My View from 1958

Corporal Scott led the troop up the slope of the bluff, firing at warriors who darted from ridge to ridge below. The Indians seemed to appear and disappear like ghosts, using every fold in the terrain for cover. Uriah worked the lever of his Spencer carbine and fired whenever he caught sight of a rider, but he had no idea if he hit anything. The targets moved too quickly. At that moment, he felt fortunate simply to still have Smokey beneath him and Corporal Scott nearby.

As they neared the crest of the bluff, the world suddenly erupted.

Dozens of warriors rose from behind a line of cottonwoods and brush concealed in a draw below. They seemed to materialize from the earth itself.

Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho warriors filled the hillside, their ponies weaving through the trees as rifles flashed in the morning sunlight. Some wore buckskin shirts decorated with beadwork and fringe. Others had wrapped themselves in brightly colored trade blankets. Long black hair streamed behind them, some braided and adorned with feathers, others loose and blowing wildly in the wind. Faces painted in red, black, and yellow glared up from the valley floor.

Then came the gunfire.

The air filled with the sharp cracks of rifles and carbines. Bullets hissed, snapped, and whined past the soldiers. The sound was unlike anything Uriah had ever heard. It sounded like a shower of hailstones striking a roof. The lead seemed to come from every direction at once.

Horses screamed.

Men shouted.

Carbines barked in reply.

The smell of burned black powder quickly filled the air, mixing with dust, horse sweat, leather, and the pungent odor of frightened animals. Every shot added another cloud of gray smoke that drifted across the hillside. Dust kicked up around the soldiers as bullets struck the ground. Small stones shattered and sprayed into the air.

“Fall back!” Scott  shouted.

The order raced down the line, but this was not a confused, panicked retreat.

The soldiers wheeled their horses and withdrew to a more defensible position. Despite the confusion, Scott’s voice remained calm and steady as he directed the retreat.

Once clear of the crest, the troopers dismounted and formed a defensive line behind a low rise. Men dropped to one knee, worked fresh cartridges into their Spencer’s, and waited.

Uriah’s hands trembled as he reloaded. His mouth was dry. His heart hammered so hard he could hear it over the gunfire. He thought he shit his pants. 

Corporal Scott moved along the line.

“Aim carefully, men!” he shouted. “We only have so many rounds.”

The firing continued in front of them as warriors maneuvered among the gullies and bluffs.

“We’ll slow them here,” Scott continued. “Then we’ll fall back and establish another line if necessary.”

The men nodded and settled into position.

For the first time that morning, Uriah could clearly see the enemy advancing through the smoke and dust.

And for the first time in his life, he realized that some of them might not survive the day.

The battle intensified.

Warriors poured through the gullies below the bluff, using every fold in the terrain to shield their movements. Whenever one appeared, another seemed to emerge somewhere else. It was impossible to keep track of them all.

“Steady, boys!” Scott shouted.

The soldiers opened fire.

A volley of Spencer carbines cracked along the ridge. Several warriors wheeled their ponies away while others dropped from sight behind the draws.

Uriah worked the lever of his carbine and fired again.

The weapon bucked against his shoulder.

Smoke drifted into his face.

He fired a second time.

Then a third.

Whether he hit anything, he had no idea.

The battle had become a blur of noise and confusion.

To his left, Private Hunter fired and immediately began coughing. This time nobody laughed. Between shots he doubled over, hacking so hard that Uriah feared he might collapse.

“Damn pipe finally killed your lungs,” yelled O’Brien.

Hunter ignored him and kept loading.

Suddenly a horse burst from a nearby gully without a rider. Blood covered its shoulder. The animal raced wildly through the line before disappearing over the ridge.

A moment later came the sound that every soldier feared.

A scream.

Not from a horse.

From a man.

Uriah turned and saw Private Murphy clutching his arm. Blood seeped between his fingers.

“Help me, I am hit”

The call echoed down the line.

Murphy remained on his feet, gritting his teeth as another soldier pulled him behind cover.

The firing never stopped.

Bullets smacked into the dirt around them.

