The pungent smell of gunsmoke, fire, and death filled the air and hung over the valley like a blanket. The heat of the day was waning as the late afternoon sun was starting to drop below the western horizon. The runaway horses had been rounded up and brought back. Most of the slaves had banded together with their own people and were preparing to go home and take their dead with them. What few guards that had surrendered were bound and would be taken to the Indian villages for punishment. Probably better if they had died with their fallen comrades.
Amos Dunn had gotten his people together . They had loaded their wagons and hitched their teams. “This has been one helluva adventure,” Dunn said to Jack. “We’re all in a hurry to get back home. Never going to venture out again, that’s for sure.”
“Don’t blame you none, there,” Jack conceded.
“Still don’t know how to get back,” Dunn said. “Do you suppose you could trail along with us, just one more time?”
Jack smiled thinly, “I wish I could, Amos. But this thing isn’t over yet. I’ve got to try to stop a full scale Indian War.”
“I don’t understand,” Dunn said.
“You don’t need too. It’s my problem. You’re out of it now. I’ll see if White Fawn can find one of her people to help guide you back”. Jack reached out his hand. Amos took it and shook. “Maybe we’ll meet again someday.” Clayton turned and walked away.
White Fawn had told Clayton that Crazy Horse was camping with his warriors and with several other tribes on the Rosebud. Clayton also knew that General Custer was on his way there to engage and annihilate the enemy, unknowing that he was riding into a trap The G-Man needed to get to Crazy Horse in time for White Fawn to explain about the lost sacred stone and persuade him not to attack without his magic. If that didn’t work, he must warn Custer to abandon the mission.
Time was too short to wait for morning, there was still some daylight left and they could travel some in the dark. Pausing only long enough for Clayton to clean his wounds and put on a fresh shirt and hat, Jack Clayton, Francy Jones, White Fawn, and Little Elk rode out of the valley, leaving the others behind to cleanup.
White Fawn led them out of the hills before dark. They continued westward as long as they could before it became too dark to travel. They could not risk a horse stepping into a hole and coming up lame. They made camp for the rest of the night until a couple of hours before dawn when the beginning gray of the sky offered enough light to travel on safely.
On and on, they pushed forward; the sun chasing them into early morning and then beating down on them by noon. By mid afternoon they found themselves just south of the Rosebud River. Here they saw signs of many horses. The turf of the grassy meadows had been cut and churned by the steel of horseshoes and also the signs of many more unshod ponies’ hooves. Obviously, there had been both soldiers and Indians here recently. Jack felt disheartened and glum. It was beginning to look like they were too late. With pangs of guilt and regret, he pushed on heading north following the signs.
A short while later, they brought their mounts to a halt at the top of a knoll and gazed out across an open meadow below at the sight before them. Jack’s stomach wretched and turned and he could taste bile rising in his throat. Francy and White Fawn lowered their heads and looked away. Little Elk cringed.
On the other side of the meadow, they could see The Little Big Horn River, running red with blood. The meadow itself was strewn with bodies of soldiers. Two or three hundred, Jack estimated. Probably, Custer’s entire troop. Arrows protruded from their twisted bodies. Bloody dried heads attracted an army of flies as they buzzed about, feeding off their scalped skulls. One body had been mutilated and desecrated so bad with a plethora of arrows piercing his body like a pin cushion. He had been shot many times and his ears cut off. The blood soaked buckskin jacket the man wore identified him as the leader of the troop; George Custer himself. The heat of the day was already causing the stench of death to fill the air. Clayton had not seen such brutal carnage since the War Between the States.
The G-Man swallowed hard. They had been too late. The conspirators in Washington had succeeded with this part of their plan. This would bring on full scale war against the Sioux and it would not cease until they had all been killed or forced onto a reservation. The Black Hills would become government land, and soon the white man would legally be over running the sacred lands.
They had all seen enough. Too much. Time to ride on. Jack reined Regret around to ride on westward. Without saying a word the others followed until Clayton drew up abruptly, pointed toward a ridge to the west.
