That night their scouts came in with reports that Ned had reached Fort Ellis late in the afternoon with his troop of fifty, and two wagons carrying supplies. The men were camped within the walls of the fort.
New scouts were sent out to observe the progress of the advance the following day. The troop should be approaching their position by early afternoon. In council that night Adam and his men went over the details of their battle plan, assigning positions to their defenses, discussing alternative options should Ned’s attack begin to outflank them, trying to anticipate any contingency in the coming assault. And after considerable discussion, satisfied they’d considered all possibilities, they all wrapped themselves in their robes and slept. Tomorrow would be a violent day of reckoning, a bloody day to count coup.18
An order from Governor Smith only recently arrived at Fort Ellis turned out to be of great service to Ned Storham’s mission. Since regular army troops were finally being sent into the territory, the governor had ordered his militiamen to muster out. In the official order the governor sent the volunteers the “heartfelt thanks and gratitude of the people of Montana.”
When the order was read, the disgruntled troops felt that something more tangible than “heartfelt thanks” was due them. They’d been promised Indian booty, and during the summer campaign no profitable plunder had ever materialized. During the course of the evening, over several five-gallon kegs of whiskey, Ned was able to capitalize on their displeasure. He offered the men who’d just lost their new six-month contracts an opportunity for better wages than the territorial government allowed, as well as the lucrative prospect of real Indian plunder. The Absarokee bands in Aspen Valley were prosperous, with large herds of horses, and Ned Storham promised the militiamen all the loot they could find.
At midmorning Adam’s scouts galloped into camp, their horses lathered, their news alarming. Ned Storham had crossed Willow Creek with two hundred armed men.
Everyone worked furiously, throwing up stronger defenses, adding height to their breastworks, digging in, moving some of the horses back into a small canyon for protection. There was no point in falling back to a better position, for no other defensive point existed between the bluffs and Aspen Valley. And there wasn’t enough time to send for help.
Additional scouts were sent out to gather information on the movements of Ned’s troop. And then they readied themselves for battle, stripping down to moccasins and leggings, painting themselves for war, calling on their medicine and spirits to aid them against their enemies. Weapons were loaded, cartridge belts strapped on, sheath knives adjusted, ponies accoutred with battle tack—rifle scabbards, pistol mounts. And then they waited.
The small army came into view over a distant rise early in the afternoon, riding in two columns, the sun glinting off their weapons, the sound of men’s voices distinct in the open country. As they came closer, Adam’s men sighted-in their rifles, fingers ready on the trigger, calmly holding their fire until the front ranks had passed and the middle of the first column was within range. Ned didn’t ride as a leader would at the front of his men; he was well protected at the rear. But they couldn’t wait until the entire column had passed, and at Adam’s command forty rifles exploded in a deadly volley, white, acrid smoke and flame bursting from the breastworks, the Winchester lever-action five-shot pouring a withering fire into the columns. Men toppled from their saddles, horse after horse went down, and the column disintegrated in a confused melee as the troops bolted for cover, falling back to the protection of the two wagons that had stopped halfway down the slope.
At the pandemonium and turmoil the Absarokee warriors sprang onto their war ponies and took the offensive, charging down the bluff, their war cry screaming into the blue sky, their rifles cracking. With Adam in the lead, they rode through the troopers and plunging horses, shooting, striking the enemy down with their war clubs, slaughtering dozens more as they ripped through the scattered withdrawal. Then, wheeling and lashing their ponies, they turned and swept back over the battleground to pick up their wounded.
Dust from the horses’ hooves and gunpowder swirled in clouds, bullets cut the air, struck the ground, glanced off to whine away as the warriors galloped back to pull their injured up behind them. Dead, dying, wounded troopers lay on the ground, slain and injured horses littered the grassy plain, the squeals of the animals, the cries and moans of the men rising through the dust into the sun-filled sky.
The first assault was over.
