Read Online Wolf Mountain Moon by Terry C. Johnston - Free Book Online

relays. By the following morning, the twenty-sixth, Baldwin was ready. Not only had his crews constructed a rope-and-log raft eighty feet long by twelve feet wide, but they had cut down several long cottonwood saplings they would use to pole their way across the river. In addition, another group of soldiers had removed one of the wagon boxes from its running gear, nailing waterproofed canvas over the box itself to make the craft more riverworthy in floating numbers of the men across the Missouri.
    But that morning as the sun emerged into a gray sky, the Missouri appeared to be running all the faster, all the more crowded with the noisy, jarring rumble of ice floes. Nonetheless, at that point Miles would not be deterred. He was not about to be kept from reaching the south bank, where he could continue his pursuit.
    â€œSimply put,” the colonel told Baldwin, “the Fifth must push on in its hunt for Sitting Bull, no matter the obstacles thrown in our way.”
    With a great shout and hearty exclamations from those hundreds watching on shore, more than ten soldiers threw their shoulders against the huge raft, shoving it across the thick ice frozen against the north bank to launch the craft into the slushy Missouri. Accompanying Baldwin on that maiden voyage was Miles himself, Lieutenant James W. Pope, and a dozen foot soldiers, nearly every one of them equipped with a twenty-foot-long sapling. In a matter of moments those poles proved themselves totally worthless against the increasing depth and speed of the current that hurled huge chunks of ice against the upstream side of the raft, where the icy river began to lap over the men’s feet, then washed around their ankles,and eventually swirled crazily around their calves the farther they went.
    Just shy of the halfway point the raft lurched with a sudden jar that nearly toppled most of the men. Scrambling to hold on to the ropes, the men cried out in fear and surprise, cursing their luck. As the craft slowly came around with the persistent force of the current, the huge cottonwood timbers groaned threateningly.
    â€œPole men!” Baldwin ordered, fighting to keep his footing as the raft wobbled, one end free and bobbing in the current, the other snagged on a submerged tree. “Hold ’er! Hold ’er!”
    The ropes strained and creaked. Cottonwood timbers grated and shuddered against one another. The river flung ice into their frail craft.
    â€œWe’re stuck fast, General!” Pope cried.
    Miles demanded, “You saying we’ve gone aground?”
    â€œI think we’re caught on a sawyer,” Baldwin decided. “A snag. Something huge, just below the surface that’s keeping us from going on.”
    â€œAnd from going back too,” Miles said, assessing their precarious situation.
    â€œAll right, men,” Baldwin cheered. “Let’s put our backs into it! Heave!” he grunted along with the others shoving against their poles, pushing with the power of their legs against the mighty river’s current. “Heave! Heave!”
    As suddenly as they had been jarred by the snag, a rifle shot cracked the cold air. In that heartbeat every man onshore turned to look this way and that. A second rifle shot rang out from the pickets Miles had thrown around their bivouac. In a moment it began to strike home that they might well be under attack.
    Miles stood clumsily, steadying himself against the bobbing of the icy current. Flinging his voice to the north bank, he demanded, “What’s the meaning of that firing?”
    A voice onshore cried, “Indians coming!”
    Beside the Missouri his soldiers milled, called out to one another, turned this way and that as the officers began to shout their commands.
    â€œDamn it all!” Miles grumbled as he sank to his knees on the rocking raft.
    Baldwin couldn’t agree more. Here they were, caught atmidriver, helpless and without weapons while the main body of