“Once this journey is concluded, I will be able to correct certain theories about Indians never attacking at night,” Rupert said. “That’s what we were taught.”
“Injuns will attack whenever they feel their medicine is good,” Snake told the young officer. “I don’t know who started that crap about Injuns being afraid to fight at night. What many of them is afeared of is gettin’ kilt at night and not bein’ buried proper. If that happens, they believe they’ll wander forever, never findin’ peace, never seeing family or friends. The Injuns is a tad more superstitious than most whites. Although I have seen some mighty goosy white folks.”
The young officer leaned back on one elbow and smiled in the waning light. “Here we are, expecting an attack from the savages, and I am not afraid, not apprehensive—just enjoying the company of friends and savoring the taste of coffee after a good meal of camp stew. It’s…well, amazing!”
Blackjack smiled slowly at him. “Ain’t no point in worryin’ ’bout what might happen. You can’t change it no matter how much you roll it around in your head. You see, an Injun don’t worry about much. Or so they claim. Personally, I think an Injun worries pretty much about the same things me, Preacher, Steals Pony, and Snake do. Something to eat, a warm place to rest, a good horse, a good gun, a good woman.” He smiled. “Forget about the woman on Snake’s part. He’s too damn old to do much except remember.” Snake grunted, but he didn’t dispute it.
“On the other hand,” Blackjack continued, “You folks east of the Mississippi, hell, you worry ’bout all sorts of things. You worry about the rain and the wind and the heat and the cold—you worry ’bout all sorts of things that can’t none of you do a damn thing about. I don’t know why you fret your heads so much ’bout things you can’t change.”
Steals Pony had returned and was standing, listening to the men talk. He looked at Rupert. “You recall Blackjack saying, in his quaint way, about there being a time to worry?”
“Did I say that?” Blackjack asked.
“In a manner of speaking,” the Delaware replied.
“Yes,” Rupert said. “I do.”
“Now is the time,” Steals Pony said. “The Arapaho are about a half mile from the wagons. And they are painted for war.”
6
Steals Pony had not seen any Cheyenne or Kiowa with the bunch, and Preacher would have been surprised if he had seen any. This was mostly a band of young men led by a sub-chief called Broken Nose. Steals Pony said that Broken Nose was always leading young men off to fight.
“How many in this bunch?” Preacher asked.
“Forty perhaps. No more than fifty.”
“We’ll drive them off with the first volley,” Rupert said.
“Don’t count on it, son,” Snake told him. “When the Arapaho decides to fight, he’s a fighter. They might spend all night just creepin’ up on us, and be five feet away from us come the dawnin’. Then they’ll hit us. Don’t never underestimate an Injun. They’ll fool you ever’ time.”
“I should take you men back east with me so you could teach classes on frontier fighting.”
“They wouldn’t believe us, son,” Preacher said. “You didn’t, so why should they?”
“We ain’t got no fancy de-grees from universities,” Blackjack said.
“Let me inject this viewpoint here,” Steals Pony said. “I started to say that what we all lack in book knowledge and formal education, we probably more than make up for by possessing a deep well of basic common sense. But then I quite suddenly realized that any man who would voluntarily choose to spend his entire life, more often than not, alone, with no one to converse with except his horse, in the deep wilderness and towering, snowcapped mountains, with violent, sudden death all around him every day, sleeping on the ground instead of a bed, and wandering as aimlessly as the wind and as free as an eagle, really might not be as smart as he thinks he is.”
“Ain’t that purty?” Snake said. “That damn Delaware is a regular poet, by God.”
“Yeah,” Blackjack agreed. “Go on, Steals Pony. Say something else.”
“You really want me to?”
“Shore! That was plumb purty.”
“All right. How about this: here come the Arapaho.”
The first attack was only a feeler on the part of the Indians. A few arrows were hurled at the wagons and a few shots were fired at the attackers. Neither the arrows nor the lead balls hit anything of importance.
“Hold your fire until you’re sure of your targets!” Preacher shouted. “They’re just feelin’ us out, lookin’ for weak spots.”
Steals Pony retrieved several of the arrows and carefully inspected them. They appeared to be newly put together and were finely made, the arrowhead made of carefully worked bone. He knew the glue that helped hold the feathers to the shaft was made of a mixture of buffalo hooves and hide, the strings from a bull buffalo’s sinew.
“What’s wrong?” Preacher asked in a hoarse whisper, after watching Steals Pony for a few seconds.
“The arrows are new,” the Delaware said.
“All of them?” Blackjack entered the conversation.
“All of them.”
“We’re in trouble.” Snake added his voice. “Them arrows more than likely mean they’ve planned and prepared for this. I got me a hunch Bedell and what’s left of his bunch came through here and stirred ’em up. Maybe by ambushin’ a small band of ’em. Kilt women and kids, probably. Damn trash.”
“Broken Nose!” Preacher shouted from his position. “Why are you attackin’ us? We ain’t done you or your people no wrong.”
But only the silence of early night greeted Preacher’s question. And that told Preacher and the other mountain men a great deal.
“Why won’t he reply?” Eudora asked.
“Because they’re close and that would give away their positions. Them firin’ the arrows is back a good ways. We got Injuns layin’ out yonder not more than twenty feet from the wagons. They’ll lay still as a rock for hours. I don’t think they’re gonna give up this fight as easy as I first thought. They’re mad about something.”
Those Arapaho who were laying back some distance from the wagons began shouting taunts at the pioneers. But since only the mountain men spoke in their tongue, the shouted insults and taunts were incomprehensible to the women. But they still got the message.
Steals Pony grunted as one particularly offensive insult was hurled directly at him.
“Wagh!” Blackjack said. “That there was right personal, Steals Pony.”
Blackjack raised his voice and told Broken Nose that before this was over, the Arapaho was going to find his tongue cut off and shoved up into a place that was located very near where Broken Nose surely kept his brains.
Broken Nose screamed his outrage at that.
“What did Steals Pony say to make that savage so angry?” Eudora asked.
Preacher told the women close to him.
“My word!” Faith exclaimed.
The Arapaho laying back then really started shouting the insults, filling the air with obscenities.
“They’re gettin’ ready to charge,” Preacher said. “That hollerin’ will cover any slight sound the attackers will make. Get ready. Pass the word.”
The faint sound of weapons being cocked was heard all around the wagons. Preacher had his rifles propped up against a wagon wheel; his hands were filled with his multi-shot pistols; half of the barrels were double-shot. He knew that the first wave would come in fast and close, and probably several, or more, would get inside the protective circle of wagons. And he wanted all the firepower he had for this first, close-up charge. Since there was practically no chance of an attack from the rear, due to the bluffs, Preacher had assigned only a few of the women to guard the rear. “Hold your fire until you’re sure you can put one down,” Preacher told the women. “They’re gonna be real close—close enough to smell the wood smoke on ’em—so don’t panic. They’re countin’ on you ladies to panic. Let’s give ’em hell, gals.”