But today, yes, he told himself. Today might be different.
Beside him, also lying flat in the wind-blown grass was Sharp Knife, Knee Prints by the Bank, and Whistling Elk. A bowshot behind them down the almost imperceptible grade, were the rest of the soldiers of their raiding party; a total of thirty-two soldiers armed with rifle and bow, lance and knife. They kept the whistlers quiet and low to the ground, for today surprise was their best ally.
Storm Arriving tilted his head to the side and raised it up so that with one eye he could see over the waves of green. Ahead, the grass-clad land sped away and ever-so-slightly downward, leaving him and his three companions on the only thing akin to a high-point for several miles. The land here within reach of the Lodgepole River was nearly flat, evened out by a thousand seasons of rain and flood. The bluecoats who traveled toward them across the spongy mat of little bluestem raised no dust, leaving only dark slashes where their wagon wheels cut like knives into the earth.
Five wagons rocked and jostled their way across the land, precarious on their tall, spoked wheels. Each was pulled by a team of mules that were head-down and set in their labor. Two men rode on each of the high buckboards, one with the reins and one with a rifle, eyes sharped toward the horizon. Atop the wagonbeds were piles of supplies hidden by oilskin tarpaulins, but the outlined shapes told of barrels, kegs, sacks, crates, and boxes that lay under the dark, shiny canvases.
This was their goal; a train of goods bound for the bluecoat encampment some twenty miles distant. Finding it had not been easy, but getting to it would be harder still, for along with the wagons was their escort, bluecoats on horses and more marching alongside.
“I count twenty on mounts,” Sharp Knife said, peering through the grass.
“And at least that many on foot,” Whistling Elk said.
Storm Arriving counted for himself. Two quartets of bluecoats ranged a quarter mile or more ahead of the wagons, and with each group was a scout on foot dressed in a mix of tribal and vé’ho’e clothes. Back behind the wagons rode twelve more riders, and two chief-riders led the train. On the near side of the wagons marched a double-line of bluecoats, five to a line, and since the bluecoats never did anything unevenly, it was safe to assume the same number on the far side. Add to that the men on the wagons, and you had thirty bluecoats on foot, twenty-two on horse. A good bit more than the thirty-two Storm Arriving had in his own party. In recent years, One Who Flies had shown them some new methods of fighting, but Storm Arriving could not apply them to this situation with small numbers and open land.
He looked again at the men with the bluecoats in the fore.
“What tribe are those who scout for them?” he asked.
Knee Prints by the Bank grunted. “I am sorry to say it, but they are of my tribe. It is hard for the Wolf People in vé’ho’e lands. Some find it easier to work for the bluecoats than to raise crops.”
“We can try to spare them,” he said. “Once it starts, call to them if you can.” He crawled backward away from the low rise. The others followed.
The rest of the soldiers sat close by their whistlers. As Storm Arriving crept back to them, he saw their eager smiles and ready hands. Unhappy with waiting, they were glad that action was near.
“The bluecoats ride westward,” Storm Arriving told them. “The wagons are still a few miles away, but they will pass close to our position. I want four men to stay here with the whistlers. Four others will prepare to ride after stragglers. The rest of us will make a line along that rise of land and lay hidden in the grass. When the bluecoats are close enough, we will fire on them. With luck, we will take them down before they can reach us.”
The soldiers looked at one another, brows knitted with puzzlement.
“What do you mean?” asked one of them. “When do we charge against them?”
“We do not,” Storm Arriving said. “We fire from the grass.”
Sharp Knife chuckled. “He means we fire from the grass before we charge.”
“No,” Storm Arriving said, emphasizing his words with signs. “We do not charge at all. Not at all. We only fire from the grass.”
The soldiers were bewildered. Storm Arriving could see it in the way they looked at one another.
“I will not do it,” Stone Wolf said. “What kind of honor is in this? To fire from the grass, like a coward, like a woman. I will not do it.”
“Nor I,” said Whistling Elk. “What coup can we count from the grass? To kill from a distance is no honor. We must ride to them.”
