On second thought, he pulled the extra cartridge belt from the horse’s neck and threw it over his shoulder. “I reckon this is where you and me part company. Maybe your leg will heal directly. You ain’t no use to me like you are.” He dropped the paint’s reins and started trotting toward the river, a distance of about a half mile. He did not concern himself with trying to hide from the Cheyenne war party. His only thought now was to find a place to stand them off, and the banks of the river offered the best protection. Another point of consideration was, if he was in for a long period being pinned down by Indians, at least he wouldn’t die of thirst. For now, the important thing was to make it to the river before Two Moon got there. He picked up his pace a little. The paint, accustomed to being part of the team at this point, followed along at his heels.
There was a wide level tableland between him and the bluffs of the river, crisscrossed with cuts and gullies. It made for difficult running and the heavy ammunition belts beat against his shoulders and back with each step. He had just about reached the halfway point across the flat when a bullet kicked up dirt a couple of yards in front of him. He was already diving into a narrow gully when he heard the report of the rifle. The shot might have been a signal, for it was followed by a barrage of rifle shots that peppered the dirt around the rim of the gully. Suddenly the valley exploded with the war cries of a band of angry Sioux on the attack as they rushed up from the bluffs and raced toward the lone white scout.
“Well, the fat’s in the fire now,” Jason stated aloud. He calmly removed his ammunition belts and laid them beside him. Hot lead was popping about him like hailstones. The paint screamed in pain and dropped to his side as several bullets hit the unfortunate animal simultaneously. He was dead almost immediately, his head hung over the side of the gully, the eyes wide with fright. Jason didn’t have time to notice, thinking only that he wished the horse had fallen on the other side of the gully, between him and the Sioux.
Jason crawled along the gully, dragging his cartridge belts along with him, until he found a spot to quickly scratch out a place to lay his rifle. The foremost Sioux were within a hundred yards of him now and he figured it was time to join the dance. He calmly sighted down on the first warrior and knocked him from his horse. Shifting slightly, he brought the Winchester to bear on the warrior immediately behind the now-riderless pony. He squeezed off another round and now there were two horses without riders. This broke up the charge and the warriors dispersed somewhat but still pressed the attack. Jason picked off two more of their number, but there were more than forty warriors in the war party. The same mob I saw on the other side of the river, he thought.
Seeing that they were suffering heavy losses, the Sioux drew back out of range to regroup. Several individual warriors rode back and forth before their comrades, waving their rifles in the air and hurling insults and threats toward the man trapped in the gully. Jason looked quickly around him to assess his situation. It wasn’t good. If he had been given the opportunity to select a place to stand off a mob of Sioux warriors, it sure as hell wouldn’t have been this shallow gully in the middle of an open flat. While there was a short lull in the shooting, he considered his chances of scrambling out of the gully and sprinting back toward the hill he had just come from. The tableland was scarred and cracked with many gullies—maybe he could retreat from gully to gully until he reached better cover. He knew, even if he was successful in reaching the hills, without a horse he would be run down in no time at all by the swift Sioux ponies. Then, too, he had to consider the Cheyennes somewhere behind him. It wouldn’t do to run into them. But he couldn’t see that he had any other option, except to surrender, and he was damned if he was going to do that.
A barrage of renewed war whoops told him that the Sioux were preparing to try another assault on his flimsy breastworks. He watched their leaders as they spread their line of warriors in an effort to minimize the lone rifleman’s effective firepower. He levered a cartridge into the chamber and steadied his aim, waiting for the charge. When it came, it met the same deadly fire that the first assault had felt, causing the Lakotas to lose three more warriors. Wild Pony again signaled his braves back, calling for them to shower the little gully with lead and arrows. Jason kept as low as he could, hugging the side of the gully for protection against the hailstorm of bullets. Crawling back and forth to new positions to fire from, he tried to keep them from zeroing in on him. He managed to knock one more warrior from his pony before Wild Pony pulled his men back further. He started to crawl to a new position when he felt a hammerlike blow on the back of his thigh. He knew without looking that he had caught an arrow. It was inevitable that he would be hit by a lucky shot, what with the hundreds of arrows that had been showered down on his gully.
“Damn!” he uttered. The arrow was not imbedded too deeply in the muscle but it was already painful. He tried to dislodge it but, though not deep, it refused to be withdrawn. He decided to deal with it later and broke the shaft off and returned his attention to the fix he was in.
He peered over the edge of the gully. The war party had pulled back to a safe distance from his rifle to discuss their next plan of attack. Jason knew that any responsible war chief was very concerned about losing too many warriors. Cavalry charges were not the Indians’ way of doing battle—they favored ambushes and quick-striking hit-and-run tactics. He also knew that there were fanatics, like Hungry Wolf, who would sacrifice all their men if they were driven enough. Jason hoped this war chief was one of the former group. He had taken some heavy losses already and had to be considering whether the price was too high to continue frontal assaults. If he was smart, he would wait Jason out until dark and then surround him. By the same token, this option gave Jason his best chance of escape because as soon as it was dark Jason would be long gone from the gully. It became apparent that this was the plan the Sioux war chief had decided on, for he fanned his warriors out in a half circle, out of rifle range. Then they waited.
