ponies to fight on foot, which of course did not discount another charge. Ke-Ni-Tay wasn't shooting, but scouring the back side of the hill for any activity, both being sure that it would be tried.
MacIntosh cast a searching eye over what could be called the battlefield. The Indians were flaking where they could, hopping to gain the upper hand. It was then he saw the Indian with the Henry, the shiny brass receiver standing out, MacIntosh's Winchester came up as he levered a shell into the breach took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. The gun recoiled and he worked the lever again, but the slug had found it's mark in the warriors throat. A bit low, but effective.
From his crouching position Crabbe saw the trooper clutch himself and fall; the civilian scrambled over to him. What to do first: check if he could help the poor fellow? Drag him somewhere to safety? Ask him if he had some dying words for ‘The Girl He Left Behind Him’ or his sweet silver haired Mother at home? Nah. Crabbe grabbed the man’s Springfield and made sure the cartridges were near at hand. Opening the trapdoor, he ensured it was loaded before looking for something to shoot at.
The likes of Captain Barlow and MacIntosh might have some idea about what was happening on some grand strategic level, but all he knew was that he was surrounded by grunting, swearing men, fighting for their lives against a bunch of savages who seemed to have no due regard for their own. Had the redskins been mounted, he’d have taken a quick pot-shot at one of the horses, almost bound to hit something that way but, as it was, the only Indians he could see were on foot, and headed his way.
He waited until they were near, but when one raised his own rifle, Crabbe raised his newly acquired carbine and let one off, he didn’t even stop to see the result, just looked straight down to open the trapdoor and put the next round in, muttering a chant of expletives, while the others blazed away around him.
Like most Indians, they were fierce brave fighters but they weren't much for suffering casualties. It only made sense really, a tribe only had a very limited number of fighting age men and that even included boys and old men in a pinch. They started pulling back then, a few jumping off their ponies to try and recover wounded or even dead. Indians didn't like to leave their men behind even if deceased. Others kept firing at the white eyes to give covering fire for those brave souls risking their lives to retrieve the unlucky ones.
The warrior killed by MacIntosh had a lot of pull with the rest of the braves it seemed as that appeared to be a major factor in taking the starch out of them. All the more important then that they get to him and take his body off for a proper Indian ceremony to send him off to the happy hunting grounds. Two more Arapahos galloped up to where the big man was sprawled in his own blood. One of them leaped off his mount and hastily began tying a hide strap around the dead man's feet so they could drag him off at least a distance out of range of the white men's fire. The other rider, a youth, remained mounted but was holding the reins for his comrade.
On the opposite far side of the trooper's skirmish line there was still a lively exchange of fire as the Indians were firing at the cavalry's horse line as opposed to the harder targets of the troopers. Barlow worked his way in that direction, saw the tactic and turned to shout more orders.
"Corporal Givens, take your section and reinforce the horse holders. Keep control of those horses!"
Meanwhile Mercier's nerve seemed to be giving out as he edged closer to his horse then suddenly decided he was going to mount and make a break for it. Probably not a smart move as these angry Indians might well kill him too but panicky individuals often make bad choices. The horse tried to shy away from his first mounting attempt but on the second try he was in the saddle.
"Horses!" Ke-Ni-Tay shouted.
MacIntosh wheeled from his position and saw the Mercer fellow in the saddle. Either kill him or cover him. The other choice was to cover the horse holders because the Indians would be after the mounts, and if that maneuver drew the soldiers away from the main thrust of the Arapahos attack they could mount another charge.
With the section under Givens moving to cover the horse holders, MacIntosh returned to his position covering the backside of the hill, and surely as there was sunlight, maybe half a dozen warriors were slowly climbing up. Mercer might just distract them.
"Ke Ni Tay, they're coming!" he called as he levered a cartridge into the chamber, then, fed a couple shells into the Winchester. The Apache scrambled over, and passed, MacIntosh to an position affording them almost a crossfire, but neither opened up, yet.
