gelding once more and finally around.
With the slap of the reins, the right spur raked the black’s side, leaping him into an ears-flat gallop. Behind him, as he raced the narrow trackline of the Sioux war ponies, came the first of the returning blizzard’s sleeted forebreath. Crouched atop him, Ben was thinking they had some miles to make, too. And knowing they wouldn’t make their miles on blue blood, but red!
Chapter Eight
The rising wind was behind Ben, whipping out of the northeast, driving hard past him, full toward the grove. He did not hear the firing until he was breaking clear of Ludlow’s Bend, almost atop the Timpas Creek timber. He had had sense enough to drop the black down below the river bluffs as he approached the camp. It was all that saved him from riding right up the rumps of the Sioux ponies.
With the flat, wind-buffeted report of the first rifle shot, he was off the big horse like a cat.
Ka-dih must still have been watching over his quarter-bred grandson for he had placed in the precise spot where Ben slid the black to a halt a heavy stand of riverbank willows. Tying the horse, and not worrying about him winding the Indian ponies, since the near gale force of the wind was dead away from the willows, he ran crouching forward to the edge of the leafless thicket.
The first look was all a man needed to show him he had bitten off a Texas-sized mouthful.
Up the streambed perhaps a hundred yards, directly opposite the grove and not over fifty paces from it, the hostiles were bedded in against the river bank. They had a clear field of fire into the little camp, impeded only by the outer fringe of trees and the hastily barricaded slatbed wagons. The return fire from the grove could only serve to prevent a frontal charge, since the red attackers were quitecomfortable behind five solid feet of yellow Arkansas bank clay. The hostiles, never in their conception of prairie warfare willing to accept casualties for no reason, could afford to take their time.
They were taking it.
There were nine of them, Ben counted; all dressed in the knee length, buffalo hide boots and wolfskin coats which were the standard Plains Indian winter garb. They were bareheaded, of course, some wearing copper braid ornaments, some only an eagle feather or two. Five of them had muzzle-loading trade muskets, the other four, only war bows or short buffalo lances. From the stark lack of feathers or other foofooraw in their attire, a man drew one quick conclusion. These boys were in business. They were not out to make social conquests.
Ben, accustomed as he was to the short, broadbodied physiques of the southern tribes, was at once struck with the size of the northern nomads. He had heard the Sioux were a tall people, but not how tall. There wasn’t a buck up that riverbed that would go half a hand under six feet, and several of them towered well over the two-yard mark.
Recovering from the first unpleasantness of having ridden, but for the sake of a lucky bend in the river, into this nest of six-foot red hornets, Ben’s eyes suddenly narrowed.
In the huddle of the Sioux ponies, standing rumpsto-wind beyond their darkfaced masters, he now counted ten mounts. With the belated correction, his scalp squeezed in and his hand tightened on the breech of his Henry carbine.
Somewhere out yonder, or maybe handclose in the willows around him, he had a missing Indian.
The thought had only formed, when he found him.
Upstream, beyond the entrenched Sioux, the left bank of the Arkansas built into a considerable bluff. Atop this prominence, silhouetted against the sleeting gray of the winter sky, stood the tenth Indian.
Unless the distance fooled you, he was not as tall as the others. He was dressed in black wolfskins from head to foot, with the scarlet slash of a Three Point Hudson’s Bay blanket shrouding his narrow shoulders and trailing to the snows behind him. And, by God, unless you didn’t know as much about Plains Indians as you
With the slap of the reins, the right spur raked the black’s side, leaping him into an ears-flat gallop. Behind him, as he raced the narrow trackline of the Sioux war ponies, came the first of the returning blizzard’s sleeted forebreath. Crouched atop him, Ben was thinking they had some miles to make, too. And knowing they wouldn’t make their miles on blue blood, but red!
Chapter Eight
The rising wind was behind Ben, whipping out of the northeast, driving hard past him, full toward the grove. He did not hear the firing until he was breaking clear of Ludlow’s Bend, almost atop the Timpas Creek timber. He had had sense enough to drop the black down below the river bluffs as he approached the camp. It was all that saved him from riding right up the rumps of the Sioux ponies.
With the flat, wind-buffeted report of the first rifle shot, he was off the big horse like a cat.
Ka-dih must still have been watching over his quarter-bred grandson for he had placed in the precise spot where Ben slid the black to a halt a heavy stand of riverbank willows. Tying the horse, and not worrying about him winding the Indian ponies, since the near gale force of the wind was dead away from the willows, he ran crouching forward to the edge of the leafless thicket.
The first look was all a man needed to show him he had bitten off a Texas-sized mouthful.
Up the streambed perhaps a hundred yards, directly opposite the grove and not over fifty paces from it, the hostiles were bedded in against the river bank. They had a clear field of fire into the little camp, impeded only by the outer fringe of trees and the hastily barricaded slatbed wagons. The return fire from the grove could only serve to prevent a frontal charge, since the red attackers were quitecomfortable behind five solid feet of yellow Arkansas bank clay. The hostiles, never in their conception of prairie warfare willing to accept casualties for no reason, could afford to take their time.
They were taking it.
There were nine of them, Ben counted; all dressed in the knee length, buffalo hide boots and wolfskin coats which were the standard Plains Indian winter garb. They were bareheaded, of course, some wearing copper braid ornaments, some only an eagle feather or two. Five of them had muzzle-loading trade muskets, the other four, only war bows or short buffalo lances. From the stark lack of feathers or other foofooraw in their attire, a man drew one quick conclusion. These boys were in business. They were not out to make social conquests.
Ben, accustomed as he was to the short, broadbodied physiques of the southern tribes, was at once struck with the size of the northern nomads. He had heard the Sioux were a tall people, but not how tall. There wasn’t a buck up that riverbed that would go half a hand under six feet, and several of them towered well over the two-yard mark.
Recovering from the first unpleasantness of having ridden, but for the sake of a lucky bend in the river, into this nest of six-foot red hornets, Ben’s eyes suddenly narrowed.
In the huddle of the Sioux ponies, standing rumpsto-wind beyond their darkfaced masters, he now counted ten mounts. With the belated correction, his scalp squeezed in and his hand tightened on the breech of his Henry carbine.
Somewhere out yonder, or maybe handclose in the willows around him, he had a missing Indian.
The thought had only formed, when he found him.
Upstream, beyond the entrenched Sioux, the left bank of the Arkansas built into a considerable bluff. Atop this prominence, silhouetted against the sleeting gray of the winter sky, stood the tenth Indian.
Unless the distance fooled you, he was not as tall as the others. He was dressed in black wolfskins from head to foot, with the scarlet slash of a Three Point Hudson’s Bay blanket shrouding his narrow shoulders and trailing to the snows behind him. And, by God, unless you didn’t know as much about Plains Indians as you
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