One of the Indians tried to sneak up from the river, but Clayton shot him. For the rest of the day, the cattlemen and the Indians exchanged shots, though Clayton’s response was measured to preserve ammunition. They warned each other not to waste a bullet until they had a good, clear target.
The two were well-positioned, and for the first hour or so they were able to hold the Indians off, killing no fewer than four of them. Finally, the Indians quit trying to advance on them, but stood off and fired arrows from over a hundred yards away, launching them high into the air so they would rain down on the other side of the dunes.
Clayton was hit in the arm, and again in the side. Bowman pulled both of the arrows out.
“Damn,” Clayton said, grunting with pain. “Those things go in easier than they come out.”
“I know, but we can’t leave ’em in or they’ll start festerin’, and the next thing you know you’ll have gangrene,” Bowman said.
Bowman was bandaging Clayton’s arm when one Indian came over the top of the dune to claim coups. Clayton was lying on the ground, and even though his left arm was being bandaged he was holding his pistol in his right hand. When the Indian appeared over the top of the dune, Clayton raised his pistol and shot him at point-blank range. After that, no other Indian tried to breach their defense.
That night Clayton developed a fever. “I’m going to die,” he said.
“No you ain’t.”
“Yes, I am. I’m goin’ to die, so here’s what I want you to do. I want you to leave me here. It’s nighttime so I think you can get away.”
“I ain’t leavin’ you here by yourself.”
“Leave, damnit!” Clayton said. “Don’t you understand? You are our only chance. If you can get away, you can bring help back.”
Bowman thought for a moment, then he nodded his head. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go. But I’ll be back.” Bowman handed his rifle and a handful of .44-.40 cartridges to Clayton.
“You take my rifle and bullets, I’ll just keep my pistol.”
“All right, if they come after me, I’ll take out as many as I can before they get me,” Clayton said.
Even though it was relatively cool, Bowman stripped down to his underwear, thinking that if he stayed in the river he would be less likely to encounter an Indian. But shortly after he left, he encountered a mounted Indian riding down the middle of the river. He moved over to stay as close to the bank as he could.
Bowman stayed in the river, continuing downstream until daybreak. Then, cold and barefooted, he started south across the rocks, cactus, and sage.
“I think they are both dead,” Jumping Wolf said.
“I think they are not dead,” White Bull replied.
“I am going to see. If they are dead, I will count first coups.”
“I think we should wait until first light,” Running Elk said.
“I think Running Elk is a coward, afraid to see if the white men are dead,” Jumping Wolf said.
“I am not a coward, I am pragmatic,” Running Elk said, saying the word “pragmatic” in English. It was a word he learned in the white man’s school, and he thought it fit this situation perfectly.
“What is pragmatic?” Jumping Wolf asked. He had trouble pronouncing the word.
“It means I have good sense,” Running Elk replied.
“I think it means you are a coward,” Jumping Wolf said.
Running Elk stood and drew his knife. “I will show you who is a coward,” he said.
Jumping Wolf held out his hand. “I do not want to fight you now. Now I will claim coups on the white men. When I return, I will fight you.”
“You will not return,” Running Elk said.
Clayton was trying to stay awake but he kept dozing off. Each time he would doze off he would dream, and in one of his dreams he was talking to Diane, his six-year-old daughter. She was showing him the new dress her mother had made for her doll.
“That is a very nice dress,” Clayton said.
“It is the prettiest dress, so I put it on my favorite doll,” Diane said.
“Yes, I think that is the one I would put it on too.”
“You had better wake up now, Daddy, because there is an Indian coming.”
Clayton opened his eyes just in time to see an Indian kneeling over him, with his war club raised.
“Ahhh!” Clayton shouted, and, raising his pistol, he shot the Indian in the head. The Indian fell across him, dead.
It was a struggle to get out from under the Indian’s body, but he managed to do so, then he lay there, breathing hard, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.
He vowed not to go back to sleep.
Jumping Wolf did not come back. Running Elk, White Bull, and the others had heard the shot in the middle of the night, and because Jumping Wolf had carried only a war club with him, they suspected that he had been seen.
White Bull had left their encampment with Running Elk and eleven others. But in the time they had been here,
