Passing the campfire that was already dying out, having been left unattended since the discovery of the Indian raiders, Cole crossed the stream and made a long arc on his way to get behind the mound that had protected their attackers. With the absence of a moon, his range of vision was restricted to no more than a couple of dozen yards, so he made his way cautiously.
When he came upon a draw that led up between two ridges, he estimated that he was now directly behind the raiders’ position at the mound. He had started to close the distance between himself and the mound when he was momentarily stopped by the whinny of a horse behind him. Dropping to his knee at once, he prepared to defend himself, but there was no one there. He realized then that the Indians must have left their horses back farther up the draw.
That answers the question of whether or not they’ve left, he thought.
He got to his feet again, knowing he had to exercise even more caution, now that he was sure they still had designs on the wagon party of white people.
The top half of a full moon appeared low on the horizon as he stepped carefully toward a stand of scrubby trees between him and the bush-covered mound by the water’s edge.
When that thing gets a little higher in the sky, this whole prairie will be lit up, he thought.
It made him hurry his steps a little until he reached the stand of trees. With his rifle up in a ready position before him, he stepped between the trees, coming face-to-face with a young Cheyenne warrior intent upon working his way around behind the wagon.
There was a moment’s hesitation by the two adversaries, both taken by surprise. They regained their composure and reacted also at the same time. With no time to notch an arrow, the warrior drew his knife and launched himself to the attack. Blessed with reflexes equal to, or even quicker than, his assailant’s, Cole stepped to one side, capturing the brave’s wrist in his hand to deftly throw him flat on his back.
Quick as a great cat, Cole had his rifle trained on the Indian’s chest, poised for the kill—but he failed to pull the trigger. Able to see the Cheyenne clearly now, he discovered that he was little more than a boy. It occurred to him that it was the reason he had been able to throw him to the ground so easily. Undecided then, he took a step back while still holding the rifle on the helpless boy, finding it difficult to kill one so young.
Thinking he was doomed to die, the Cheyenne boy could do nothing but lie there with eyes wide with fear as Cole brought the Henry rifle to his shoulder and aimed it directly at his head. He could not, however, bring himself to take the boy’s life. He took another step back and ordered, “Get up! Get outta here!” He motioned toward the draw where the Indian ponies were tied. “Get goin’!”
Hearing the white man’s commands, the boy’s two companions, also boys, ran toward the confrontation. Cole turned to face them and threw two quick shots near them in warning. He waved them on with his rifle.
“Get on those ponies, and get outta here,” he ordered.
Their ambitious attempt to steal horses thwarted, they did as they were told, going by the white man’s motions and the tone of his voice, for they knew very little English. Finally realizing that their lives were to be spared, all three hurried up the dark draw.
Wondering how he was going to explain to John why he let them get away when he clearly had the jump on them, he turned to go back to the wagon. He had taken no more than two steps when he felt the solid blow of an arrow in his back. The impact caused him to stumble briefly, but he quickly turned and blindly cranked three shots into the darkened draw. He had no way of telling if he had hit one of them or not, hearing only the tattoo of horses’ hooves on the hard floor of the draw.
Wrath of the Savage Page 26