surrendered and were screaming for mercy. Following their example, the other members of the militia went on a bloodlust rampage of their own, killing all the wounded they could find before mutilating and scalping the dead, including pregnant women, children and babies. They also started plundering the tipis that had not yet been burned, dividing up the spoils.
As soon as the shooting started, Running Elk ran outside the tipi, and seeing quickly what was happening, he called out in English.
“Wait! Wait! You are making a mistake! These people are innocent! I am the one you want! I was with Mean to His Horses!”
Despite the fact that he was calling attention to himself, Running Elk was not hit, even though the bullets were whistling all around him. But though he was spared, he saw his mother, father, and young sister killed, along with dozens of other villagers.
Running Elk had come out without a weapon, hoping that by doing so he could surrender, and spare the other villagers. Now he realized that his plan would not work, and he started back into the tipi to get his rifle when he saw Quiet Stream go down.
“No!” he shouted, and, forgetting about his weapon, he ran to her.
“Quiet Stream!” he shouted, kneeling beside her. She had been hit by at least three bullets, and there was blood from her shoulders to her waist. “Quiet Stream!” he said again, softer this time, but his voice racked by the agony and anger he was feeling.
“I will never have your children,” Quiet Stream said. She gasped a couple of times, then she quit breathing.
Running Elk looked around him, and seeing a war club in the hands of a nearby dead warrior, he grabbed the club then turned to look toward the white men who had come into the village on their killing spree.
“Ahheee!” he yelled as he ran toward one of the invaders. Reaching up, he pulled the white man from his saddle, and crushed his skull with one blow of the heavy war club.
Running Elk leaped into the empty saddle then, and with his war club held high, urged the horse in pursuit of another of the invaders. One blow brought down another invader, and another as well. So far Running Elk had managed to kill three men, and was sending panic through the others.
“Kill that Indian!” Bellefontaine shouted, pointing toward Running Elk. “One hundred dollars to the man who kills him!”
At least five men turned their guns toward Running Elk, and all five fired as one. Though Bellefontaine didn’t know if all five rounds struck Running Elk, it didn’t matter, because he saw blood, bone, and brain detritus erupt from the Indian’s head, and he knew that the wild warrior was dead.
With Running Elk lying dead on the ground, the shooting stopped. For a long moment the mounted white men fought to control their nervous prancing and whinnying horses as they looked around the village, now fairly well lit by the burning tipis. Everywhere they looked they saw dead bodies, bodies of the warriors, bodies of the old men, including High Hawk whom many recognized, as well as bodies of women and children. High Hawk was wrapped in the American flag, perhaps believing that would save him.
Now, with their last resistance eliminated, Bellefontaine’s men began to systematically scalp and mutilate the dead.
“Hey!” Lee Regret shouted, holding a small, black tuft of hair over his head. “Ha! Look what I got!”
“Damn, Regret, what the hell are you screamin’ about? That’s the scrawniest scalp I’ve ever seen,” Davis said.
“That’s ’cause it ain’t a scalp,” Regret said, a broad, evil smile spreading across his face.
“Well, if it ain’t a scalp, what is it?”
Regret pointed toward Quiet Stream’s now-naked body. There was nothing but blood at the junction of her legs.
“It come from the other end,” Regret said, with a high-pitched laugh.
Examining Quiet Stream’s body, Davis saw what Regret was talking about. He had made a scalp of her pubic hair.
When the attack was over, as many as 150 Indians lay dead, most of whom were old men, women and children. In the meantime, Bellefontaine lost only four men, three of whom had been killed by Running Elk.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Back on the island the next morning, the Indians renewed hostilities. Again, Mean to His Horses sent his men in attacks against Falcon, Coletrain, and the Buffalo soldiers who were defending the island. And again the attack resulted in high cost to the Indians, this time inflicting no additional casualties among the soldiers.
Then, at mid-morning, Mean to His Horses tried a new tactic. He had two of his men bring forth a captive, and they stood just on the bank of the river so the captive could be seen. The captive was clearly a white man, a soldier, because he was in uniform.
“What the hell?” Coletrain said. “What is he doing there?”
“Do you know him?” Falcon asked.
“Yes, sir, I know him. That’s Sergeant Depro. But he is supposed to be back at Fort Keogh. I have no idea what he is doing here.”
“Buffalo Soldiers!” Mean to His Horses shouted across the water. “Leave your guns and go away. I will let you live and I will send the white-eye soldier with you. If you do not leave your guns and go away, I will kill the white- eye soldier, and his death will not be swift.”
“Depro!” Coletrain shouted. “Depro, what are you doing there?”
“Coletrain! Sergeant Coletrain, is that you? Don’t let me die, Coletrain! Me an’ you is friends, ain’t we? We
