A Cold Day in Hell by Terry C. Johnston

hornets.
    “Lay down some covering fire, by God!” Otis screeched. “Don’t let those red sonsabitches cut those men off!”
    Sharpe hurried H Company into position on the prairie, squad by squad stepping forward to use their far-reaching weapons most effectively. Here and there among the Sioux, riders fell back, but others kept on racing for the three men on foot. Suddenly, at just the right range, the last of the Sioux skidded to a halt and gave up the chase as the trio kept running for their lives until they reached the front of H Company. As they lunged among the soldier lines, gasping and grunting for wind, it was plain as paint to see they were Indians dressed in soldier clothes.
    “Don’t shoot!” Sharpe ordered his men, then he turned on the three. “Get your goddamned hands up!”
    A dozen men had their rifles pointed at the trio as the three bent at the waist, weak-kneed from their spring, sucking in air as if every breath might be their last. Their eyes were wide, staring round at all the muzzles pointed their way.
    “C-c-cap’n Miner here?” one of the trio huffed breathlessly in a thick, half-breed English.
    “Yes, he’s with us,” Otis replied. “I’m Colonel Otis. Who the hell are you?”
    “Otis? You the soldier chief from Glendive?” the swarthy man gasped, glancing at the other two with him. “We come from Miles.” He pointed to the other two, both of them clearly Indians, then put his two hands to his head to make wolf ears—the plains sign for scout. “His scouts. Miles send us find Miner and wagons.”
    “This is it, mister.”
    The scout looked over his shoulder at the swirling Sioux. “Miles, he want us find wagons. We ain’t seen wagons for so long.”
    “Yes, goddammit,” Otis growled. “I understand we are overdue. But, by Jehovah, we’re getting there. When did the three of you leave Tongue River?”
    The dark-skinned scout watched momentarily as Robert Jackson came up beside Otis. “Four of us come from Tongue River. Hello, big brother,” he called out, stepping forward with his arms held wide.
    “Brother?” Otis asked, dismayed as the two embraced. “Is this your brother, Jackson?”
    The two brown-skinned men embraced, pounding one another on the back; then Robert turned back to Otis and said, “This is my little brother, William. Miles send me to help you, and keep William to help him.”
    “You have water, brother?” asked William Jackson with a pasty tongue.
    “Get these men some water,” Otis ordered, then turned back to the two half-breeds and the Indian scouts. “You were saying you started off from the Tongue with four of you. And tell me how you came to be afoot.”
    “We started off with four horses from Miles to look for this train. Miner late with wagons—Miles start to worry days ago. Near sundown yesterday we run onto a big war party. Made a running fight of it. One of my Rees—White Antelope—he was knocked from his horse while we run from the war party. But Bear Plume here was able to get him on the back of his own horse, to protect his body from the enemy. We get White Antelope into cover down by the river, yonder.”
    “Down west of here?” Robert Jackson asked, pointing toward the distant Yellowstone.
    “Yes” William replied. “We hide in the willow back a good ways. All our horses killed or wounded in holding the Lakota back. At sun going down yesterday we set the two wounded horses free to fool the enemy—and then after dark we make off toward the mouth of Clear Creek. The Lakota never found us all night we stay back in the brush. We hear shooting last night, off to the east.”
    “You must mean when some of these bastards tried to jump our picket lines,” Sharpe said.
    “We stick to the brush all night. We wait,” Jackson continued. “Your fight start today, we hear the guns. Still we wait till we see soldiers.”
    “So you got a man dead?” Otis asked.
    William Jackson nodded gravely, “Bleed a lot and die yesterday.