Others snapped overhead with a sound like angry hornets.

One struck a rock a few feet from Uriah’s position, showering him with stone fragments.

He ducked instinctively.

“Keep your head down!” Scott barked.

The corporal seemed completely at ease.

Standing slightly behind the firing line, he moved from man to man, directing fire and encouraging the troopers.

“Watch that draw!”

“Three riders on the left!”

His calmness steadied everyone.

Then the warriors began pressing closer.

Uriah could see them clearly now.

Some rode through the draws firing from horseback. Others had dismounted and were using the gullies as cover. Their faces were painted in bright colors, and many carried rifles nearly identical to those used by the soldiers.

A warrior emerged from behind a clump of brush less than a hundred yards away.

Uriah aimed.

For a moment their eyes met.

The warrior fired first.

The bullet passed so close to Uriah’s head that he felt the rush of air.

Instinct took over.

He squeezed the trigger.

The Spencer roared.

Smoke obscured his view.

When it cleared, the warrior was gone.

Had he hit him?

Had he missed?

There was no time to find out.

Another volley erupted from the valley below.

Scott glanced toward the station.

More warriors were appearing on the distant ridges.

Far too many.

The corporal understood what that meant.

This was not merely a skirmish.

The soldiers were badly outnumbered.

If they remained on the bluff much longer, they risked being surrounded.

Scott looked down the line.

The men were holding, but only barely.

Corporal Scott took one look at the growing number of warriors on the ridges and knew they could not hold the bluff much longer.

“Troop!” he shouted over the gunfire. “We’re making an orderly withdrawal! Hunter, Porter, Smith, Potter, Anderson—you men form a skirmish line on my right. The rest of you fall back twenty yards and establish another position. Once they’re set, we’ll drop back through them. Keep repeating it until we reach the station!”

“Move!”

The soldiers sprang into action.

Uriah dropped to one knee beside Hunter and leveled his Spencer toward the advancing warriors. The skirmish line erupted in gunfire. Carbines cracked one after another as the soldiers poured lead into the gullies below.

“Fire!”

A volley roared from the line.

The remaining troopers scrambled downhill, slipping on loose dirt and rocks until they reached the next position.

“Line set!” someone shouted.

“Fall back!”

Uriah and the others jumped to their feet and ran.

Bullets hissed past them.

One struck the ground nearby, throwing dirt into Uriah’s face. Another smacked into a rock with a sharp crack.

They reached the new line and immediately turned to fire while the next group dropped farther down the slope.

The maneuver worked.

For several minutes the soldiers leapfrogged backward, one line firing while the other moved.

Then came the sound every man dreaded.

A scream.

Not from a horse.

From a soldier.

Uriah turned.

Private MacDonald had collapsed.

The young trooper clutched his thigh with both hands. Blood streamed between his fingers and stained the ground beneath him.

“Help me!” MacDonald screamed. “For God’s sake, don’t leave me!”

Panic rippled through the skirmish line.

Everyone knew what could happen to a wounded man left behind.

Several soldiers instinctively began falling back in fear.

Then MacDonald screamed again.

The sound cut through the chaos.

Suddenly Uriah felt a powerful hand grab his arm and spin him around

It was Scott.

The corporal’s face was covered with dust, gunpowder and sweat.

“Porter!” he barked. “We’re not leaving him!”

Without waiting for a response, Scott drew his Colt revolver and charged forward.

For a split second Uriah froze.

Then instinct took over.

He followed.

Bullets snapped through the air as the two men sprinted toward the wounded soldier. Warriors on the opposite ridge immediately concentrated their fire.

Dirt exploded around them.

A bullet tore through Scott’s hat brim.

Neither man slowed.

They reached MacDonald.

“Grab him!”

Scott seized one arm.

Uriah grabbed the other.

“Move!”

The three men staggered backward as rifle fire hammered the ground around them.

Then a thunderous volley erupted from the skirmish line.

Hunter.

Smith.

Potter.

Every soldier who remained opened fire at once.

Spencer carbines roared.

