“Bowman is safe,” Falcon said. “He is the one who found us.”
“Good for him,” Clayton said. He looked at Falcon. “I don’t reckon I know you. Who are you?”
“The name is MacCallister. Falcon MacCallister.”
“Damn! I’ve heard of you,” Clayton said. Despite his wounds, he was able to muster a chuckle. “I reckon if I can’t get the United States Cavalry out here to rescue me, gettin’ Buffalo Bill Cody and Falcon MacCallister would be the next best thing. Maybe even better.”
“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Falcon said, easing up to the top of the dune where Clayton had taken shelter. Looking out across an open area, he saw a line of Indians, and he counted eight.
“I see eight,” Falcon said. “How many are there?”
“I expect that’s about all that’s left,” Clayton said. He wriggled up the dune so he could peer over it with Falcon, then he pointed. Do you see that fella there? The one wearing the buffalo horns?”
“I see him.”
“I don’t know his name, but he seems to be the leader of them. But now, here’s the funny thing. He and one of the others are dressed like Crow. This here fella is Shoshone.” He pointed to the Indian who had tried to sneak up on him last night. “And I know that some of ’em are Cheyenne. What are the Crow and Shoshone doin’ fightin’ with Cheyenne? And agin’ us? I thought we was friendly with the Crow and the Shoshone.”
“It is a curious thing,” Falcon said. He cocked his rifle and aimed it at the Indian who was wearing the buffalo horns.
“You can’t hit him from here,” Clayton said. “And that Injun knows it. He’s been struttin’ back and forth out there all day, just rubbin’ it in that he’s out of range.”
Falcon’s answer was to squeeze the trigger of his rifle. The rifle boomed and the recoil kicked his shoulder back. The Indian stiffened, then one arm went up as he fell from his horse. The rest of the Indians, seeing their leader fall, turned and galloped back into the trees.
“Damn!” Clayton said in admiration. “That was one hell of a shot.”
“Let’s get you home,” Falcon said.
When the other Indians fled, Running Elk waited. He watched as the white men left, seeing that one of the horses was carrying two men. He was sure there had only been two men when the battle started. Someone else must have joined them during the night. That meant that there had never been more than three men against them. Three white men against thirteen Indians, yet the white men had prevailed. This was not a good sign.
When Running Elk was certain the three white men were well gone, he went out to check on White Bull. As he expected, White Bull was dead. Running Bull constructed a travois, then put White Bull’s body on it. He was taking his childhood friend and recent rival home.
Running Elk traveled for the rest of the day, then camped out that night. It seemed strange, lying on the ground sleeping beside White Bull’s body. Once, when they were children, they watched as an old man of the tribe was dressed in his finest clothes, then elevated onto a burial platform.
“Where do you think he is now?” Running Elk asked.
“He is in the great beyond, where hunting is always good and there is always feasting,” White Bull had replied.
Running Elk had always found the Happy Hunting Ground to be a comforting thought for those who died. But, when he went to the white man’s school, he was told there was no such thing as a Happy Hunting Ground. He was told that only if one followed the white man’s Jesus, could one be saved, though he never quite understood what it meant to be saved.
When Running Elk rode into the Crow Village the next day many came to see who was being pulled behind him on the travois. White Bull’s mother saw him, and began weeping, as did his sister and even Quiet Stream.
“Were you with Mean to His Horses?” High Hawk asked.
“No,” Running Elk replied. “Mean to His Horses would not take us with him. So White Bull led a raiding party, and was killed.”
When he saw White Bull’s mother put her hand on White Bull’s face, he wanted to comfort her.
“White Bull died very bravely,” he said.
Brown Cow Woman shook her head as she continued to weep. “I do not care that he died bravely,” she said. “I did not want him to go. I feared when he left that this would happen.”
“Are you going back to join Mean to His Horses?” Quiet Stream asked. “Did you come back, only to return White Bull’s body?”
“I am not going back,” Running Elk said. “I was wrong to leave. I will stay here, with my people, in peace.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Major Frederic Benteen held up his arm to signal a halt. “Battalion!” he called.
“Troop!” the troop commanders sang out, issuing their supplementary commands.
“Halt!”
The battalion, riding in columns of twos, came to a halt.
“Dismount! Trumpeter, sound Officers’ Call and First Sergeant’s call.”
