William Johnstone - Butchery of the Mountain Man

Between the entrance to the lodge and the fire pit, where the stones are heated, is an altar upon which is often placed an animal skull atop a post. At the base of the post is a small raised earthen altar upon which are placed other items of significance, such as sage, grass, feathers, and, always, a pipe.

While subjecting themselves to heat intense enough to cause a sweat, the participant asks for such things as knowledge, power, courage, and endurance.

It is not at all unusual that Whips His Horses would have gone to the sweat lodge to seek such assistance as he searched for John Jackson.—ED. ]

“We will find Liver Eater, this I know, for I was told this in a vision,” Whips His Horses said.

The nineteen other men of the Big Dog Warrior Society who were with Whips His Horses became very excited, not only because Whips His Horses had shared his vision with them, but also because success seemed so assured. They began painting their bodies for the war party.

At the adobe cabin

Smoke and John had reached the cabin the day before. After they located a safe place for their horses that night, they brought into the little cabin everything they might need to withstand a prolonged siege. They filled two big earthen vessels, found in the cabin, with water from the creek. They had all their food, as well as what ammunition they had.

“If there is no set-piece battle, I think we are in an advantageous enough position to be able to defeat the Indians by attrition, if need be,” John said.

There were two windows in front of the cabin, one on each side of the door. There was at least one window on all the other sides of the cabin, but it seemed unlikely that any Indian would approach them from the back, as the cabin was built so close to a sheer wall of a cliff, that there was no room for them to maneuver.

They had slept in shifts during the night, and now, early in the morning, Smoke stepped outside. That was when he saw a large dark mass advancing slowly out of the gray dawn. He realized at once that it was the Indians.

At almost the same moment he saw them, the Indians saw him, and a loud, collective war whoop emerged from their throats. They began riding toward the cabin, their horses thundering across the ground.

“John, here they come!” Smoke shouted at the top of his voice.

On came the Indians, their horses leaping, gliding over obstacles, the half-naked, painted bodies of the warriors shining in the first brilliant rays of the morning sun.

“Get in here!” John shouted, holding the door open.

Smoke dashed in through the door, then it was closed and bolted.

Smoke hurried to his window and looked outside. At that precise moment one of the Indians had ridden all the way up to the building. Smoke shot him, his bullet striking the Indian just under his left eye, killing him instantly.

The Indians greatly outnumbered the two defenders and, perhaps because they had such superior numbers, they were overconfident, and foolishly bold. They would ride all the way up to the walls of the building, then lean over and try to shoot through the windows, or they would dismount and run up to try and force the door open. Because of such foolish activity, they were making themselves very easy targets, and Smoke and John were cutting them down like a scythe through wheat.

The Indians withdrew, dragging their dead and wounded back with them. After what had been a thunderous roar of gunfire for nearly half an hour, there was absolute silence.

“You said only one man would be here. There are two,” Swift Hawk, one of the Indians, said, protesting to Whips His Horses. “Where is your medicine?” He pointed to the dead and dying. “Do you see that your medicine does not work?”

“My medicine is strong,” Whips His Horses insisted. “We will go again!”

“Here they come!” John said.

The Indians came again, three abreast this time, galloping through the dust, shouting and whooping their war cries. Again they charged all the way up to the little cabin The Indians fired from horseback, shooting arrows and bullets toward the open windows. Two of them jumped down from their horses and tried to force the door open by hitting against it with the butts of their rifles.

Again, the marksmanship of Smoke and John was deadly, and riderless horses whirled and retreated, leaving their riders dead or dying on the ground behind them.

“Damn,” John said. “Is this to be ngôi nhà trang trai , again?”

“The Nogy what?”

“You remember, I told you about the business in Annam?”

“Oh, yes. Well, there the army came just in time,” Smoke said. “We’re on our own, here.” He chuckled.

“Yeah, I guess we are,” John replied with a laugh. “The problem is, just like at the fight at ngôi nhà trang trai , I’m running out of ammunition.”

“How much do you have left?”

“Five rounds for the rifle. Two rounds for the pistol. How about you?”

“I’m not much better. Three rifle rounds, one pistol is empty, four rounds in the other.”

Throughout the rest of the day the Indians attacked several more times. But they prefaced each attack with loud screeches and war whoops, and that enabled Smoke and John to be ready for them. They made every shot count.

“If we can just hold on until dark, maybe they’ll go away,” John suggested. “I’ve heard that Indians don’t like to fight in the dark.”

“They may not attack, but that doesn’t mean they are going to go away,” Smoke said.

Smoke was right. The Indians didn’t go away, and all night long Smoke and John—who took turns sleeping just in case—could hear singing, and see the campfires.

“I wonder how long they’ll stay?” John asked.

“Hard to say,” Smoke answered. “How many rounds do you have now?”

“Two. What about you?”

“One pistol round, one round in the Henry.”

“Damn.”

The next morning the Indians had pulled back, and were now milling around on top of a hill. They were making no attempt to conceal themselves, because they were well out of range.

“Bold bunch of bastards, aren’t they?” Smoke asked.

John had a pair of binoculars and he used them to study the Indians, only one of whom was mounted.

“I’ll be damn,” John said.

“What is it?”

“The Indian on the horse. Take a look at him. Look at his face. Do you see the black and red vertical lines on his cheek?”

“Yes.”

“Claire pointed that out to me when we visited Iron Bull’s camp. That means this man is the leader.”

“Is he now?”

“I wonder if we killed him . . .”

“Would the others leave?” Smoke finished.

“It’s worth a try.”

Smoke looked at him. “That’s a hell of a long shot. Six or seven hundred yards, easily.”

“But if we both shot at the same time?”

“I’ve only got one rifle round left,” Smoke said.

“Then, one of us had better hit him,” John suggested.

“Wait,” Smoke said. “I’m going to try a trick Preacher showed me once. It might improve our chances of hitting him. But it’s all or nothing, because if we miss, we are going to be in a bad fix.”

“What do you have in mind?” John asked.

Smoke took out the bullet from his pistol, and the one from his rifle. Then he separated the two bullets from their casings. Looking down into the rifle casing, he saw that there was room to add more powder. He filled the rifle casing the rest of the way, with powder from the pistol casing.

“Good idea,” John said, and he did the same thing, combining the powder from two bullets into one.