eagle-feather warbonnet, with a slightly oblong shield attached at his left elbow. His pony shot out to halt in a spray of snow between the soldier lines and the fallen Cheyenne, where its rider leaped off, knelt, and immediately swept the wounded warrior into his arms. Rising, he laid his comrade across the pony’s withers, then leaped up behind the warrior and kicked the animal into motion.
At the crest of the hill other warriors stood cheering that act of bravery, raising their weapons and shields, bows and lances, raising their voices to the heavens above.
And down there at the timber, the soldiers went back to work. Some stood to aim at that retreating target. Others knelt, locking an elbow into the crook of a knee to steady their weapons. The rest plopped to their bellies in the frozen, icy snow, attempting to keep that front blade on a distant bobbing target.
Almost reaching the hillside … when the rescuer threw out his arms, his head pitching back as he twisted off the rear flank of the pony. The warrior he had rescued bounced along upon the horse’s withers for a few more yards before tumbling off as well, cartwheeling along a skiff of wind-crusted snow.
“Two of the bastards!” a corporal muttered with a grim satisfaction. “Two for the price of one, I’d say!”
“Their medicine was bad today,” Wheeler corrected. “That’s all it was. Just a bad day for their medicine.”
Then the lieutenant closed his eyes a moment.
And I pray mine will be stronger.
In that first hour of the battle the fighting had been hot and furious as the
But now that the sun had fully risen over that frozen valley to dispel the slinking mists from every last one of the cold places, dazzling the eyes with its painful brilliance reflecting off the snow, the battle was slowly becoming no more than a painful standoff.
The army had possession of the valley in a jagged line running from the twin buttes west of Mackenzie’s observation point on the north, across and through the village to the southwest, where the Pawnee and Shoshone were ensconced up the slopes and at the top of the high ridges where they could fire down on the enemy. Any Cheyenne now left behind that blue line lay dead in the village abandoned by all to the dogs. Out of the cold shadows slunk the wild-eyed curs, creeping so low their bellies nearly brushed the snow, ears back and noses wary as each one went to sniff the freezing horse carcasses, the motionless bodies of the Cheyenne who hadn’t broken from their lodges quickly enough.
A sniff, then a lick. Dead, yes. But not yet dead long enough to become carrion to these half-feral beasts.
On they loped, those wild dogs picking up the scent of the next odor. Then the next. And the next. The stench of death hung heavy over what had been their village.
Brave Wolf shivered. Not so much from cold as from fear. Down there in the village remained his sacred Thunder Bow. Last spring, when he had taken the vow of a Contrary, the bow had been blessed by the old shamans—never to be used in hunting, only in battle to protect the People. And it was never to go inside a lodge. So Brave Wolf always hung it outside his door, in the branches of a nearby tree. Where the Wolf People scouts now would find it, perhaps burn it when they destroyed the camp.
Worse yet: they would steal its magic from him!
Oh, how he felt hollow and cold, as if a shaft of frozen winter ice had been driven through the center of his chest. So sad, yet so afraid, he could not cry. At least not while they were fighting their way out of the west end of the village, each man scurrying from tree to tree, dodging from rock to rock, then working his way into the ravines and across the valley to the far side where he could huddle among the rocks on the northern slopes.
The soldiers were not all that lucky trying to pin down the warriors who used every cleft and shadow to their advantage in staying out of sight, where they could snipe at the
Below Brave Wolf some of the young men were talking excitedly, pointing, planning how they were going to sneak back in among the pony herd that was already captured—to steal it back from the soldiers and their Indian scouts. As he watched, the first two went to their bellies among the thick, leafless willow that stood taller than a man and crawled out of sight, like snakes making their creep upon an unwary prey.
“Help me, brother.”
Brave Wolf turned at the sudden address from a clump of brush, thinking he recognized the voice. “Is that you, Braided Locks?”
“Here is my hand, brother,” the wounded warrior said. “Pull me in there with you.”
As he dragged his friend by the arm, Brave Wolf could see all the blood smeared across Braided Locks’s belly. As the wounded warrior twisted over, he saw the exit wound in the small of the back.
“You are dying?” he asked, laying his friend in his lap.
Braided Locks rested his head upon Brave Wolf’s thigh, his eyes clenched in pain, his breath short and ragged until his breathing came easier. “No. No, I am not dying, brother. This hurts too much to be dying.”
“How long have you been shot?”
“It seems like all morning,” Braided Locks replied, finally opening his eyes in the shadows of those rocks at their shoulders. “I was in the deep ravine below, with the others when the soldiers on horses charged us. Some of us were near the top of the ravine and fought the soldiers there, close enough to see their eyes. Just as the others did farther down the ravine—toward the village. They too fought close enough to see the soldier eyes.”
“We lost many of our friends down there at the ravine.”
“I know,” Braided Locks said softly, his voice reverent with remembrance. “As I fought and fell, then crawled all the way up here to these rocks, the bullets struck around me so loud, I thought it was hailing. I thought I was crawling on bullets, there were so many.”
Brave Wolf shuddered looking at that dark, purple pucker of a bullet hole. “I have only this to put on your wounds,” he admitted, slashing two strips off the back of his long wool breechclot.
Braided Locks looked down at himself, regarded the bullet hole in his belly. “Thank you, brother. But it seems the cold is enough that I do not bleed anymore. See?”
He watched his friend’s eyes slowly close and immediately became more frightened. “Are you dying?”
The warrior wagged his head slowly. “No. I am … just so tired. Now that you are here with me … I want nothing more than to sleep for a little while.”
As it became painfully clear that his men were going to pay a hefty price for not sealing off the Cheyenne escape, Mackenzie sent First Lieutenant Henry W. Lawton across that dangerous no-man’s-land with another order for his dismounted units.
Across that snowy valley fell an eerie quiet, punctuated from time to time with a short burst of gunfire from both sides before the rifles and carbines fell silent once more. During the lull Mackenzie dismissed his orderly.
“I don’t need you for a while. Get some rest and some food.”
More tired than hungry, William Earl Smith led his horse back into the thick brush where a few other soldiers had hunkered down, tied off his horse, and made himself comfortable enough to doze in the cold shadows.
He awakened to find only one soldier still nearby. Smith inched over, figuring to nudge the man awake—but found the soldier dead, his mouth and eyes open. Shot through the head, right where he had been sitting. No more than an arm’s length from William Earl.
A cold drop slid down his spine as he leaped to his feet, nearly collapsing as one leg refused to move—frozen. Tingling with the pricks of renewed feeling, Smith rubbed it hurriedly, then dragged the reluctant leg along, back to the brush where he had tied his horse.
Mounting up, he led it down into the boggy ground, where he eventually reached the streambank. There he pulled off his boot and plunged his leg—britches, stocking, and all—into the icy water, figuring that was sure to end the sharp pains he was suffering. After a bit he struggled back into the saddle and, dripping wet, endeavored to report back to Mackenzie. He was weaving back and forth atop his McClellan, finding it difficult to keep the frozen leg in its stirrup when he spotted the rest of the orderlies ahead, signaling him from the high, rocky observation point.
“Smith! You’re wet! Where the hell have you been?” the colonel demanded as the private reached headquarters.