After saving their wounded the Absarokee dashed back to their defenses on the bluff to assess the damage, the strength remaining to their enemy, to themselves. Only four of their warriors had been wounded, none seriously—a favorable portent to men whose medicine was their very life. And settling in behind their breastworks, they directed an unwavering rifle fire at the troopers barricaded behind the wagons.
No one had recognized Ned in the tumult. Was he still alive? Had he fled? Who was directing the defense? But when a fresh assault surged from behind the wagons and raced over the bloody field to press forward up the bluff, it was clear he was still in charge. No one with any experience in battle would have attacked the well-fortified position without superior inducement.
Deadly fire rained down on the luckless force, and more dead and mortally wounded sprawled at the base of the grassy bluff as the assault floundered and then collapsed.
As the afternoon wore on, with the Absarokee sharpshooters picking off any man who occasionally raised his head, concern rose that Ned might have sent back to Fort Ellis for reinforcements. Everything seemed too quiet, unearthly and hushed under the warm sun.
“I say they’re waiting for reinforcements,” Adam said, lightly stroking the knife handle at his waist.
“Or for dark, so they can retreat,” James commented.
“Only to come back some other way, some other time,” Adam said with disgust, gazing over their breastworks at the battlefield below.
“But if Storham didn’t send for reinforcements,” James added, “we could circle around them in the dark and finish them off.”
“We can’t wait that long. By that time they could have emptied out Fort Ellis and be here with another army.” Restless against the inactivity, wanting to accelerate the conflict and put a final end to Ned Storham’s intrusion into his life, Adam said, “I’m riding down to draw them out.”
Although an act of extraordinary daring and bravery, such exploits weren’t uncommon among the tribes of the northern plains, where individual courage and counting coup were the path to a chieftain’s position. Adam had been a chief at twenty, and from his youth his medicine had been strong. Nothing could harm him.
For war parties warriors donned only light shirts and leggings, with all bright colors hidden away. But they carried dress clothing in parfleche boxes for their victorious return into their village. Taking his brightly ornamented clothing from his rawhide box, Adam adorned himself in full regalia: fringed and beaded shirt ornamented with ermine tails and scalp hair; beaded leggings with wolf tails at his heels; a bear-claw necklace; two eagle feathers tied in his hair, although had he been vain, he could have worn one for each of his many coups.19
Taking out his beaded mirror case, he added some ocher paint to his face, checked to see that his medicine bundle was tightly tied to a small lock of hair braided behind his left ear, and after talking quietly to his war pony, who would be carrying him past his enemies, he mounted. Sliding his Winchester out of its scabbard, he rode out from behind the breastworks and cantered down to the open plain below, riding straight at the barricaded wagons until he was within easy rifle range.
Then he turned his horse, raised his rifle high as if defying his enemies to harm him, and rode past their defenses through a rain of bullets, his beautiful beaded clothing sparkling in the sun, the eagle feathers streaming out behind him, his pony light-footed and swift over the grassy plain—untouched, protected by his medicine.
He heard Ned’s screaming orders for his men to fire, he hea
rd the rifle reports and whine of bullets around him, the cries of Ned’s men who’d made themselves targets for the Absarokee, rising in anguish above the chaotic uproar. Then shots rang out from the bluffs behind the troopers, a frenzied round of firing, rapid-fire repeaters, and his mind distinguished the new, distinct sound amid the din of rifle fire.
Wheeling his mount, he galloped past the wagons again, his dark hair flowing in the wind, the leather fringe and ermine tails on his sleeves swinging, the blue figure on his shield mocking target to his enemies. As if he were a ghostly specter, no bullet touched him, and racing back up the hill, his war pony soared over the breastworks, coming to a plunging stop with faultless precision.
Springing from his pony, Adam dropped down between Standing Lance and James and, gazing at the bluffs behind the wagons, said, “Where are those repeaters?”
James pointed to the rise south of Ned’s defenses where a steady firing was demolishing the troopers’ exposed flank. “To the left … halfway up that bluff. They’re picking off the troopers like flies.”
“Damn her,” Adam said, squinting into the sun. “She came.” But he was smiling.
