They would wait until an hour before dawn to position themselves, thus giving each warrior ample time to smoke and recite prayers, prepare his accoutrements of battle, and sing his death song.
Whether these decisions might have altered the outcome could never be known, but one thing was certain: no warrior heard the shot, fired in the early hours of morning, that woke the entire population residing at Adobe Walls.
The manager had retired earlier than usual to ensure he would be wide awake at the precise time everyone else would be steeped in slumber. The round had come from his own pistol, which he reholstered immediately after firing. To the sleeping, disoriented hunters inquiring what was the matter, the manager explained that the sound had come from the prime supporting beam that spanned the 'hotel' in which they were now standing.
Fearful of the roof's possible failure, the hunters compliantly set to work shoring up the beam under the manager's careful direction. Toward dawn, as the useless task neared completion, a number of workers, including the men who had been camped outside, returned to their beds, but, to the manager's satisfaction, the majority either continued to tinker with the refurbishments or loiter over coffee, watching and commenting on the labors of their fellows. He had hoped the men from the wagon would stay but felt no culpability when he saw them pass out into the dark. He had encouraged them to stay, and so, he decided, they were making their own funerals by disregarding his advice.
Shortly after the morning sun cleared the horizon, a strange sound, like that of a distant roaring crowd, momentarily froze all human activity at Adobe Walls. Seconds later all eyes had flown to any crack or crevice that afforded a view of the outside. What greeted them was a spectacle so incredible that it squeezed the breath from their lungs.
A sea of mounted warriors was streaming in their direction, surging down a long gentle slope several hundred yards away in a movement so massive as to resemble the graceful, inexorable sweep of an ocean wave. So stunning was the image that at first sight the men inside Adobe Walls could not understand what their own connection to the rushing tide of warriors might be. Time stopped as their brains tumbled incredulously, trying to make sense of the unbelievable message from their eyes.
But when time moved again, barely a split second later, the watchers reacted with a mechanical swiftness. They could not dread or even fear what was bearing down upon them. They only had time to reach for the most obvious instruments of deliverance from certain death. In a mad, strangely silent scramble, each man jumped for the salvation that dwelt in the long barrel of his buffalo gun.
Kicking Bird was charging down the slope at the crest of the human wave, the long, feathered lance he had chosen for the close-in fighting around the wagon leveled against his hip. He pressed a knee against his pony's shoulder and, without breaking stride, the little horse swerved in the direction of the wagon. The metal ribbing bent over its top was only half-covered and, as he closed on the vehicle, Kicking Bird could see the forms of the enemy stirring beneath and above the wagon bed.
Over the last yards of his rush, time began to slow and, picking out a single foe, Kicking Bird raised his lance. A second later the air in front of him was obscured with white smoke and his ears rang painfully as a volley of concentrated fire coming from the wagon seemed to blow it apart.
Most animals might have jumped or twisted away but the pony Kicking Bird rode in war had never been headed. The pony shivered momentarily as the concussive shock buffeted his face and neck and chest. But he never strayed from his course, and an instant later, almost at full speed, he crashed against the wagon. Then Kicking Bird felt his lance point penetrate the soft flesh of a man's body as his own lifted into space. The moment he collided with the earth he was shot in the face from a range of inches.
The pistol slug tore off one of his earlobes, but, like his war pony, Kicking Bird was so used to the primal intensity of battle that he was unfazed and, before the white man could fire another round, his gun hand was in the grip of his attacker's. A split second later Kicking Bird's sharply honed knife drove into the hunter,s midsection and ripped upward, opening his belly. As the enemy jerked spasmodically, Kicking Bird mounted his chest, grabbed a hank of long hair, pulled his head off the ground, sliced into the skin at his hairline, and tore off his scalp.
He tucked the bloody hair in his belt as he scrambled from under the wagon and dashed for his pony, which, though pirouetting with excitement at the steady boom of the big buffalo guns being fired from inside Adobe Walls, was waiting obediently. Kicking Bird caught him, swung onto his back, and galloped on into the furious fight ahead.
Mounted warriors were circling the settlement like living rope, trying to draw fire away from the masses of warriors who were clamoring about the doors of the two main buildings. Kicking Bird galloped from one building front to the other and found the same situation at each. Though they were lunging in against the big doors with all their might, the warriors could not break through and the big guns were bringing people down.
Two enterprising warriors, having found a way to separate the tongue from the wagon Kicking Bird had attacked, rode into the melee dragging it behind them. Grabbing it up as a battering ram, the frantic warriors began to hurl it against the door but by now the whites inside had found good holes to shoot through and men in front of the entrance began to fall.
Kicking Bird glanced over his shoulder and saw that some of those among the ranks of the circling riders were falling, too. Men were lying dead or wounded on the ground and riders were breaking off in pairs to perform the sacred duty of carrying their brothers off the battlefield.
When Kicking Bird saw one of these saviors shot from his horse, only to tumble onto the man he was endeavoring to rescue, he knew he must call for a retreat. with an eagle bone whistle between his lips, he desperately signaled his men, and after a few minutes of charging within earshot of every fighter, he managed to effect a pullback.
Once the withdrawal was under way, Kicking Bird kicked his heaving pony back up the long slope to the attackers, original staging area, where many of the dead and wounded were being gathered. Pausing beyond the shade of the only tree in the area, Kicking Bird tried to tally his dead as other warriors rode in and stood beside him. But when he had counted to twenty he stopped: There were too many more to count, maybe three times as many.
'We can burn those houses,' White Bear signed.
'No fire,' pronounced Owl Prophet.
He was sitting on his pony with arms folded across his chest, and the sight of him piqued Kicking Bird's ire. He pushed his pony roughly through the men immediately around and sidled next to Owl Prophet.
'Your power is false,' he snapped.
'My power comes from the Mystery!' Owl Prophet snapped back.
'Look at our dead,' Kicking Bird shouted. 'Who will take their places? You said we would kill all the white men. We have four scalps.'
'Some Cheyenne killed a skunk,' the prophet retorted. 'I heard it.”
'Your power is useless,” Kicking Bird roared. 'You are useless. You should be thrown away!'
He was about to strike Owl Prophet with his quirt when one of the big guns far below boomed, and at the same instant Kicking Bird saw the smoke he heard a slug's distinctive whistle rend the air.
The bullet struck a nearby tree and the lead ricocheted into Owl Prophet's chest, the force of it sending him tumbling straight over his pony's hindquarters. What would have been a killing shot, at a shorter distance merely stunned the prophet. He lay on his back for a moment, then pulled himself to a sitting position and groggily gained his feet.
Everyone was thunderstruck. Agitated warriors milled around their leader and Touch The Clouds said the words everyone was thinking.
'The hunters have a rifle that can shoot around object!'
Touch The Clouds had barely made the words when another gun boomed and the prophet's pony sank onto its knees with a hole in its forehead.
'No rifle shoots that far,' White Bear cried. 'Maybe they have a gun that can shoot from yesterday.'
But the words were seen by only a few because Kicking Bird and the others were already moving away.
The great war party did not survive much longer only long enough to put its dead to rest. Then it splintered into large, tribe-oriented groups and broke apart, its stupefied members spreading across the open prairie in all directions.
Some still possessed enough fight to drive east for the outlying settlements, where they wreaked havoc for several weeks. Others headed west and north, searching out pockets of remaining buffalo. Kicking Bird, leading a