Smoke rolled across the hillside.

The sudden storm of lead forced the warriors to duck for cover.

“Keep firing!” Scott shouted.

The soldiers obeyed.

Volley after volley crashed into the gullies and brush.

Using the covering fire, Scott and Uriah dragged MacDonald toward the next position.

At last they reached the line.

Hands reached out and pulled MacDonald to safety.

The men quickly regained their composure.

The withdrawal resumed.

Twenty yards.

Stop.

Fire.

Fall back.

Twenty more yards.

Again and again they repeated the maneuver until the station finally came into view below.

The defenders inside Mud Springs saw their approach and immediately joined the fight.

The rapid fire of Spencer carbines erupted from behind wagons, barrels, and makeshift barricades.

The combined fire swept the ridges.

Warriors who had been pressing the attack suddenly began disappearing into the draws and gullies.

Within minutes they were gone.

Just as they had appeared, they vanished into the prairie.

Only drifting powder smoke, wounded men, and the pounding hearts of the soldiers remained to prove the battle had happened at all.

The soldiers tumbled behind the station’s makeshift barricades, exhausted and covered in dust. Captain Grude immediately began issuing orders.

“Get these men some water!”

“See to the wounded!”

Canteens were passed around while the injured were gathered in the shelter of the station.

There was no real doctor at Mud Springs. The closest thing they had was Private Apaydon, who had worked briefly as an assistant to a physician before joining the Army. Under the circumstances, that made him the station’s surgeon.

MacDonald was laid on a blanket near the telegraph office. Apaydon examined the wound, cleaned it as best he could, and wrapped the leg in a tight bandage. His face was pale, but the bleeding had slowed considerably.

“You’ll keep the leg,” Apaydon said.

MacDonald managed a weak smile.

Two other soldiers had suffered minor wounds, but considering the intensity of the fight, the troop had escaped surprisingly well.

For a few moments, the station settled into an uneasy calm.

Then Hunter collapsed to the ground.

The Virginian had barely removed his hat before another coughing fit seized him. At first the men paid little attention. They were accustomed to Hunter’s hacking.

This time was different.

The dust from the retreat, the powder smoke, exhaustion, fear, thirst, and hours in the saddle seemed to hit him all at once.

The coughing grew worse.

And worse.

Hunter doubled over, clutching his chest.

The fit rattled through his entire body.

Finally, he spat into the dirt.

The men nearest him fell silent.

Blood.

Hunter stared at it for a moment before rolling onto his side.

The coughing gradually subsided, leaving him gasping for breath.

Private Apaydon happened to be passing nearby. He glanced at the bloodstained dirt and stopped.

“I’ve seen that before,” he said quietly.

Uriah looked up.

“What is it?”

Apaydon shrugged.

“Consumption.”

The word hung heavily in the air.

Hunter said nothing.

Neither did Uriah.

Apaydon started to walk away.

Uriah grabbed him by the sleeve.

“Help him.”

The medic looked back at Hunter and shook his head.

“Ain’t much I can do.”

“But—”

“A man either beats the consumption or he doesn’t. He will have to see a doctor at Fort Laramie. I can’t do much for him but make him comfortable”

With that, Apaydon pulled free and continued toward MacDonald.

Uriah watched him go.

Then he looked down at Hunter.

The Virginian lay on his back staring at the sky. For once, there was no joke, no sarcastic remark, no pipe clenched between his teeth.

Only silence.

For the first time since he had met him, Hunter looked frightened.

Tough day. Uriah had to just walk away.  He wanted to be alone and think….think about this day…….

There was not much time to think.  The hostiles had regrouped. They sensed blood.  They sensed victory, and they wanted those horses. They started crawling along the ravines as they made their was closer and closer to the station.  They started to take a few pot shots careful not to hit the animals.

Grude quickly called a meeting of Corporal Scott and a few other seasoned men.

“ We will not sit here and wait for the end. We will take the fight to them.”

