A Cold Day in Hell by Terry C. Johnston Page B

space of that few heartbeats, the warriors on the far side of the stream got their range and began to lay in a galling fire on the gallant men of H Company.
    “Into the stream! Now, men—be lively!” Sharpe called out, knowing if he did not keep them moving now, they would waver, fall back, and they would never secure the crossing.
    Waving his service revolver in the air with one arm, he tugged his sergeant back to his feet; then together they raced to the creekbank, leading the soldiers through the skimpy brush and into the shallow water. To the far side they splashed, shooting and bellowing as the warriors on the far bluff yelped and screeched in dismay.
    “Fire by volleys!” Sharpe ordered on the far bank. “First squad! Forrard …” waiting for them to kneel, then, “aim—fire!”
    The first six slogged forward, drenched above their knees, shivering in the cold autumn wind that knifed down the sharp ravine, immediately went to their knees, and fired on command.
    “Second squad!”
    A second set of six moved through the ranks of the first.
    “Aim!”
    Kneeling immediately, throwing their long rifles against their shoulders, cheeks to the stocks, eyes along the barrels.
    “Fire!”
    One after another Sharpe had the rifle squads leapfrogging forward, slowly purchasing a few more yards of ground on that far bank with each volley, inching their way up the slope to the rocks where the warriors held on, firing down on them.
    “We can take the hill!” Sharpe shouted as the enemy fire began to taper off. “Now, men! On the double:
charger
    Like fiends themselves, H Company sprinted and skidded, slipped and clawed their way up the slope toward the Sioux. Some cursed, others screamed, and most silently went about their reloading, shell after shell after shell, foot by foot pushing back the enemy.
    Atop the bluff now they could see that the last of the warriors had set fire to the tall tinder-dry grass. The flames leaped and crackled beneath each strong gust of wind, driving layers of stifling smoke down on the soldiers as they clambered up the rocky slope.
    Near the top, Sharpe turned to look behind him for but a moment, and in that moment saw Otis himself leading the firstof the wagons out of the stream and up the trail. By damn! H Company had secured the crossing. Wagon by wagon, the teamsters and soldiers were stopping in the shallow creek to water the stock as they reached the stream. Beside each wagon soldiers quickly refilled the water barrels before more teams pushed on down into the creek bottom. Two or three wagons at a time now rumbled up to the west bank of Clear Creek—which meant that now the warriors might swarm in on all sides of H Company and the supply train.
    What made things all the more frightening for the lieutenant was that with the smoke and the fires, the noise and the way the battle rolled here, then there—for the life of him it seemed even more warriors were coming to reinforce the horsemen all the time.
    Behind them Lieutenant Kell’s K Company closed the file as the last wagons reached the creek and began taking on water before crossing—when suddenly more than a hundred warriors roared down on them from behind, yipping and firing on that little band of soldiers just moving into the water from the east bank. When Kell sent word to Otis that his men were running low on ammunition, the lieutenant colonel ordered down another thousand rounds and a few reinforcements.
    About the same time that ammunition was reaching K Company, the last of the wagons began pulling farther and farther away across the stream. For a few minutes it appeared Kell’s men would be cut off and surrounded by the hostiles—sure to be overwhelmed. Time and again the horsemen surged forward, sweeping past and dropping to the far side of their ponies, firing beneath the animals’ necks before clattering away, hooves churning up clods of prairie. Charge after charge after charge—
    “Major Sanger!” Otis screamed