“I’d say Flora brought along a little help, too, from the sounds of those rifles. Look at what’s left of Ned’s hired guns. They’re in a panic.”
The shots were brutally on target, Ned’s men completely unprotected from the south. As the deadly fire poured down, Adam unconsciously counted the rounds, the trenchant whine of bullets reechoing through the valley. At fifty he stripped off his beaded shirt and said with a faint smile, “Are we ready to mount up and finish this off?”
By the time the Absarokee came pouring down the hill short moments later, the troopers were in full retreat, fleeing from the lethal fire, streaming east toward the safety of Fort Ellis. Leading his men in pursuit, Adam paused a second at the wagons to survey the carnage, looking for Ned Storham. A quick glance at the dead and dying sufficed for him to realize his enemy still survived, and, quirting his pony into a gallop, Adam rode after the man whose rapacious greed had precipitated all the bloodshed.
He had forty miles before Fort Ellis to overtake Ned and kill him. Automatically glancing up at the sun, he gauged the time. Four more hours until dark. Raising his arm in salute to Flora, he pounded east.
Flora watched from the heights as the Absarokee scattered across the plains in full pursuit and Adam, galloping west, whipped his pony to more speed.
The late-afternoon sun bathed the plains in a golden glow, an idyllic, gilded landscape—radiant, lovely, deceptive tinsel over a bloody battlefield.
Then her hand went to her mouth in terror as she saw the head and shoulders of a man slowly rise from a coulee ahead of Adam, his rifle barrel sigh ting-in on his target. “Adam!” she screamed in warning. “Adam!”
Adam didn’t hear her distant cry, but he caught the glint of the rifle barrel from the corner of his eye a fraction of a second before the weapon fired. Pressing his pony sharply left in an attempt to avoid the shot, Adam felt his horse stagger, slide, then fall as the bullet struck its chest. He hit the ground hard and rolled, bullets kicking up dirt around him. Diving for cover behind his dead pony, he flattened himself into the ground and reached for his Navy Colt. When he’d hit the ground, he’d lost his rifle, so whoever was shooting at him would have to come closer—within handgun range.
He lay perfectly still, waiting.
Flora was in the saddle a flashing moment after she saw Adam go down; the reins to her father’s horse slipped through her fingers a second later, and before any of her party could stop her, she was spurring her mount down toward the valley below.
Swearing, the earl scrambled to follow his foolhardy daughter, vaulting onto the nearest mount. Henry’s bay curvetted at the sudden strange weight on its back, and George Bonham swore again as he struggled to bring the animal under control. Precious seconds were lost before he followed Flora down the steep slope, Alan and Douglas close behind him.
Adam saw her coming, a small, boyish figure in trousers, her dark copper hair gleaming in the afternoon sun, wind-tossed with her braid coming loose, her long tresses whipping behind her as she rode full out down the hill, brave as any warrior. He smiled at her fearless courage, offered a swift prayer to his spirits to protect her, and then leaped up to draw the fire of his assailant before Flora came into range of the rifle leveled at him.
“No-o-o-o!” she screamed, the terror-stricken sound reaching him as he raced toward the coulee, his knife in one hand, his Colt revolver in the other.
Ned rose out of the coulee, his bulk outlined against the blue sky, his sights aimed at Adam, his smile wicked with triumph as he pulled the trigger.
Adam stumbled as a .44 round tore into his shoulder, half fell to his knees as his brain absorbed the shocking impact of the corrosive pain. Catching himself with his knife hand before he dropped fully to the ground, he forced himself upright again, enduring the staggering agony with clenched teeth, commanding his legs to move by sheer force of will. Another few yards and he’d have Ned within pistol range. Under optimum conditions, even from this distance, standing utterly still with his hand steadied, he could pick his entry point, but since that option wasn’t available, he needed to advance another dozen yards before he could fire. “I am an Absarokee,” he silently murmured. “I have the heart of a grizzly. I am an Absarokee.” The litany of his adolescence resonated through his brain, clearing his mind, calming him as his moccasined feet flew over the ground. He could see Ned’s cruel smile now. Ten more yards. Eight.