Prepare for another attack. Allocate the remaining ammo to the troops. Select 25 men to advance. Ensure they have revolvers and knives. The remaining men will hold the station and protect those horses.  We live or die by those horses. “

The warriors had regrouped.

From behind the station’s barricades, Uriah watched them reappear along the surrounding bluffs and ravines. They were patient now. Gone were the reckless charges of earlier in the day. Instead, they moved cautiously from one fold of the prairie to the next, using every gully, wash, and patch of sagebrush to conceal their approach.

They had smelled blood.

They knew the defenders were tired.

They knew the soldiers had been fighting since this morning.

Most of all, they wanted the horses.

Every few minutes a rifle cracked from somewhere among the bluffs. A bullet struck a wagon wheel, another splintered a fence rail, and another buried itself in the dirt beside the corral. The shots were deliberate. The warriors were probing the defenses, testing the soldiers’ reactions while carefully avoiding the horses they hoped to capture.

Captain Grude watched the enemy through his field glasses.

“They’re feeling us out,” he muttered.

Then he lowered the glasses.

“Company…ready!”

The defenders hurried to the barricades.

“Aim!”

The warriors continued creeping closer.

“Fire!”

More than thirty Spencer carbines answered with a crashing volley.

The rapid fire swept across the surrounding ridges. Dust erupted from the hillsides as bullets tore through the brush. The sudden storm of lead forced the warriors to break contact and disappear once again into the ravines.

For several minutes the station grew quiet.

The lull was brief, but it gave Grude time to think.

He motioned again for Corporal Scott and several of his veteran noncommissioned officers.

The men gathered around an overturned wagon that served as an improvised command post.

Grude spoke quietly, but there was no uncertainty in his voice.

If we sit here and wait, they’ll keep tightening the noose until they overwhelm us.”

He pointed toward the surrounding bluffs.

“I’m not willing to give them that advantage.”

The veterans nodded.

“Corporal Scott.”

“Sir.”

“I need a volunteer to ride west and intercept the relief column from Fort Laramie.”

Scott already knew the question before it was asked.

“The message?”

Grude answered without hesitation.

“‘Mud Springs under heavy attack. Approximately three hundred hostiles. Ammunition nearly exhausted. Bring reinforcements and ammunition immediately.’”

“Yes, sir.”

“Next, divide every remaining cartridge among the men. I want twenty-five volunteers ready to advance. They’ll carry Spencer’s,  revolvers, knives, and every round we can spare.”

Scott glanced toward the corral.

“The rest?”

“They stay here.”

Grude’s eyes settled on the horses stamping nervously behind the rails.

“They defend those horses with their lives.”

He looked around at every man standing beside the wagon.

“If we lose our horses, we lose our mobility. If we lose our mobility, we lose this station.”

He paused just long enough for the weight of his words to settle over them.

“We live or die by those horses.”

No one needed further explanation.

“It’ll be done, Captain.”

Within moments, the station was alive once more. Men cleaned their carbines, counted precious cartridges, filled canteens from dwindling water barrels, and tightened saddle cinches.

The next phase of the battle was about to begin.

“Tell the men to clean their weapons,” Captain Grude continued. “Ration the water. Every drop counts.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When the attack begins, the men remaining in the station will lay down a heavy covering volley. Scott, your assault party will advance one hundred yards, establish a firing line, and hold until the next advance. We’ll keep pushing them back one position at a time.”

Grude paused and looked each man squarely in the eye.

“We will not let the hostiles rule this day.”

His gaze settled on Scott.

“Am I clear?”

“Perfectly clear, sir.”

Scott saluted, turned on his heel, and immediately went to work.

There was no hesitation.

No questions.

No wasted movement.

Watching him, Uriah understood why the men trusted the corporal so completely. Scott carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who had faced death before. His calmness spread through the station like a steady hand upon a frightened horse. The younger soldiers straightened their backs, checked their carbines, and returned to work. Fear had not disappeared, but it no longer controlled them.

A brief lull settled over the battlefield.

The crack of rifles faded, replaced only by the restless stamping of horses and the soft murmur of men preparing for another fight.

It was the opportunity Grude had been waiting for.

