Wind In His Hair, White Bear, and a dozen others quickly devised a simple plan for attacking the enemy. The small horse herd in the rear would be hit first as a ruse to lure the main body of soldiers. Most likely they would give chase to the handful of warriors trying to drive off their animals. Once the soldiers had cleared the line of wagons, Wind In His Hair and a large contingent of warriors would swoop down, cutting them off from the corn train, leaving it vulnerable to an overwhelming assault from White Bear and the remaining fighters.
There was no talk of anything going wrong. Neither Wind In His Hair nor White Bear had ever gone into battle wondering what might go wrong. Both men had known bad feelings before riding against an enemy in an ill-advised fight, but there was nothing of that kind in the backs of their minds on this day. They were supreme warriors of unexcelled bravery, and once the plan of attack had been struck, both gave full rein to the innate instincts, polished fine with time, that had carried them so far in life.
Immediately after the council broke up, the hillside that hid the warriors became active as a hive as final preparations were made. Those not in mourning touched up or reapplied the paint they had chosen for themselves and their ponies. Everyone stripped to breechclouts and moccasins to afford maximum freedom of movement. Hair was oiled and heads were adorned with the proper number of feathers set at the proper angle. Scalplocks and the amulets braided into them, a grizzly claw taken in an individual encounter, the talons of a hawk snatched bare-handed from the sky, the canine tooth of a wolf who had entered a lodge-all these charms were fingered repeatedly to make sure they were secure. Warhorses were charged back and forth, made to back up, spun in circles, and guided in all directions to assure the riders who would shortly risk their lives that their animals were sound.
In some cases, horses were switched. Late additions or deletions were made to accoutrements. Lances were changed from one hand to the other. Primary weapons were shuffled, and last-minute changes were made in the fighting units as men jumped from group to group according to the power of intuition.
Dances With Wolves was thankful his intuition had been silent, because he did not want to make any changes. The men under White Bear were all Kiowa but his wish to ride with them had been granted. The wagon drivers presented an easy chance for scalps, but everyone understood that the light-skinned Comanche was after something other than scalps, something only the drivers could provide.
Unfortunately, the arrangement did little to help him apply the single-mindedness so vital to fighting, and even as he smeared blue paint on Smiles A Lot's chest and back, doing his best to create the semblance of an owl, Dances With Wolves struggled to keep his mind from racing off elsewhere.
It was hard to think of killing the enemy while a higher mission consumed him. Added to that was the ever-present distraction of the children who had so disobediently followed him. The anger he first felt at the enormous complication of their presence had subsided but he still felt pangs of irritation at having to constantly consider their welfare, making certain at the same time that nothing he did for his children would compromise the war party. Even in the chaos of going to war, he could not help glancing up the slope for a glimpse of them through the trees where they were helping a handful of older boys watch the reserve horses.
Dances With Wolves agreed with his brothers in arms. It was no good to have a woman — much less a little girl and her nine-year-old brother — with a war party. But everyone also agreed that nothing could be done under the circumstances and they had been permitted to stay with the tacit understanding that Dances With Wolves would be responsible for keeping them out of the way. So instead of singing a silent mantra of courage he was looking up the hill for them every few minutes, or shuddering at the prospect of failing to get his wife and daughter back, or wondering if he was going to die in battle and make it all moot.
Miraculously, these trepidations vanished as three returning scouts were suddenly sighted. The riders flew up the valley at a full run, quirting their lathered horses up the slope, and announced excitedly that the enemy, still unaware of their presence, was just behind them. The war party erupted in a near-soundless frenzy of action as a hundred men swung onto their ponies and galloped in different directions to join their respective groups.
As he leapt onto his pony, Dances With Wolves caught a last glimpse of Smiles A Lot, the azure outline of an owl standing out against the red that coated his legs, torso, and face as he hurriedly guided his pony through the trees.