“The bluecoats outnumber us,” Storm Arriving said.
Whistling Elk pressed his case. “Storm Arriving, please. It has been a moon since we left the Crow People, and in that time we have fought no great battles and won no glories. Now is our chance.” He smiled with an infectious excitement. “This is the sort of day of which songs are made. This is a day for bravery. You have worked hard for us, carefully bringing us here. We all know this, and we all are grateful to you. Now let us repay you with a victory that will make your heart sing! Let us make our marks on the bluecoats, so that we can ride home with tales that will fill our sweethearts with joy.”
Storm Arriving could feel the urge. Just at the thought of it, his own blood pounded in his ears, surging, ready, pumping into limbs. To ride in toward danger was to feel the power of life. He had known it, had felt it before. His arms, his chest, they bore the scars of lance and arrow, and his soul had touched the limits of heaven when his existence had run on the silvered edge of a knife’s blade. He had known it, and he heard its song now. He saw its promise in Whistling Elk’s smile, in the way Red Whistler gripped his knife. They had all known it, and it was all they had known. It was now. It was here.
And that was its danger.
“No,” he said to them. “Those days are gone, I tell you. They are over. We fight an enemy that is cunning and dangerous.”
“All the more glory to take him down!” Whistling Elk said.
“And the greater cost if you fall!” Storm Arriving said in return. He calmed himself with a quiet breath. “Understand me. The time of a single soldier is gone. The time of your honor and my honor is gone. Today, we must speak of our honor.”
The soldiers all spoke at once. Several grabbed their weapons and went to their whistlers, ready to ride.
“This will be a great battle,” Stone Wolf said as he mounted.
“I want my share of the glory!” said another, running to join him.
“Hold, hold!” Storm Arriving ordered. “Listen! This fight will last longer than just today. It will last for today and tomorrow and a moon of moons before we are done. It is a war. A war! It is not a war that you can win or that I can win, but it is a war that we can win together. Together. But to do that, I need you whole, I need you now, and I need you until the end.” He looked at them all and sent a silent prayer to the spirits of the world. “When we are done and the bluecoats have all gone home, you can ride to whatever glorious end you want, but right now I need you alive and fighting together!”
They held, listening to his pleas.
“We will share a song,” he said. “Brothers, they will sing of us all.”
He could see it in their eyes. They were there. They saw it. They saw the greater need and how a battle won together could be an achievement greater than anything they achieved alone. Stone Wolf dismounted. Whistling Elk gripped his rifle.
“We shoot from the grass,” Whistling Elk said with a smile. “And together, we leave not a one of them standing.”
An easy breath filled Storm Arriving’s breast, but the sound of approaching hoofbeats drove it out again. Unthinking, they had let their argument destroy their cover, and the bluecoats now rode up the slope, rifles raised.
“Crouch down!” Storm Arriving yelled as he dove to the grass. “Let the whistlers free!”
Some of the soldiers did as he ordered, but others shouted their denial. With whoops and war cries, they leapt onto their whistlers just as the bluecoats came w
ithin easy range. The air was wild with the crack of gunfire, the shouting of men, the bleating of beasts. Dirt flew as whistlers leapt into motion and as horses’ hooves churned the earth. The riders rode onto Storm Arriving and the men in the grass. One horse trampled across a soldier, hooves snapping his bones and ribs before it lost its own footing and pitched forward, tossing its bluecoat headlong into the grass. Storm Arriving racked his rifle’s lever and fired at the bluecoats as they passed. His shot was wide of the mark. Another rank rode toward them but the horses were fearful of uneven ground, and their riders drove them ahead, toward those on whistlerback.
Storm Arriving assessed the situation.
With him were a dozen or so men plus a handful that had been killed or wounded by trampling. The bluecoat riders had broken into groups and were pursuing the soldiers on their whistlers. The mounted soldiers, despite their near-conversion to Storm Arriving’s ideas, now reverted to old patterns, the hot blood of war driving them to reckless feats. One rider kicked his whistler into a spurt of speed. A bowshot ahead of his pursuers, he heeled in, turned, and yipped at them like a coyote. They fired at him as he charged; they missed the first time, but not the second.