A fresh horse was quickly saddled for the courier.

The volunteer mounted without ceremony.

Uriah shaded his eyes against the sun.

At first he couldn’t make out the rider.

Then the horse cleared the station.

Private Waterman.

“No…” Uriah whispered.

The young soldier leaned low over his horse’s neck and urged the animal into a full gallop across the open prairie toward Fort Laramie. Every man in the station watched him ride farther and farther away until he became little more than a lone figure against the endless grass.

The pounding of hoofbeats gradually faded into the distance.

No one spoke.

That man is as good as dead, Uriah thought.

If the warriors spotted him, there would be nowhere to hide.

The defenders turned back to their work.

Carbines were stripped and cleaned. Black powder fouling was wiped from actions and barrels. Ammunition was counted, divided, and carefully redistributed. Revolvers were checked. Knife sheaths were tightened. Every man silently prepared himself for what lay ahead.

Above them the Nebraska sun climbed relentlessly higher.

The shade cast by the station had nearly disappeared.

Heat shimmered above the prairie, and the air grew so still that the smoke from the morning’s battle hung over the valley like a gray veil. Flies gathered around the wounded horses while sweat soaked through shirts already stiff with dust and black powder.

No one complained.

Every man knew another attack was coming.

The only question was when.

Uriah could feel his stomach knotting tighter with every passing minute.

Scott had selected him for the assault party.

He knew exactly what that meant.

He closed his eyes and bowed his head.

“Lord…if it’s Your will, let me see Ohio again.”

His thoughts drifted home—to his parents,  the family farm, and the quiet evenings along the creek. For a brief moment he could almost smell fresh-cut hay instead of black powder.

Then he opened his eyes.

Home was hundreds of miles away.

His place was here.

He had been chosen for a reason.

The men beside him were counting on him just as he depended on them. Whatever happened in the next few minutes, he intended to do his duty.

He picked up his Spencer one last time, wiped the dust from the receiver, and worked the lever.

Clack.

Smooth.

Ready.

His hand drifted to the hunting knife hanging from his belt. His older brother had given it to him the day he left Ohio.

“Keep it sharp,” he’d said. “You never know when you’ll need it.”

Uriah wrapped his hand around the worn wooden grip.

With ammunition running low, the knife suddenly seemed more valuable than the rifle.

A rifle cracked from the bluffs.

Then another.

The lull was over.

Captain Grude rose from behind the barricade.

“Corporal Scott!”

“Sir!”

“Prepare your men.”

Scott turned toward the assault party.

“On your feet!”

The soldiers stood.

“Check your weapons! Stay on my heels! Watch your intervals!”

Twenty-five men formed behind the barricades, each waiting for the covering volley that would send them charging into the open.

Uriah swallowed hard.

His stomach rolled.

Well, he thought, I reckon I soiled my pants again.

The absurd thought almost made him laugh.

There wasn’t much point worrying about it now.

He tightened his grip on the Spencer and fixed his eyes on the ridgeline.

Then…

A bugle.

Faint.

Almost lost in the wind.

Every head turned.

Another bugle answered.

Closer this time.

Scott slowly looked toward the southern ridge.

“What in God’s name…”

Sunlight flashed on steel.

Then riders appeared.

First a handful.

Then dozens.

Then what seemed like an endless line of cavalry cresting the ridge.

Nearly one hundred and fifty troopers from Fort Laramie swept into view, guidons snapping in the prairie breeze as bugles echoed across the valley.

At their head rode the relief column’s commander. Near the front, beside Sergeant Cooper, was a familiar figure leaning low over his horse’s neck.

Private Waterman.

“He made it,” Uriah whispered.

“I’ll be damned.”

A grin spread across his dusty face.

It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

The bugles sounded once more.

The cavalry from Fort Laramie deployed into a broad wedge and thundered down the bluff toward the waiting warriors. Guns flashed in the afternoon sun as nearly one hundred and fifty horsemen gathered speed, the earth trembling beneath the pounding of hundreds of hooves.