Knowing now what to expect, Jason crossed his cartridge belts across his shoulders so he would be ready to make his escape. It would be dark in about an hour, so he tried again to dislodge the arrowhead in his thigh. It was stubborn and the more he worked at it, the more it bled. Maybe I ought to leave the damn thing in there, he told himself; at least it’s plugging up the hole. His concern now was the fact that his leg had begun to stiffen up and he needed to be able to move fast when the time came.
His attention was called back to the threat before him when a lone warrior decided to display his bravery and suddenly charged his pony toward the gully, screaming war cries at the top of his voice. Jason waited until the Indian was within fifty yards, where the warrior pulled up short and raised his rifle in defiance. “See! I do not fear you!” the warrior screamed out just before Jason raised up and calmly put a bullet through his brain.
“Now, that’s more like it,” he uttered to himself. “I wish they’d all ride up one by one.” He sat back to wait for darkness. For the time being, he was in no more threat of attack. The Sioux were biding their time with war chants and some loud threats but Jason knew they would be coming as soon as it was dark. His chances were not good, but at least there was a chance.
While he waited, his mind wandered back to the circumstances that brought him to this dusty, shallow rip in the ground. A mental image of Abby formed in his brain and he again felt the sorrow of her death. Poor Abby, he thought. She didn’t have much of a life, and what there was of if didn’t last very long. The son of a bitch—it was worth the price he was now paying to settle Pike’s hash. Jason had always tried to do the sensible thing when it came to dealing with hostiles, but he didn’t regret what he had done to avenge Abby. Maybe it was suicidal to go into Two Moon’s camp after Pike, but he wasn’t dead yet. He might luck his way out of this yet. And if he didn’t—what the hell, there wasn’t anybody waiting for him back home. That thought brought old memories to mind that he had sought to bury in the deep recesses of his mind. It had not always been
this way. Most of his life had been spent alone, but there was a brief period when there was someone waiting at home for him. Home then was a little valley in the Colorado territory. He was surprised to find that thoughts of Lark no longer brought the pain of remembering the last time he had seen her, with her skull smashed by a Cheyenne war axe. When he thought of her now, he visualized her sweet face when she greeted him in the evening. She had been given to him for only a short while, but he was thankful for that time and counted himself a fortunate man to have known her at all.
His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a chorus of shouts from the band of Sioux. When he raised up to see what the fuss was about, he could see that they were waving their arms wildly, some jumping on their ponies and riding about in circles. Jason looked behind him and immediately discovered the cause. Two Moon had found him.
Well, I reckon this changes things some, he thought. All his prior speculation on how successful he might be in escaping into the night was now no more than mental exercise. For Jason knew there would be an immediate attack from both sides. Two Moon was bound to press an attack with his Cheyenne warriors, and the Sioux, not wanting to appear timid, would launch another attack of their own. Jason knew at that moment that he was a dead man.
The gully was too shallow to afford him protection from both directions—he might as well be standing out in the middle of the flat, facing the entire horde of hostiles. He had seen the aftermath of several battles in which cavalry troops had been overwhelmed by superior numbers of hostiles, and it had not been a pretty sight. Some of the soldiers had obviously saved their last bullet for themselves, choosing not to be tortured by the Indians. Jason never considered that option. He knew he had no chance of survival but he would make his death an expensive proposition for them. He checked his rifle and waited for the worst to come. He did not have to wait long.
On a signal from their chief, Two Moon’s warriors sprang to the attack. Jason turned to meet it. Behind him Wild Pony’s Sioux responded with another assault. Jason did the best he could, which was better than any other man could have done. Seeking to slow the Cheyenne’s attack, he fired as rapidly as he could pull the trigger and crank the lever-action Winchester. His fire was deadly, knocking down the first four warriors in line. Their tumbling horses caused further chaos in the charge, causing the Cheyennes to wheel about and circle back to regroup. While this was happening, Jason had already turned around and cut down two more of Wild Pony’s Lakotas.
He had halted the first combined assault from the two bands, but it had not been without cost to himself. For now he was bleeding from a shoulder wound that had spun him around in his tracks. The fire from the bullet wound caused him to grimace in pain as he quickly reloaded his rifle. Jason knew that Two Moon now knew how vulnerable his position was and that the next attack would finish the white scout.
Jason had always known that this time might come. There was a strange quiet that settled over the river valley as if all the Cheyenne and Lakota warriors knew that the white scout was finished. Jason accepted the inevitable. He had always known that if there was nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide, then there was nothing left to do but fight. He crawled back to the body of his horse and pulled the bridle and reins off of the paint’s head. Then he climbed up out of the gully and stood before the hostiles, unprotected. One shot was fired from the band of Sioux but it glanced harmlessly by his feet. No other shot was fired as the Indians watched the actions of the white scout, anticipating his surrender.