Thinking of his friend Smiles A Lot and the amazing transformation he had undergone, Dances With Wolves took up his position in the line of Kiowa warriors hidden among the trees. A few yards ahead, poised under a large elm near the tree line, Dances With Wolves could see the broad back of White Bear. He and the two warriors flanking him had gone ahead for a better view of the action.
Suddenly, the big warrior turned his massive head and scanned the warriors behind him. Then his wide, thick-lipped mouth opened as he barked out a name in Comanche and Dances With Wolves rode forward. One of the warriors next to White Bear sidled his horse and Dances With Wolves drew even with White Bear.
"Ride with me," the Kiowa signed.
Dances With Wolves nodded.
A grin broke on White Bear's face as he signed again.
"Some of these young Kiowa," he said and gave a backward tip of his head, "they get lazy when they fight. We are older. We should stay together."
Dances With Wolves grunted mirthfully but a more elaborate reply was interrupted by the sudden whispering of one of White Bear's lieutenants. The man lifted a finger and every eye followed.
White soldiers had appeared at the far end of the valley. No flankers seemed to be out, and when Dances With Wolves counted heads, he saw twenty-one, just as the scouts had reported.
Behind the soldiers appeared the ears of mules, and in a few moments a line of open-topped wagons moved into view. Nine of the big wagons entered the valley and Dances With Wolves was heartened to see a wide gap between the loads of corn and the dawdling horse herd bringing up the rear. Now there were four soldiers minding the trailing horses, but one more man, unless he was very good, didn't matter much. It seemed the whites were doing all in their power to accommodate the plan of attack.
The soldiers had yet to come abreast of the Kiowa position when White Bear slipped from his pony, an action mimicked by his entire force, and pinched the animal's velvet nostrils closed to stifle whinnying. Like slowly turning screws every muscle in every warrior tightened as the soldiers passed below them and under the trees blanketing the slope stillness was absolute.
Moments after the first wagon began to go by a shrill whistle split the silence and Dances With Wolves leaned forward, looking toward the horse herd farther up the valley. He could hear the whooping of warriors, and seconds later they burst into view; charging the loose horses. A few animals broke free but the soldiers were disciplined enough to try to hold most of them as the handful of warriors raced toward them. When the Comanche fighters hit the flats, the horse herders opened fire, causing them to zigzag to avoid being hit.
But one warrior took no evasive action. Never flinching, he rode straight on, quirting his pony furiously. A hundred yards from the enemy, the solo warrior astonished all who saw him by rising to a standing position on the back of his running horse. As if his extraordinary horsemanship were not enough, the warrior, still standing, began waving a blanket over his head. Dances With Wolves could make out a splash of blue against the red of his back and realized the rider was Smiles A Lot.
The main body of soldiers was already heading down the wagon line, racing to give aid to the horse herders. When they were clear of the teamsters another whistle blew, and with catastrophic screams Wind In His Hair and the Comanches flooded down the slope to attack the soldiers from behind.
But the Kiowas and Dances With Wolves barely noticed, for as soon as the soldiers had cleared the wagons, all eyes settled with calm, predatory intent on th
e objective below White Bear turned and bellowed, "Brave men to the front, cowards to the rear!” and the trees exploded with a full-throated roar of humanity as the Kiowas surged from their cover and streamed riotously down the slope.
Dances With Wolves was side by side with White Bear as they reached the bottom of the hill. From the corner of his eye he saw a pony go down, cartwheeling headfirst over the prairie as his rider catapulted into space. Whether the pony had tripped or taken a bullet from the sporadic fire commencing in front of them he did not know. Nor did he know what was happening farther up the valley. The pop of heavy fire in the distance was swamped by the rush of wind in his face, the straining of his pony as it dug across the level valley floor, and the panic he could see, between his horse's ears, unfolding before him.
Most of the hair-mouths had jumped down to take cover behind their vehicles and were firing their guns with all the effect of spittle against a gale. A few of the drivers, horrified at the wave of death about to engulf them, had broken out and, like leviathans struggling in a bog, were trying to raise enough speed from their lumbering wagons and panic-tangled teams to escape.