Captain Grude saw his chance.

“Company!” he shouted. “Covering fire!”

The defenders of Mud Springs rose behind the barricades.

“Ready!”

“Aim!”

“Fire!”

More than thirty Spencer carbines answered with a crashing volley. Smoke billowed over the station as bullets swept the bluffs and ravines ahead of the charging cavalry.

The warriors hesitated.

They had fought hard all day, but they knew the odds had changed. Facing a fresh force of well-armed cavalry supported by the defenders at the station was a battle they had no intention of fighting.

One by one they broke contact.

Some disappeared into the ravines. Others wheeled their ponies toward the open prairie before scattering into smaller bands. The cavalry pursued for several miles, but the warriors knew every draw, every creek bed, and every hidden trail. Within minutes they had melted into the vast plains, leaving behind only drifting dust on the horizon.

The battle was over.

For a moment no one moved.

Then a tremendous cheer erupted from the station.

Men threw their hats into the air, embraced one another, and laughed with the relief that only survivors understand. Others simply sat where they were, too exhausted to celebrate.

They were alive.

That was enough.

Not long afterward, six supply wagons rolled into Mud Springs carrying precious cargo—fresh ammunition, barrels of water, rations, and medical supplies.

A surgeon accompanied the relief column. He immediately set to work examining the wounded, moving from one man to the next with quiet efficiency. He spent several minutes with MacDonald before kneeling beside Hunter. After listening carefully to his breathing, the doctor exchanged a few quiet words with Captain Grude. Uriah couldn’t hear the conversation, but he didn’t care for the expression on either man’s face.

Later that afternoon, Captain Grude, the officers from Fort Laramie, and Corporal Scott gathered near the telegraph station to discuss the day’s battle.

As they spoke, Uriah noticed more than one of them glance in his direction.

His stomach tightened.

Here it comes, he thought.

A few moments later Sergeant Cooper broke away from the group and walked straight toward him.

Uriah instinctively stood a little straighter.

He expected the old sergeant to chew him out for something.

Instead, Cooper stopped in front of him and extended his hand.

“I heard what you and Corporal Scott did out there.”

Uriah shook it.

“You helped save Private MacDonald.”

The old sergeant held his grip for a moment before giving a slight nod.

“Well done…you little shit.”

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

Uriah watched him go.

That handshake meant more than any medal.

Nothing more needed to be said.

The following morning the wounded were carefully loaded into the supply wagons. The Fort Laramie troops remained behind to patrol the surrounding country, though everyone suspected the warriors had already withdrawn to the north.

Captain Grude assembled his command.

“Mount up!”

The familiar sounds of creaking leather, jingling tack, and restless horses filled the morning air as the men prepared for the long ride home.

Uriah glanced toward one of the wagons.

Hunter lay beneath a blanket with a large wad of chewing tobacco tucked into his cheek. His pipe was nowhere to be seen. When he caught Uriah looking, he managed a weak grin and tipped an imaginary pipe in salute.

Maybe he’ll be all right, Uriah thought.

The column moved west across the prairie.

Late that afternoon the familiar outline of Fort Mitchell appeared on the horizon.

Only a few weeks earlier, Uriah had counted the days until he could return to Ohio.

Now something had changed.

He looked over his shoulder at the men beside whom he had ridden, fought, bled, and survived.

Hunter.

Scott.

Cooper.

MacDonald.

Grude.

They were no longer merely fellow soldiers.

They were his brothers.

Uriah turned back toward the adobe walls of Fort Mitchell.

For the first time since leaving Ohio, Uriah no longer felt like he was simply serving at Fort Mitchell.

Somewhere between the long rides across the prairie, the endless work details, the laughter around the campfire, and the terror of Mud Springs, something had changed.

Even the steady Nebraska wind, which had once seemed cold and unforgiving, now felt almost like an old friend.

The men beside him were no longer strangers.

They were his brothers.

As the adobe walls of Fort Mitchell grew larger against the western sky, Uriah realized he no longer longed for somewhere else.

He had found where he belonged.

The fort had become home.