Sand Creek

   Captain Soule rode up to the ridge on the northeastern edge of the bluffs, having crossed the creek by order of Major Anthony to avoid the Daysers wild and random crossfire.  The soldiers of Company D surrounded Soule, blocking him from the sight of the frothy Daysers.  Soule’s heart raced as he watched the carnage in the village below.  His eyes suddenly met the eyes of White Antelope, who defiantly stood in the middle of the bowl with his arms crossed over his chest.  The old Cheyenne chief stared at Soule, as he angrily chanted a Cheyenne death song.  The top of White Antelope’s head suddenly exploded, and he screwed into the ground.
    Soule dropped his head and closed eyes.  “God . . . dammit!” he hollered.
    Although surrounded by his loyal company, Soule stood virtually alone now.
    “Captain!” Major Anthony hollered from across the bluffs.  “They’re making a run north!  Go after them!”
    Soule looked at Anthony and didn’t move.
    “What do we do, Captain?” a private asked.
    “Soule!” Anthony hollered.
    “Stay put!” Soule ordered.
    A few random shots and arrows zipped past D Company.
    “Back away!” Soule said.  “Take cover.  Defend yourselves if you have to, but do not fire on that village!”
    His men swung around into the cottonwoods, and they watched the battle from there.  To a man, the soldiers of D Company did not question Soule’s order . . .

    Anthony rode over to Chivington.  “Colonel!  Captain Soule is retreating!”
    Chivington looked at Soule’s company in the trees.  “Order him to re-engage!”
    Anthony considered the route he would have to take and relented.  “Colonel, you’re men are out of control!  There’s a crossfire between me and him!”
    “Major, you will go and order Soule to re-engage the enemy!  Do it now!”
    Anthony cursed and rode the gauntlet, ducking the Daysers’ bullets and frantically spurring into the trees.
    “Soule!  What the hell are you doing?  Move your company out and shoot those bastards before they escape up the creek!”
    “I will not!” Soule said.
    “You have to attack!” Anthony yelled.
    “We’re soldiers, Major, not murderers!”
    “Godammit!  Chivington will kill you!”
    A corporal rode in front of Anthony.  “You tell Chivington  – if Captain Soule dies today, he dies today!  We’ll blow that son of a bitch parson to kingdom come!”
    The boys of Company D fiercely agreed.
    “Back away from us,” another yelled, “or you’ll go down, too!”
    “What the hell!” Anthony squealed.  “You better think twice about this!”
    “We’re not under Chivington’s command,” Soule said.  “And neither are you, Major!  Only a goddam coward would take part in this!”
    Exasperated, Anthony looked back across the bluffs, where the Daysers continued to range wildly out of control.  “It’s fuckin’ mayhem!  Those bastards are shooting at my men!”
    “Cramer’s company just backed off, too,” Soule said.  “Others are gonna follow.  You’re running out of friends, Major.”
   Anthony looked across at Chivington, who rode along the ridge, helplessly watching his Third Regiment run amuck.
    “Fuck!” Anthony screamed.  He turned and rode back through a bevy of wild shots.
    Soule and his men turned back and watched the Cheyenne village die.  Left Hand’s Arapaho camp on the eastern perimeter was entirely decimated, and there were but a few Indians alive at the foot of the bluffs.  The remainder of the fight quickly moved north, up the creek, as hundreds of Indians made a run for it.  A few First Regiment soldiers pursued them, but many began to back away.  Chivington’s Third Regiment stayed firmly in place, circled around the bluffs and shooting at mostly dead bodies now.  Occasionally, a squaw or child would peer out from the brush below, attracting a gale of rifle fire.
    One Dayser, slugging whiskey for courage, slid down the hill, where a very old and infirm Cheyenne squaw lay in a pool of her own blood.  As the drunken Dayser approached her, she cried out and struggled to her knees.  She backed away, pleading for mercy as the Dayser pulled his knife and cut her scalp away.  Screaming in agony, the old squaw fell as the Dayser turned and held the tuft of gray hair, much to the amusement of his cronies.  The old woman crawled several feet and then dropped in the dirt, the remainder of her bloody scalp flapping over her eyes.
    Soule and the boys of Company D watched the entire affair.  A young boy behind Soule bent over and vomited on his boots.
    “Jesus, Cap,” a corporal whispered, “this is the shits . . .”