“Our riders will not last long,” Storm Arriving said to those near him. He looked back toward the train. The drivers were pulling the wagons into a tight circle at the direction of the two bluecoats on horses. Other bluecoats stood nearby, watching the horsemen chase the riders, rifles ready, feet edging backward. Storm Arriving worked his lever again. “Long Blade, take the rider with the large hat, I will take the other. The rest of you, get the men on foot. We fire our first shot together. Then take the rest as quickly as you can.”
He gave them a moment to set their elbows into the earth, take aim, and calm their breath. “Now!”
Their volley sent up a wall of white smoke but through it, he saw men die. One of the bluecoats on horseback tumbled to the ground and others buckled and fell. The surviving commander pointed up at their position and the remaining bluecoats moved quickly in a precision that spoke of long training. They began to form their ranks just as Storm Arriving and his men let loose a second round. More men fell. Horses screamed. The man on the horse bellowed at his bluecoats, but a third round of fire blew him backward and sent his horse bolting for the horizon.
The bluecoats broke ranks and retreated, joining with the drivers behind the wagons. Storm Arriving sucked air through teeth clenched with frustration. The bluecoats could hide in there for hours, fighting them off from every direction.
“Behind us!”
Bluecoat horsemen were bearing down on them, charging with carbines aimed. Storm Arriving fired a quick shot at the man pounding toward him, then rose up and grabbed the rifle by its barrel, ready to swing it like a club. The barrel seared a hot line along his palms and he snarled but kept his grip. The bluecoat’s shot buzzed past his head and Storm Arriving swung upward, catching the bluecoat across the shoulder. The man gave a painful shout but kept his seat and rode past. Grimacing at burned hands, Storm Arriving turned his weapon, pulled another round into readiness, aimed, and fired at the bluecoat’s back. More riders were heading their way.
“Half forward, half back!” he shouted, and the soldiers split their aim, firing from a nexus of strength toward their attackers. The bluecoats, counting on their charge to scatter their foe, were undone by the quick efficiency of Storm Arriving and his soldiers. The riders went down in two volleys and the soldiers ran in to finish off those whose horses had been the only casualty. Knives met flesh. The scents of blood and gunsmoke mingled in the playful breeze. Clubs and hatchets rose and fell with quiet efficiency. Agony was cut short.
The field was strewn with bodies—soldiers, bluecoats, whistlers, horses—each in its sunken bed of bent grass. A quick count told Storm Arriving of half his men killed, as well as most of the bluecoats. Of his own, death had found all who had ridden off, as well as two of those who had followed his commands—one by trampling and another by gunshot. The survivors lay beside him on the limit of the small rise, frantic fingers pushing new cartridges into magazines emptied in the fight.
The bluecoats, though, had fared far worse: all their riders were down including the two commanders, and half of the infantrymen were down as well. But that left at least ten or fifteen now ensconced within the wagons’ circle, and they would be hard to root out.
“Where are the scouts?” Storm Arriving asked.
They looked toward the wagons. Whistling Elk pointed. “They are there,” he said. “On the western side.”
Storm Arriving saw them, leaning against the wheel of a wagon situated behind the main defensive line. The two men huddled together, their eyes glancing from within to without the circle, unsure of which side presented the greater threat.
“Call to them,” he told Knee Prints by the Bank. “In your own language. Tell them that we will try not to kill them.”
Knee Prints by the Bank did so, using the language of the Wolf People, lying in the grass and shouting through cupped palms.
The two scouts at the wagons looked their way in sudden interest at hearing familiar words. Storm Arriving did not speak their language, but it was similar enough to the Ree of the Earth Lodge Builders that he could keep track of what was being said. Knee Prints by the Bank told them that he fought with the People, and that if they chose, they, too could work with the People against the vé’hó’e. Some of the bluecoats shouted back and fired at them, their bullets buzzing through the grass like angry hornets, but it was the two scouts that Storm Arriving watched. They looked first at the bluecoats and then at the soldiers in the grass, caught between the warring sides.
