Michael Blake - The Holy Road

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 the 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.

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.