Looking up from reloading the carbine, Crabbe saw Mercier mounted up and riding past them all: heading on out of there. Unlike MacIntosh, he knew exactly what he had to do: ignoring the approaching Indians, he raised the carbine and took a shot at the horse: he knew his aim wasn't good enough to hit the man. Without really waiting to see the result, he threw down the carbine and dashed toward the escapee, pulling the colt revolver from his belt, his derby flying off in the pell mell rush to where horse and rider lay writhing.
Mercier was trapped under the dying animal. Crabbe pointed the revolver at the creature's wildly staring eye.
"I best put this animal out of its misery" he said in a dead voice. Then he moved the gun over, so that the supine Mercier was looking straight down its barrel.
He would have liked to have spent a lot more time on this, told Mercier exactly why he was going to be shot in the face in cold blood, but there just wasn't time: the scouts or the soldiers or even the Indians might be on him any second: he just gave himself the pleasure of grinning in Mercier's face and then pulled the trigger twice: the same number of times this piece of shit and his friend had raped his wife.
It seemed like it was out of nowhere when the Apache was on him, knocking him sideways and the roar of the gunshot filling all three of the mens ears. But seeing the man Mercer mount up to escape had Ke Ni Tay on the move down the side of the hill as fast as he could go, his intent, take the man off the horse, but he saw the horse take the hit before he was half way down. the animal and rider tumbling with the rider staying in the saddle rather than letting loose.
It was then he saw Crabbe dash toward the man pinned under the wounded horse, his intent clear as the blue Montana sky. The rest was speed and lucky timing in an attempt to prevent the outright murder of the one called Mercer. But Crabbe had already fired twice in the interim, Ke Ni Tay hit Crabbe solidly on the chin, dropping him, and as the bespectacled man rolled overr, the Colt fell from the mans hand.
All of this did not go unnoticed by the hostiles. One came at the Apache and took a bullet in the head, slamming him backwards into a tree trunk, a second brave was on the Mimbreño, and they began to wrestle, each trying to gain any advantage they could to overpower the other
Ke Ni Tay managed to free his knife and thrust in into the other man, repeatedly until the brave lost his grip and fell away mortally wounded.
The fight was out of the Indians by then. They had already suffered the loss of their hoped for guns when the rifles and ammunition were destroyed by the white themselves. One could never understand the white man for it had been whites who arranged the deal. They were a small tribe and could ill afford the injury or even worse death of their warriors. Discouraged they rode off, sadly having to leave a pair of their own behind. It could only be hoped the whites would not mutilate them so they could journey to the happy hunting grounds of their new life in one piece.
Benjamin gave orders to his command to cease fire, immediately echoed by his sergeant and other NCOs. The firing ceased to be replaced by some hoots and cheers among the troopers, others more quietly just patting backs and grinning that they were alive. Barlow's tactic of holding the ground rather than try to escape had worked. There never would have been a chance the troopers would have outran the savages who were much superior on horseback. Firepower though had been in the cavalry's favor.
But the veteran officer still had one bit of drama to take care of. It seemed Mercier was dead and a few troopers stated their bespectacled guide, Mr. Crabbe, had been the one to shoot the fellow dead. Their own Indian, the scout, then had pounced on Crabbe. Things were still tense. The Apache had also knifed a warrior who by some miracle had managed to reach him armed with a knife. Talk about a suicidal gesture. One Indian right among thirty plus armed whites? Well, he got his wish, he was dead now. But a pair of troopers had guns leveled at Ke Ni Tay for attacking Crabbe, they were totally confused with what all was going on and on edge.
"Alright, you men, lower your weapons. See to your horses, we will be getting out of here! Go! I got this!" Barlow approached both Crabbe on the ground and the Apache holding his bloody knife.
"It seems our Mr. Mercier didn't make it. Just like his cargo," he asserted then held out a hand to help Crabbe to his feet.
"It will go down in my report he was shot dead by the Indians. Oh...and you are going to have to return that pistol, it's government property," Benjamin gave the man a knowing look.
Benjamin wasn't going to be a hypocrite, he had wanted to shoot Mercier himself but now this civilian did it. There was no way he would press any charges over it. And he would be the one writing the report.
As for the Apache, he turned to him, "Good fight. Go tell MacIntosh we are heading back as soon as I get my wounded and dead properly cared for."