Dances With Wolves saw these things without any real awareness, for he was barely cognizant of the fight. He no longer felt the pony under him or heard the cries of his fellow fighters. He heard, yet did not hear the high, metallic whine of a slug passing near his head, for every sense he possessed was concentrated on the search for a man his size.
Reaching the wagons seconds ahead of the unbroken line of warriors charging in behind him, Dances With Wolves fired at an enemy crawling under one of the beds. Before he could fire again, however, he spied what he wanted farther out on the prairie, and as men swarmed in around him, he wheeled his pony out of the tumult of wailing and shooting to pursue a tall, rangy white man trying to drive his heavy wagon to safety.
As he closed the hundred yards that separated him from his quarry Dances With Wolves began to yip as a coyote does when running down a rabbit, and the tall man turned in his seat. The whites of his eyes shone clearly as Dances With Wolves raised his rifle, but before he could squeeze the trigger his prey took flight.
Plunging over the side of the wagon, the white man landed awkwardly, buckling his ankle, and Dances With Wolves could have killed him then with a single shot. Instead, he tossed his rifle to the off hand, drew a long-shafted club from his belt, and pressed his pony forward.
Cantering slowly alongside his victim he swung the stone-headed club in a lazy arc and brought it down on the crown of the driver's head. It was a glancing blow, for the skull did not open, but it was enough to knock the man senseless. Ashe crumbled in t-he grass, Dances With Wolves vaulted off his pony, rolled the driver over, and began to peel off his clothes, taking the jacket and shirt first.
He gripped the heel of the man's boot and noticed that a shard of ankle bone had pierced the leather. When he ripped the boot free with a powerful jerk, the man screamed himself awake. In any other circumstance Dances With Wolves would have killed him immediately but the white man was helpless and, wanting nothing more than the remaining boot and trousers, he focused on removing them. The last boot seemed to take forever to pull off, and when he tugged the pants leg over exposed bone the driver screamed once more and tried to crawl away.
Still in no hurry to kill him, Dances With Wolves picked the light cotton jacket off the ground, slipped his arms into the sleeves, and found that it fit perfectly. In turn, he held the shirt and trousers up to his body and was certain they, too, would serve him. He was starting to give the boots a try when he heard White Bear's deep, distinctive voice barking commands.
A few yards away, the driver he had clubbed had apparently gotten back on his feet only to be roped, and he was presently being dragged back to the other wagons by a pair of mounted Kiowa warriors. White Bear was riding alongside the man, striking him over and over with his coupstick.
Beyond them, Dances With Wolves could see the fight was over. Warriors were scampering over the wagons and cutting away the teams. Some were swirling around, still mounted, raucously displaying the scalps they had taken.
The reserve ponies had been brought up and were grouped near the bottom of the hill. He could see Snake In Hands and Always Walking sitting quietly on their ponies, watching the aftermath of victory. Farther up the valley and out of sight he could still hear firing, but now it was intermittent and he wondered if Wind In His Hair had managed to finish off the soldiers.
Whether he had or not, all seemed well and, cradling the driver's outfit, he remounted and trotted back the way he had come. Passing by the scene at the wagons, he saw several mules lying dead in their traces. The bodies of drivers, already stripped and hacked open, were strewn about in the grass. Several of the wagons had been set afire and the flames sent roiling clouds of black smoke skyward.
The bulk of Kiowas had massed at a single wagon. There, two white men, still half-alive, had been tied to separate wheels and were about to be roasted, to the immense satisfaction of the jeering warriors. As the tinder around them was ignited the unlucky white men made plaintive, sobbing cries for mercy and Dances With Wolves, who had not heard a white man speak in many years, was shocked at how well he understood the words. He trotted on to where Snake In Hands and Always Walking were waiting and the three rode back up the slope, intending to push east as fast as possible.
