“Yes, soldiers in front and in the back. A soldier chief rides alongside.”
“Perhaps we should let the wagons pass,” one of the others suggested.
“If you are a woman, too frightened to do battle, you may stay,” Walking Bear said. He beat his fist against his chest. “I will attack the soldiers and take what is in the wagons. Brave hearts will go with me, cowards will stay behind.”
The Indian who suggested that they should let the wagons pass was shamed by Walking Bear’s words and, to redeem himself, he rode to the front, then turned to face the other warriors. He held his rifle over his head.
“I, Little Hawk, will ride by the side of Walking Bear when we attack the soldiers!” he shouted.
The others let out a shout of defiance and held their rifles aloft as well.
Walking Bear nodded in appreciation, then turned and started riding behind the ridgeline, approaching the wagons and soldiers in a way that kept the warriors out of sight.
When he reached the end of the valley, he led them up to the top of the ridgeline. As he had planned, the wagons were now beyond so that, as the warriors came down the hill, they would be approaching the wagons from the rear.
Lifting his rifle to his shoulder, Walking Bear aimed at the soldier riding at the end. He fired, and the soldier tumbled from the saddle.
“Eeeeeyaahhh!” Walking Bear yelled, and the shout was picked up by the other warriors.
“Indians!” one of the soldiers called, his voice cracking with fear.
The wagon drivers urged their teams into a gallop, but the wagons were too heavily laden and Walking Bear and his warriors overtook them easily. Walking Bear divided his men into two columns, sending one to one side of the wagons and the other to the other side. Recognizing the leader of the soldiers by the stripes on his sleeves, Walking Bear shot him.
With their leader down, the remaining soldiers seemed unsure of what to do. Half of them slowed their horses and attempted to give battle, but the others galloped away, abandoning their fellow soldiers and the wagons.
Little Hawk, perhaps in a attempt to make up for his earlier hesitancy, rode up close enough to leap from his horse into one of the wagons. He killed the driver with his war club, then, even as he was holding up his hands, whooping in victory, was shot. He tumbled from the wagon and was run over by the wheels.
The second wagon driver was killed. Then the two remaining soldiers, realizing that they were now alone, tried to flee, but they were both run down and killed.
The Indians overtook the lumbering wagons and brought them to a halt.
Walking Bear beamed with pride over the tremendous success of his adventure. Behind him in the road lay seven dead soldiers, including the soldier leader and the two drivers. Only four of the soldiers had gotten away, and they had not even attempted to give battle. As for the losses Walking Bear suffered, Little Hawk was the only warrior killed.
“Get the food from the wagons,” Walking Bear said. “We will take it to the village of Red Eagle. Let us see him tell the people they cannot take food from us.”
Several of his warriors leaped up onto the wagons and rolled back the tarpaulin cover. Both wagons were filled with boxes and the Indians proceeded to break into the boxes.
“Iron!” one of the Indians said in exasperation when he saw that the box contained nothing but large pieces of blued iron. “Why would they put iron in boxes?”
“No food, Walking Bear,” one of the others said in disgust. “You said there would be food, but there is no food.”
Walking Bear stared at the boxes, nearly all of which had been opened now. There was white man’s writing on the outside of the boxes, but he was unable to read it.
STOVE, HEATING
DISASSEMBLED
“Aaaarggghh!” Walking Bear shouted in anger and frustration as he watched his triumph slip away from him.
A train sat on the tracks at the depot, its relief valve venting steam. A small white sign nailed to the railroad depot identified the town as Sorento, Wyoming Territory. The town was small, with a posted population of two hundred fifteen, but it was busy beyond its size because it was a railhead to which surrounding ranchers brought their cattle.
The air of the town was perfumed with the strong odor of the several hundred cows that were now waiting in feeder lots awaiting shipment.
Trent Williams dismounted in front of a small building that had a sign out front identifying it as the Indian agency. A small bell was attached to the door, and it rang as he opened it to step inside. The inside of the building was bare of any type of decoration, and consisted only of a waist-high counter that separated the entrance from the rest of the building.
Shortly after Williams stepped inside, a large man with muttonchops and chin whiskers came into the room. He was wearing a three-piece suit with a vest that was stretched by his girth.
“Yes, can I help you?” he asked.
“I’m looking for Mr. Abernathey. Colin Abernathy.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Abernathy isn’t here. His office is in Laramie. My name is Cephus Malone. May I help you?”
“I don’t understand. Isn’t Abernathy the purchasing agent for cattle to be used to supply the Indians?”
