Nearby stood some war ponies Cheyenne warriors always staked in camp. Black Kettle frantically tried to lift his woman onto a pony but found he didn’t have the strength left in his cold, tired bones. He crawled atop the nervous, mule-eyed animal, grasping its mane in one hand. The other he extended for his wife to grab, and held stiff his naked foot for her to use as a step. Together they struggled to get her seated in front of him on the prancing, skittish pony, frightened by the shrill noise and gunfire, made madder yet by the smell of gunpowder and fresh blood.
Ahead of them dashed a ragged line of troopers heading east toward the edge of camp and the horse herd— some of Major Elliott’s men charging toward the open plain.
There seemed little choice for the Cheyenne chief. Simply a matter of running the gauntlet to cross the river. From there to race south for those Arapaho, Kiowa, and Cheyenne camps downstream.
“Be of strong heart, woman!”
Her only reply was the squeeze she gave his old hand.
“I am with you always, old woman!”
A simple matter for the old man to jab the little pony in its ribs, driving the overburdened mustang toward the icy river. Crashing straight through the shredded line of confused, blue-shirted troopers.
“Holy—”
“What the hell?”
“Look out!”
“There goes one … behind you, Kennedy!”
Black Kettle found himself near the crossing at the bank of the Washita. Several soldiers wheeled with a jangle of saddle gear, training their carbines on the old Cheyenne’s wide back. They did not notice the old woman nestled within the arms of the chief like a tick clinging for life itself.
They fired a ragged volley.
Black Kettle stiffened as the hot lead tore deep into his body, piercing both lungs and shredding his abdomen. Shuddering with the first throes of death, he clutched both arms around Medicine Woman Later.
A second wild volley crashed into the old warrior’s body. For winters without count the heart of the grizzly had beat in his chest. Yet it was not enough against the soldiers’ carbines.
A third volley riddled the little pony. In a death spasm the animal stumbled, lunged valiantly, pitched the old couple to the edge of the icy river. Black Kettle was dead before he hit the water.
Like angry hornets the soldiers’ bullets buzzed and stung. It was nothing short of miraculous that Medicine Woman Later found herself alive. Though bleeding from several wounds, she struggled to her hands and knees, crabbing across the rocky bottom of the stream. Her husband was dead. She must plunge into the river alone, without him for the first time in more years than she could remember. But before she could turn, red blossomed across her chest and belly, the side of her face. Numbing impact drove her backward several stumbling steps. Through the water grown red around her, Medicine Woman Later dragged herself a yard at a time, back to Black Kettle’s side. She collapsed, breathless, unable to crawl any farther. She reached out with the one good arm left her, and clutched his hand in hers.
She moved no more.
“C’mon, boys! Here goes for a brevet or a coffin!” Major Elliott hollered enthusiastically to the squad of soldiers close on his heels.
Elliott’s troopers leapt their horses over the bloodied old chief, galloping southeast from the village along the Washita’s course, chasing a band of Indians scattering on foot. None of those soldiers or their commanding officer realized they had just killed the peacemaking chief of the Southern Cheyenne. Few would have thought it mattered much at all.
In less than a hundred yards Elliott watched the fleeing Cheyenne break into two groups. To the left scampered older women and men, along with young children. To the right darted the warriors and fleet-footed young women. They turned to taunt the soldiers, urging them in the chase, as a sage hen lures the coyote away from her young.
“Simmons! Take a squad with you—there! Follow that group!” Elliott pointed toward the old ones. “Kennedy! You and the rest, follow me!”
The major whirled his horse, kicking up the untrammeled snow as they tore after the Cheyenne disappearing around the brow of a hill.
“We’ll rout them, Major!” Kennedy shouted. “Like the cowardly Johnnies they are!”
Around the hill, through the trees and brush. One young woman stumbled and fell. Elliott saw her disappear in the snowy bramble, watching a trooper rein up to capture her. The major galloped on, accompanied by sixteen troopers who followed him across the deep gash of a dry wash. They were gaining on the warriors, who scurried this way and that through the trees like rabbits.
“Sunuvabitch! Where’d all them come from?”
Elliott reined up so savagely his mount went down in the snow. Kennedy and the others clattered up, crashing into one another, pitching two men from their horses. The men cursed. They were surrounded by more Indians than any of them had ever seen in his short life. And in this last heartbeat, the Indians had turned the winning card.
“Back, goddammit!” Elliott ordered. “Retreat!”
Bouncing against one another, the troopers started a ragged dash, reining up as soon as they had started. The neck through which they had galloped into the meadow closed up. A hundred warriors or more plugged all hope for escape.
“Dismount!” Elliott was already on the ground. “Skirmish formation, dammit! Pull your ammunition off—let the horses go! They’ll do us no good now.”
“Sir!”
It was his sergeant major. Gripping the bridle of Elliott’s horse.
“Yes, Kennedy! You’ll ride. If any man can make it—” Elliott laughed almost cheerfully. “I know you can!”
The troopers freed their horses now, squatting in the tall, frozen grass, taking their positions in a circle, guarding each other’s backside. Elliott shook Kennedy’s hand quickly, shoving him aboard his horse. The major slapped its flank, sending it on its way up the side of a snowy, tree-lined hill where two dozen warriors raced to head the pony soldier off.
“Ride, you sunuvabitch!” Elliott cried, fighting back the tears. “Ride!”
CHAPTER 8
LIEUTENANT Edward S. Godfrey had crossed the Washita with Custer at daybreak, leading his K Company into the village. His orders dictated that he not stop for any reason. His men were to drive on through the hostile camp and capture the enemy’s most prized possessions—their herd.
Less than a mile from the village, where Custer’s scouts supposed they would be, Godfrey located the ponies scattered among the frosty meadows. After he had detailed a platoon to drive the herd toward the village, Godfrey loped to the top of a hill overlooking the timbered countryside. From there he saw a handful of escaping Cheyenne scampering across the north side of the valley.
“Damn!” he muttered. “Must be a trail of some kind after the bastards ford the river.”
Godfrey raced off the hill, gathering his command to pursue the fleeing Cheyenne. In the growing light of day Godfrey located the shallow river crossing. Without slowing he plunged his force across the Washita and up the icy