There was no time for good-byes. Everyone knew that Dances With Wolves had but one ambition and that was to rescue his wife and child.
Chapter XXVII
As it turned out, Wind In His Hair came tantalizingly close to wiping out the blue-coated soldiers. Pressed on all sides, their commander had ordered a running retreat, which, by some miracle of fate, carried them straight to a formation of huge boulders at the entrance to the valley. The collection of ancient stones provided a redoubt from which the desperate soldiers were able to keep Wind In His Hair at bay and thus save the lives that for a time looked certain to be lost.
Once the soldiers had dug in, the Comanches, wary of their rifles, had withdrawn beyond range, content to spend the rest of the afternoon drawing the fire of trapped white men in hope that they would deplete their ammunition.
When White Bear and his Kiowas arrived, the leading men went into council to discuss what they might do next. There was talk of charging the soldiers and overrunning them but Wind In His Hair was opposed. Given the cover the soldiers enjoyed, and the steady aim it provided, too many more Comanche warriors might be lost. He had six wounded, two of them badly. A young man on his first raid had been killed, and the body of Left Hand was slung over his pony's back.
The idea of laying siege to the whites was dismissed when it was pointed out that more soldier traffic was sure to be coming down the heavily used road, and at last it was decided to break off the fight. They would pull out quietly an hour after sundown, leaving the soldiers to suffer in suspense through the night.
The war party traveled for many hours before finally making a long halt on the open plains at noon of the next day. Triumphant spirits were still running high and though a few of the exhausted warriors dozed, most sat smoking around a score of fires, recounting all that had happened.
The Kiowas had not lost a single man and had taken thirteen scalps. The Comanches had taken only three, but all belonged to fighting men, and both forces were well satisfied with the proof of their victory.
Conversations returned again and again to the exploits of Smiles A Lot. He had dazzled all who had seen him and was rewarded with first choice of the stolen animals. Among the horses was a slim, all-black gelding. The horse proved exceptionally fast and quick on his feet and Smiles A Lot seemed glued to his back all the way home.
Only one man eclipsed the unlikely hero as a topic of conversation, and he, ironically, had been far out on the plains in the midst of a long afternoon nap when the attack on the corn wagons took place. Nonetheless, it was Owl Prophet's name that was most often on the lips of the warriors as they rode hom
e. It was his prophecy that had led directly to the death of so many whites, to the whipping of the soldiers, and to their own comparatively light losses. Owl Prophet, the warriors agreed over and over, must be an agent of the Great Mystery for his simple instructions had delivered victory and averted disaster.
But no one, not even Owl Prophet himself, could have foretold or guessed or dreamt the depth of the disaster that had, for the time being, been avoided in the place whites called the Great Salt Prairie.
The tiny group of soldiers who passed unmolested before the eyes of Wind In His Hair and White Bear had possessed a prize of incalculable value in the common ambulance they were escorting. Under the canopy of that spartan vehicle, next to the ordinary soldier who was driving, was the chief of every hair-mouthed blue-coat in the United States, the general known as Sherman.
Had Owl Prophet not spoken, General Sherman would surely have been killed — stripped, scalped, and dismembered — and his demise would have provoked total war, bringing the powerful wrath of a united white nation down on the heads of the Kiowas and Comanches with sledgehammer effect.
The man they had spared was taciturn as a stump and bilious in the extreme. It was he who had championed the strategy of "scorched earth" and brought the Confederate States of America to its knees. His face was scarred by battle and his small eyes, by any standard, looked inordinately cruel. It was his unalterable goal that in his presence, politicians should quake, subordinates should tread softly, and commoners, whether soldier or civilian, should be struck dumb with awe. He was the steadiest, most brilliant General of the army the United States had ever produced.
On the fateful morning he had skirted death, General Sherman had said nothing to his lowly companion in the ambulance, because nothing could be said. The country was as desolate as any other on the Texas frontier.
The Holy Road dww-2 Page 18