And then the second bullet hit him.
He couldn’t see out of his left eye when he aimed his Colt, blood suddenly obscuring his vision, so he swiftly adjusted for the discrepancy, aiming slightly more to the left, and emptied his pistol into Ned Storham’s smiling face.
Sinking to his knees in languid slow motion, he waited for Ned to drop.
He did, falling out of sight into the coulee.
Flora reached Adam’s side moments after he crumpled to the ground, and barely conscious, he warned her, “Go … Ned … you have to get … away.” His voice trailed off, no more than a wisp of sound on the vast, open prairie. His eyelids drifted downward and he sank into darkness.
Flora had no thought for danger or Ned Storham as she knelt over Adam’s body; she was only thankful Adam still lived. With a discerning gaze she scanned his bloodstained form. How dangerous were his wounds, how deep or lethal? Had any arteries been severed? His shoulder looked as though an animal had torn it with its teeth, the flesh mangled and ripped, blood covering his torso, his leggings discolored where the red liquid seeped under his waistband. His head wound looked worse; the entire left side of his head and face were smeared with rivers of crimson, his hair soaked from the seepage.
Bending over, she placed her ear on his chest and, breath held, waited to hear a heartbeat. A terror-stricken moment passed before the faint sound reached her ear, and despite his imperiled position from the devastating wounds, she smiled.
His heartbeat was steady.
Nothing else mattered.
At her father’s arrival minutes later, she looked up. “Adam’s alive. Find Ned Storham,” she quickly said. “He’s wounded or dead.” Clear-headed, succinct, concerned with protecting Adam from further harm, she pointed to the coulee. “Over there.”
Leaping from the saddle, her father ran toward the rim of the coulee, with Alan and Douglas in his wake. Ripping through Henry’s saddlebags, Flora found the basic first-aid kit Henry always carried, and taking some bandages out, she tried to stanch the flow of blood from Adam’s wounds.
She would be scrupulous in the care of his wounds so they didn’t become infected, she promised in silent entreaty, as if some spirit might gauge her vigilance before determining Adam’s future. She’d see that he ate and slept and did nothing strenuous, she pledged. She’d try to be more humble and go to church, she added for the Christian gods, who rewarded humbleness and church attendance. She promised
offerings to the spirits to propitiate the Absarokee gods. And she’d take care not to overstep any mystical boundaries, she compliantly affirmed, recalling the story of a Lakota chief who’d died in battle because he’d accepted food from an iron object and angered his spirits.
Just let him live, she silently pleaded. His stillness was frightening, the awesome power of his body suspended, as if his life lay in the balance. “I’ll do anything,” she whispered as she knelt over his inert form, the blood seeping through the bandage pressed to his shoulder wound, ominous in its unceasing flow.
She wanted to hold back the fluid draining his life away, she wanted to restore the mangled flesh and have him whole again. She wanted Ned Storham to pay for his unholy greed, her hatred so powerful in her grief that even if he was already dead, she wanted to kill him again.
It would always be like this, she unhappily thought as she knelt beside the man she loved, their forms minuscule on the rolling expanse of prairie. In a state where newspaper headlines screamed Wipe Out the Indians, Adam would continually be defending his land and his people. And she’d always be wondering if the next bullet was going to take him from her.
But please, God, not this time, she prayed, her tears falling onto the widening stain of blood on the cloth under her hand.
“Cryin’ a whole damned river ain’t gonna help him.”
She knew who it was from the sneer in his voice, and leaping up, she lunged for the pistol in her saddle holster.
“Gonna get yerself killed,” Ned said, cocking the hammer on his pistol, his hand steady as he leveled at her. “Now, just step away from that dead Injun real slow and move over here.”
Sensible of the threat to Adam, she obeyed his raspy command, moving several feet away from Adam’s sprawled body. Standing where he was, Ned was too distant to see Adam’s faint breathing, Flora gratefully reflected, but she’d prefer he not come closer. “You’re being tracked,” she said, hoping to pressure him into leaving. “Three men are on your trail.”
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