breath held, amazed at the chief’s courage. Or maybe he had accepted his own death, and that gave him dignity. Or maybe he had made medicine to become invulnerable and was sure he could not be struck.
Smith was well protected in some rocks, walled off from enemy fire. Calling Eagle crouched beside him, her eyes intent on Little Wolf. Smith forced his mind through the odd unreality of it all, forced himself to feel the vulnerability of Little Wolf’s flesh moving slowly through the invisible fire, as yet untouched.
Little Wolf walked, measured step after measured step, through the barrage. Cheyenne bullets flew over his head, and soldier bullets plunked all around him. The soldiers were off their horses, every fourth man holding the mounts of his companions, in their way.
Smith heard the Cheyenne women make their high trilling for the chief’s bravery from the first little hill to the west. So they had come out from the gullies to watch the fighting, and to hell with the danger. Smith was damn glad—those were Cheyenne women. Loudest of the trillers were Pretty Walker, Little Wolf’s daughter, and one of his wives, Feather on the Head, and Singing Cloud, the woman Finger Nail hoped for. Smith hoped they’d sneaked off and left Elaine in the gully—surely they did.
Smith rose up on his knees and yelled exultantly ah-ho! His voice sounded shrill to himself, so he bellowed again, lower, like the thunder. He grinned sheepishly at Calling Eagle. Getting onto his knees reminded him that he wore pants instead of a breechcloth. Pants below and bare torso and painted face above—half-white and half-Indian. He chuckled at himself.
Little Wolf simply continued to walk. Some bullets kicked up the dust around him, though Smith thought most of them flew into the Cheyenne positions on the hill. This walk was a gesture of greatness—it would be memorialized in the songs and stories of people and wreathed in double glory if Little Wolf came out unharmed. To Smith he seemed to walk even now in an aura of light.
The chief reached the base of the hill and stepped in among its creases. The trillers raised their sound to the skies.
Calling Eagle shook Smith’s shoulder, grinning broadly. He knew what she was saying—See, medicine can whip weapons—the spiritual defeats the merely physical.
Smith didn’t know. His education was in the physical, but he had grown up witnessing the power of medicine.
Now the soldiers came forward, within easier range for their Springfields. They knew the Indians didn’t have many guns, or they wouldn’t have dared. So this was the time for Smith to add his lever-action Winchester to the melee. He held steady on a horse, pulled the trigger, and saw the creature leap about crazily.
After several shots the fighting felt good. He had spent his youth with a rifle in his hands, and the old sense of competence came back. He was still a dead shot, and the lever-action made him fast. The soldiers were too far away for him to hold on men, but Smith made several horses come.
Curiously, it felt fine. It was not hard to shoot at white men. It was as satisfying as shooting at any enemies.
Then Smith saw the thin line of horses bolt out onto the plain and ride hard at the whites—a war charge!
“Hoka hey!” yelled Smith. The warriors were using mostly spears, axes, and bow and arrows to save ammunition. When they neared the soldiers, Smith held his fire. The cavalry line fell back, confused and disorderly. The young men yelled and shot and dashed forward and back and forward and back again.
The soldiers ran, and the ones at the rear were digging rifle pits. Behind Smith, Calling Eagle made a little trill.
Smith stood up and faced the retreating soldiers. He still felt a little self-conscious about his damned pants. He shook his rifle in the air and at the top of his lungs roared, “ Hoka hey! You bastards!” He threw an arm around his grandmother and hugged her. He thought, Look at those bastards
Smith was well protected in some rocks, walled off from enemy fire. Calling Eagle crouched beside him, her eyes intent on Little Wolf. Smith forced his mind through the odd unreality of it all, forced himself to feel the vulnerability of Little Wolf’s flesh moving slowly through the invisible fire, as yet untouched.
Little Wolf walked, measured step after measured step, through the barrage. Cheyenne bullets flew over his head, and soldier bullets plunked all around him. The soldiers were off their horses, every fourth man holding the mounts of his companions, in their way.
Smith heard the Cheyenne women make their high trilling for the chief’s bravery from the first little hill to the west. So they had come out from the gullies to watch the fighting, and to hell with the danger. Smith was damn glad—those were Cheyenne women. Loudest of the trillers were Pretty Walker, Little Wolf’s daughter, and one of his wives, Feather on the Head, and Singing Cloud, the woman Finger Nail hoped for. Smith hoped they’d sneaked off and left Elaine in the gully—surely they did.
Smith rose up on his knees and yelled exultantly ah-ho! His voice sounded shrill to himself, so he bellowed again, lower, like the thunder. He grinned sheepishly at Calling Eagle. Getting onto his knees reminded him that he wore pants instead of a breechcloth. Pants below and bare torso and painted face above—half-white and half-Indian. He chuckled at himself.
Little Wolf simply continued to walk. Some bullets kicked up the dust around him, though Smith thought most of them flew into the Cheyenne positions on the hill. This walk was a gesture of greatness—it would be memorialized in the songs and stories of people and wreathed in double glory if Little Wolf came out unharmed. To Smith he seemed to walk even now in an aura of light.
The chief reached the base of the hill and stepped in among its creases. The trillers raised their sound to the skies.
Calling Eagle shook Smith’s shoulder, grinning broadly. He knew what she was saying—See, medicine can whip weapons—the spiritual defeats the merely physical.
Smith didn’t know. His education was in the physical, but he had grown up witnessing the power of medicine.
Now the soldiers came forward, within easier range for their Springfields. They knew the Indians didn’t have many guns, or they wouldn’t have dared. So this was the time for Smith to add his lever-action Winchester to the melee. He held steady on a horse, pulled the trigger, and saw the creature leap about crazily.
After several shots the fighting felt good. He had spent his youth with a rifle in his hands, and the old sense of competence came back. He was still a dead shot, and the lever-action made him fast. The soldiers were too far away for him to hold on men, but Smith made several horses come.
Curiously, it felt fine. It was not hard to shoot at white men. It was as satisfying as shooting at any enemies.
Then Smith saw the thin line of horses bolt out onto the plain and ride hard at the whites—a war charge!
“Hoka hey!” yelled Smith. The warriors were using mostly spears, axes, and bow and arrows to save ammunition. When they neared the soldiers, Smith held his fire. The cavalry line fell back, confused and disorderly. The young men yelled and shot and dashed forward and back and forward and back again.
The soldiers ran, and the ones at the rear were digging rifle pits. Behind Smith, Calling Eagle made a little trill.
Smith stood up and faced the retreating soldiers. He still felt a little self-conscious about his damned pants. He shook his rifle in the air and at the top of his lungs roared, “ Hoka hey! You bastards!” He threw an arm around his grandmother and hugged her. He thought, Look at those bastards
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