“What do you suppose they’re about?” Merritt wondered.
“Them,” Cody said gravely.
Every man on that hill now trained his glasses to the southwest. A pair of riders broke into view, riding well ahead of the bow-topped wagons.
“Couriers?” Carr asked.
“I’d bet money on it,” Cody said. “General, Colonel … appears that Hall is sending you word he’s coming in.”
“But those two don’t realize they’re about to get chopped up!” King said. “That band of warriors is going to butcher those couriers before they even know what surprise the rest of the red bastards have in store for the train.”
“Dear Lord—those men are riding to their death,” Merritt muttered.
“Look, General!” Cody said. “There—see that ravine where that war party is riding?”
“Yes.”
“Down there—see—where the ravine’s mouth opens onto the road,” Cody said confidently. “That’s where they’ll likely jump those couriers.”
“I can’t allow that to happen,” Merritt grumbled.
Carr wagged his head and said, “But if we fire on them now, we’ll scare off the rest of the warriors before we can engage them.”
“By Jove, General,” Cody cheered as he got to his feet, dusting off the resplendent braided vaquero costume he wore that day. “Now’s our chance. We can ride out and cut those red hellions off!”
“Yes!” Merritt rose, gripping Cody’s arm. “It’s up to you, Cody. Cut them off!”
The scout turned on his heel and sprinted downslope as Merritt whirled on King, gripping the lieutenant’s arm. “Stay here, Mr. King. It’s your calclass="underline" watch till that war party is close under you—then give the word! The rest of you come down, every other man of you.”
“Yes … sir!” King saluted and watched the others start their hurried race down the slope to their mounts.
Again the hair on the back of his sunburned neck prickled with anticipation. Two hundred yards behind him to the north he watched as the first of the six companies of mounted troopers moved into line and halted—brought up by their company commanders as soon as Private Madsen had carried word to camp: Indians had been spotted. Now the Fighting Fifth was fronting out in a thin blue line against the green and brown of those rolling hills, horses colored by troops, carbines glittering with a dull blue sheen in that first light of day.
King’s heart was thundering now, and his mouth had gone dry. He tried licking his lips with a pasty tongue as he turned back to the south. In the distance a hundred lances stood out against the summer sky, feathers and scalp locks fluttering on the renewed breeze. The horsemen watched their own ride on down that ravine, ready to cut off the two unsuspecting couriers.
Again Charles glanced over his shoulder. Cody, White, the half-breed Tait, and a half-dozen men from his own Company K waited in the saddle atop anxious animals— tightening gunbelts, straightening clothing, tugging hats down on their brows. All of them with their eyes trained intently on King above them on the hill. Halfway down the slope Merritt, Carr, and their aides waited out of sight.
King was the only man left at the top now that the enemy was drawing dangerously near. Stretched out flat on his belly, he swallowed hard, wishing he had brought his canteen along. Instantly knowing there was no amount of water that would ever wet a man’s mouth when it had gone dry with the anticipation of battle.
He could not give the word too soon, or the warriors would escape. And he could not wait too long—the couriers would be swallowed up before rescue could race round the hill.
Now he could hear the hoofbeats. Or was it the pounding of his heart? No, it was the hoofbeats of those war ponies.
No longer did he need his field glasses to watch the oncoming collision. Everything seemed to loom closer and closer, ever closer.
He turned and flung his voice downhill. “All ready, General?”
Merritt answered, “All ready, King. Give the word when you like.”
That thunder had to be his heart.
No, it was the hammering of those hooves as the warriors reached the last hundred yards of ravine.
Ten seconds.
God—but they were beautiful men: their dark skin made golden in the coming light.
Eight.
The new light reflected off the bright war paint, brass arm bands and bracelets, the silver gorgets.
Six seconds.
The way the wind whipped their hair, the scalp locks tied to fringed leggings and shields, fluttering beneath the jaws of the onrushing ponies.
Four.
What horsemen these, he marveled as he began to reach for the brim of his slouch hat he had laid on the grass beside him. Never again will there be any the likes of these.
Two seconds left.
In my hand I hold your fate. In my very hand, I hold vengeance for the death of Custer’s Seventh!
Then, as the racing warriors burst from the mouth of the ravine, King bolted to his feet, waving his hat and bellowing as Cody exploded away in a blur.
“Now, lads! In with you!”
Chapter 20
Moon of Cherries Blackening
Indians on the Offensive
OMAHA, July 17—Telegrams received here yesterday are to the effect that the Indians are moving on Medicine Bow, a station on the Union Pacific, almost due south of Fort Fetterman, it is supposed for the purpose of capturing or destroying the supplies which have been stored there recently in great quantities by the government, there being 50,000 rounds of ammunition among other things. A small force of Indians could seize and destroy these stores, as Medicine Bow is a small station, and the country round about sparsely settled. Their destruction at this time would seriously impede military operations against the Indians.
His name was Yellow Hair.
Not because yellow was the color of his own. No, Yellow Hair’s was as black as any Cheyenne’s. His skin as dark as his red earth home.
Hay-o-wei.
Instead, Yellow Hair was named for the scalp he wore. The hair of a white woman he had killed, so went one tale.
But Yellow Hair knew better—it was the scalp of an important man. Hair he had taken seven winters before along the Little Dried River.* Among his people a warrior was known by the coups he counted, by the ponies he stole, by the hair he took and the women left to mourn. Yellow Hair knew there must have been mourning when he took that scalp.
Instead of cutting it up to tie along the sleeves of his war shirt, instead of stringing small pieces of it around the edge of his war shield, Yellow Hair instead stretched the scalp on a small hoop of green willow and to that hoop tied a long thong. This he wore around his neck. It was the biggest victory he had ever won—this fight with the yellow-haired man.
A tough and worthy opponent. So he proudly wore the hair of that enemy around his neck ever since. They had called him other names when he was a child, when he was a brash youngster wandering with Tall Bull’s band of Dog Soldiers raiding and stealing from Comanche country on the south, to Lakota country on the north.
Then Tall Bull was killed at the Springs on a hot summer’s day, much as this one promised to be. The soldiers attacked without the slightest warning from their herd guard. Yellow Hair and the others stayed behind long enough to protect the children and old ones as they fled into the sandy hills and crossed the river† to safety. The pony soldiers and their scalped-head scouts‡ did not pursue for long. He had learned the scalped heads would not—not when there was plunder among the lodges, not when there was something of a proud people to steal or destroy.