He reached down and picked up a lance that had been hurled during one of the attacks. Very deliberately, he broke it over his knee and drove it into the ground, using his rifle butt as a hammer. Then, while they watched, he tied one end of the reins around his ankle. The other he tied to the lance in the ground. Then he stood up and, holding his rifle over his head, he fired one shot into the air. “All right, now come on, you son of a bitches,” he said softly.
His actions were understood by the hostiles. It was symbolic and it told them that he would not run, as demonstrated by staking his leg to the ground. It told them that he would fight to the death.
There arose an almost simultaneous explosion of savage war whoops as both bands of hostiles acknowledged his challenge. Those Sioux warriors who were already mounted did not wait for a command, but galloped full speed toward the solitary scout, staked to the ground. Two Moon acted quickly to hold his warriors back while he watched the Sioux attack.
Jason turned to meet the charge, standing erect and defiant. He seemed in no hurry as he coolly picked off one after another of the disorganized hostiles, oblivious to the rain of hot lead flying about him. Two Moon rode back and forth before his warriors, admonishing them to remain passive. A few of the younger braves could not stand by and watch the Sioux kill the white scout. They broke by their chief and galloped to join in the slaughter. Their reward was a bullet from the deadly Winchester in the hands of the tall scout.
As Two Moon watched, Jason was hit and staggered, the bullet entering his thigh a few inches below the broken shaft of the still-imbedded arrow. Yet he did not go down. Now he was forced to reload. The Sioux, seeing this, charged in closer to make the kill. Jason was hit in the side and fell to the ground. There was a low rumble of voices when the scout went down, but Jason, refusing to quit, rolled over on his stomach and completed reloading. An arrow found its mark in his lower back. Still he fought. His rifle reloaded, he cut down two warriors who had ridden within a few yards of the him, hoping to count coup. He rose to one knee and continued firing; each time he pulled the trigger, there was one less hostile. Those who had ridden too close frantically whipped their ponies to escape the deadly fire. As they fled, Jason stood up and knocked two more warriors from their ponies.
Wild Pony called his warriors back and there was a lull in the fighting as the Sioux leader realized that this scorpion, though badly wounded, still had a stinger. He had already lost too many of his warriors to this one man. He would wait now and let the Cheyennes go in for the kill. Jason, though unsteady and bleeding from several wounds, stood tall, his feet spread wide, waiting for the next attack.
Through the smoke and dust that swirled around the tiny fissure in the treeless flat, Two Moon saw that the man was still standing. A veil of fascination seemed to have descended on the valley like a shroud as Sioux and Cheyenne alike looked on the man, amazed. Torn and bleeding, it was unbelievable that the white scout was still standing, tall, defiant, and poised for battle. There was a grudging admiration forced on them for the man they were killing that day. And more than one of the warriors who stood silently watching knew in their hearts that this was the way a warrior should die—and the glory that was Jason’s they could only wish for themselves when it was their turn to face death.
It was a shame to kill such a man.
Two Moon held up his arm, directing his warriors to stay. He nudged his pony softly and the animal began walking slowly toward the gully. Jason, who had been facing the line of Sioux warriors, turned to see the Cheyenne chief slowly advancing toward him. He cocked his rifle once more and raised it to his shoulder, but he hesitated. Two Moon’s rifle lay across his thighs. He made no move toward it, but continued to walk his pony slowly toward Jason. Jason lowered his rifle and waited. A gentle breeze carried the murmur of astonished voices from the band of Sioux warriors across the valley to the two men now facing each other. Two Moon dismounted and walked up to stand in front of the wounded scout. He placed his hand on Jason’s shoulder.
“No man here is a braver warrior than you, Jason Coles. You have earned the right to walk this land in peace.” He turned away to face the warriors who were now quietly closing in around the two men. “I, Two Moon of the Cheyennes, say that this man has earned the respect of all fighting men. I say that he will go in peace, but I can only speak for the Cheyennes.” He turned to look directly at Wild Pony.
Wild Pony did not respond at once. Finally he nodded and said, “Go in peace, Jason Coles.” His
words were punctuated by a loud spontaneous shout from the gathering of warriors.
Jason was dumbfounded. He said nothing but his eyes told of his amazement. His legs were numb and he longed to drop to the ground but he feared that, if he sat down, he would be unable to rise again. So he stood there, feet widespread, his rifle hanging down at his side as, one by one, Cheyenne and Lakota warriors passed by him and touched him lightly. He understood that this was an honor to each man to count coup on him and it was not an insult to him. He was almost in a daze, not really seeing each man who touched him until one dismounted and stood before him. He looked into his face and recognized Red Hawk. The Cheyenne Keeper of the Sacred Arrows smiled and clasped his arm. Jason nodded and returned his smile.
Two Moon studied the tall scout, standing firm while the warriors passed by him. This Coles was an unusual white man, worthy of being a Cheyenne. He looked at the many wounds and the carcass of the paint, the empty cartridge belt draped across his shoulders. “We will take you to our camp and tend to your wounds. Maybe you will not die.” He shook his head, wondering. “I don’t know, maybe you cannot die at all. Your medicine is strong.”
Cheyenne Justice Page 25