There, sitting astride their ponies, apparently admiring their handy work below in the meadow, hundreds of warriors, lined side by side, dotted the ridge, their painted bodies gleaming in the sunlight and the feathered war bonnets of the chieftains flowing in the wind.
White Fawn reined her horse to a halt beside Jack. “Crazy Horse. The one in the center.”
Jack focused on the one she pointed to, his eyes squinting against the sun, wondering if they would be attacked. “Think they will attack us?” Jack asked.
White Fawn swallowed hard and said with reluctance and fear, “I will ride ahead and talk to him. I will tell him all that has happened and ask him to spare you. I betrayed him. It is I he should want to punish.” With that said, she slapped the reins to her horse, kicked him in the ribs and rode to the ridge.
“What are the chances, Jack?” Francy asked quietly, as she pulled up alongside of the G-Man.
He said nothing at first, then, “I don’t know.” He said resolutely. “We wait and see.”
White Fawn rode to the top of the ridge, halting her mount in front of Crazy Horse. Jack and Francy waited, impatiently, watching for signs of danger to the Indian girl. The minutes, dragged on. White Fawn was still talking to the chief and he was still listening.
Minute after agonizing minute crawled by, the sun burning hotter in their faces and starting to blot out the scene before them. Then, with sudden movement and milling about, White Fawn moved her horse to the left and turned to face her companions below. With the sun in their eyes, they could barely see her arms waving. Was she motioning them forward? Or a warning to go back?
Then it looked as if Crazy Horse had ridden his horse to her side. He raised his spear high in the air, waved it back and forth and then pitched it blade first into the ground, coup and feathers from the shaft moving in the breeze of the afternoon.
“I hope this is an invitation,” Jack said and prodded Regret forward. Francy and Little Elk followed obediently.
Slowly and steadily, they rode forward. No action was being taken. So far, so good. Closer and closer they rode until finally they drew to a halt directly in front of Crazy Horse and White Fawn. Clayton raised his arm, holding his palm open in a sign of peace. “We come in peace, Crazy Horse. We were not part of what happened here today and we regret that we were too late to prevent this.”
“White Fawn tells me that you speak truth. You are True Arrow.”
“Yes, Chief. I am your friend. And I tell you true, that not all whites are your enemies. But some are evil, just as you find some evil ones in your own tribes. The bad whites are responsible for what happened here today and I will try to bring them to justice.” Jack said.
“I believe you speak truth, True Arrow. But it is too late.” He pointed to sea of bodies below. “We are finished. We have lost.”
Clayton was astonished at these words. Chief Crazy Horse knew full well that what appeared to be a victory was only the beginning of defeat. “More soldiers will come like a horde of grasshoppers in the wind. We will fight and we will die.”
“You are a wise chief,” the G-Man said. “Crazy Horse speaks truth. Perhaps, it best to not fight.”
“I must,” The chief said flatly. “I will continue to the end.”
“You know the sacred stone is gone? You will no longer be protected.”
“White Fawn has told me about the stone.” Crazy Horse said without sadness.
>
“You will not punish her?”
“No. She was obedient to her man. White Fawn is good woman. The stone was not what protected me, but the belief that it did. As long as I believed I could not die, I would not. But now it is time to fight as any other man.” The chief explained.
“I admire Crazy Horse’s wisdom and courage,” Clayton said, “But I ask you to give it up before more blood is shed.”
“It must be.” Crazy Horse stated.
“Then you will die. You know that.” Jack pleaded.
“Yes,” answered the chief. “And when I die, it will be a good day to die.”
Nightime had come and the full moon rode high in the sky. Jack and Francy had been on the trail now for three hours on their way back to Omaha where, according to Francy, Rutherford B. Hayes would be waiting for them. They had left Little Elk and White Fawn far behind them now. The moon reflected off the dew covered grass, turning the trail into a shimmering silvery glow. They rode steadily eastward toward the distant horizon; two RIDERS OF THE SILVER TRAIL.
Jack Clayton will return
In
RIDERS OF THE SILVER TRAIL.
Death Rides the Black Hills: A Frontier G-Man Novel Page 24
