Ride the Moon Down

“Return to the others,” Whistler commanded. “And tell them to follow the trail carefully until they have found where the enemy will camp tonight. We will continue on your trail into the time of darkness. Only when our enemies have stopped for the night are you to return to us.”

Whistler’s scouts found the Blackfoot on that broad plain just north of the Sun River.

As the dimming orb continued its descent toward the horizon, the Crow war party crossed the frozen river, then cut sharply west toward the uneven rim of bare hills that bordered the narrow valley, following the young men who had raced along the backtrail to bring up the rest. As predicted, by late afternoon Bass and the others neared the crest of those hills with their weary ponies, hearing the faint, distant boom of the enemy’s guns.

“It is a good thing my brother realized how important it would be to have good trade with the white man,” Whistler huffed as they neared the brow of the hill on foot, having left their horses below with the others.

“Powder and lead,” Bass agreed. “To fight your enemies.”

“And guns!” the warrior cried in a sharp whisper as he went to his belly. “He-Who-Is-Not-Here decided long ago that we needed to be friends with the white man because we needed the white man’s guns.”

Dropping to his belly in the snow, Scratch inched to the brow of the barren hill and peered over. As the reports of the large-bored muzzle loaders echoed from the surrounding slopes, the scene below opened itself before them.

“That is not a village on the move,” Whistler declared quietly, his breathsmoke a thin stream of gray against the deep-hued blue of the winter sky that outlined the handful that had crabbed to the hilltop to join the white man.

“No, these are hunters,” said Pretty On Top. “Men. Warriors. And they are delivered into our hands!”

“But there are some women,” Bass warned.

On the far side of him Strikes-in-Camp scoffed, “Is this the warning of a woman who is afraid of the fight to come?”

“Take care that your father does not mourn your death in battle before the sun falls from this sky,” Scratch growled.

Strikes-in-Camp chuckled, saying, “I will be an old, old man before I will ever heed the woman words of the white man!”

“You will hold your tongue!” Whistler snapped. “And you will obey me as the leader of this war party, if you will not obey me as your father.”

“Perhaps the white man is afraid we will learn he is too afraid to fight the enemy—”

Whistler interrupted his son. “No more of your angry, foolish talk about my friend, Pote Anil Time and again he has proved himself a friend to our people, a friend to He-Who-Has-Died, and a friend to our family. I will not have you insult him.”

For a long moment Strikes-in-Camp was silent, un-moving; then he rolled onto his hip and slid away from the rest, hurrying downhill to rejoin those who waited with the horses.

“Forgive my son and his words,” Whistler begged as he peered at the Blackfoot below him.

“You are a good man, Whistler,” Titus told him. “I would not be near so patient as you.”

The older warrior chewed his bottom lip in contemplation, then confessed, “I feel it is my fault Strikes-in- Camp has become the man he is.”

“He is a man,” Bass reminded. “He cannot blame who or what he is on you. And neither should you. Your son’s sins will not fall upon his father’s lodge—”

“More are coming!” Pretty On Top announced, pointing across the snowy bowl.

Instantly they turned, the distant figures magnetizing their attention. On the far hillside a short string of horses and some twenty people started down at an angle, the figures stark across the brilliant snow shimmering with a golden hue as the sun continued its fall.

Wheeling to gaze at the west, Bass ripped off both blanket mittens, laid the edge of one hand along the horizon, then set the other on top of it. The sun was racing toward its rest.

They didn’t have long.

“If we are to fight these people,” Scratch said, yanking on the mittens in the severe cold as a gust of wind slashed over the bare brow of that hill, “we must do it soon.”

“Yes. For if any escape our slaughter,” Whistler agreed, “we might not find them in the dark.”

Real Bird asked, “How will you attack?”

The warrior considered that for some time, then pointed. “They have come from the north, looking for these buffalo. Their village must lie in that direction because we have not come upon it. So half of us will ride around to those hills and cut off their escape.”

“I will lead those men,” Pretty On Top volunteered.

“No. The white man will lead,” Whistler deferred. “But I want you to ride at the right hand of Pote Ani.”

The young warrior smiled, his eyes flashing at the white man. “This is good. After all these winters … we go into battle together.”

“And you will lead the rest?” Titus asked Whistler.

“Yes. We will wait until you have reached the far side of those hills across the valley.”

Bass nodded. “We must hurry to be in position.”

“Then I will bring the rest with me, riding through that saddle, and sweep down on the enemy.”

With a smile Scratch said, “Driving them right into our trap.”

“I see the fear in their eyes already!” Pretty On Top exulted.

“I can smell how they have soiled themselves in fear!” Whistler echoed.

“No more dried meat for us,” Windy Boy cheered youthfully. “Not only has the First Maker delivered this enemy into our hands to revenge the death of He-Who-Is-No-Longer, but tonight we can end our diet of cold meat.”

“Pretty On Top,” Bass said, tapping the young warrior on the shoulder, “it’s time to set our trap.”

Back among the others and the horses, Whistler and Turns Plenty divided the warriors, being sure there were proven veterans and newcomers to war in both groups.

“We will do our best to be in position before you ride down on the Blackfoot,” Bass assured Whistler as his warriors were mounting up behind him. “We don’t have much light left in the day.”

“Defend yourself, Pote Ani,” Whistler pleaded before he turned away to his group. “Both of us must return to our wives.”

Titus reached out and grabbed the warrior’s arm. “Know that in my heart, I am married to your daughter.”

“I don’t claim to know all what lies in a white man’s heart … but I believe that you truly love my daughter —”

“All you have to do is tell me what you want of me, how I am to marry her—I’ll do it.”

Whistler smiled. “I know. But for now, we have some Blackfoot to kill. We’ll talk again of this marriage upon our victorious homecoming.”

Backtracking to the south for about two miles, Bass was able to lead his band north again behind the range of low hills until he struck that trampled trail the enemy had taken through the snow to climb over the heights and drop into the valley where the Blackfoot had encountered the buffalo herd. From time to time the boom of distant guns echoed from beyond the heights. Minutes later as the sun was easing down upon the crowns of the western hills, they heard a massive volley of shots.

“That isn’t a buffalo shoot!” Bass roared, kicking his thick winter moccasins into the ribs of the pony with the spotted rump.

“Time to take scalps!” Bear Ground bellowed, leaping away with Pretty On Top.

Like water bursting through a beaver dam, some two dozen of them had their weary ponies lunging up that last slope, reaching the top to look below. On the western side of the valley Whistler and Turns Plenty were leading the others in a mad gallop that was just reaching the valley floor where the Blackfoot hunters had been engaged in shooting the snowbound buffalo while others, mostly women, were at work on the outskirts of the herd, skinning and butchering in tiny, trampled circles of crimson snow.

Enemy horsemen were mounting up, charging toward the onrushing Crow to throw a buffer between them and the women as those figures on foot hurtled themselves around and lunged away with their horses dragging