The bluecoats took up positions near wheels and axles, and pulled down crates behind which to hide. They were well protected, but only from one direction. Sneaking around them was impossible: the land was too open. The bluecoats would spot them and bring them down with ease. Storm Arriving looked again at the two scouts in their hiding place beneath the far wagon. Each man held a rifle.
Will they? he wondered. If I give them the chance, will they help?
“How many do you think we can take down with the first shot?” he asked his soldiers.
“Four,” said one.
“Six,” said another.
“What are you planning?” Whistling Elk asked.
Storm Arriving pointed to the scouts. “If we can get six before they duck back behind their barricades, maybe those two can get the rest.”
Whistling Elk grunted in quite wonder. “And if they don’t?”
Storm Arriving shrugged. “Then we still have six less to deal with.”
Whistling Elk grinned. “Take aim,” he said to the others. “Fire on the word, and then fire as you will.”
The men lay against the earth, barrels trained to their targets, eyes squinting through sights, aiming high to account for distance and the gentle slope, aiming right to allow for the breeze that danced from west to east. They were sixteen, several to a target. Some would succeed. Some would aim true.
Storm Arriving prayed to the spirits: Let it be enough.
“Now.”
A wall of smoke pushed down the grass. Bluecoats kicked and sprawled as bullets slammed into their positions. The soldiers fired calmly but quickly now, sending each rifle’s ten shots into wheels, boxes, wagon sides. Wood splintered. Metal sang as lead bounced from iron. A mule caught a shard in the hind quarter and hawed and kicked, creating a circle of chaos. Bluecoats scrambled, seeking haven, but no place was worse, no place was better. They returned fire, but to no effect. The onslaught gave them no quarter.
Storm Arriving watched the two scouts. They lay there in a bubble of safety.
“Do it,” he urged them as he fired at a bluecoat’s foot. “Do it.”
The two scouts looked at one another, and then raised their weapons. They aimed at the backs of the bluecoats before them. Eight quick shots and all fell quiet. Storm Arriving and his soldiers had emptied their magazine
s. The scouts had nothing else to shoot. One of the scouts stood and looked their way. He raised his rifle above his head and gave a cry of victory. The soldiers stood as well, rising up from the grass, shouting their response.
Sharp Knife grabbed Storm Arriving in a crushing bear hug. “You did it!” he shouted.
Storm Arriving grinned with the pleasure of victory, the thrill of survival against the odds. He beamed at the men who stood around him. They were all giddy, drunk with their accomplishment.
“We did it,” Storm Arriving said. “Together.”
They saw to their wounded, then went down to the wagons. Knee Prints by the Bank spoke to the two scouts, introducing Storm Arriving and the others.
“We are grateful for your help,” Storm Arriving said to them in the language of the Inviters.
The two men smiled and raised their hands in greeting. “It was good to fight against them,” one said. “I am Bear Wing. And this is my cousin, Sand Crane. Is it true? Can we cross the river and live among your people now?”
One of the soldiers inspecting the wagons yipped in delight. Storm Arriving looked as the soldier raised two rifles above his head. “Many boxes,” the soldier said. “And cartridges, too.”
“Good,” Storm Arriving said. “We will replenish our stocks and send the rest north to the Crow People, as we promised.”
“And?” pressed Bear Wing. “Can we come across the river? Can we bring our families away from the bluecoat lands?”
Storm Arriving bade Bear Wing and his cousin sit. The two scouts did so, settling down on the trampled grass. They were young men, but judged by their tattered clothes and thin faces, they had seen hard times. Knee Prints by the Bank and Whistling Elk sat down with them. Storm Arriving squatted down on the hams of his legs, one knee slightly lower than the other. He rested an elbow on the higher knee, and reached down with his free hand to caress the bent and broken stalks of grass before him.
The Cry of the Wind Page 15