Michael Blake - The Holy Road

When the slow-moving prize finally disappeared from sight a scout from the east pounded in with the exciting news that a second group of white men, the group Owl Prophet said they would be successful in attacking, had taken the road.

Perhaps twenty white soldiers were in the lead, followed by a dozen big wagons driven by hair-mouths. Each wagon was filled with yellow cargoes of corn and in the rear a herd of fifteen good horses was being tended by only three blue-coated soldiers.

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.