The Cheyenne Appear

Pony stood. The blanket slipped from his shoulders.

You can go where you please lootenant. But the goods stay here. With us.

Baker stopped. He dropped the pack saddle.

Do you intend to stop me? Are you going to shoot me?

Pony laughed.

Won’t be necessary. He pulled a skinning knife from his waistband and let it drop to the ground. It made a metallic sound and spun like wheel as Pony advanced on Baker. The lieutenant unbuckled the belt that held his revolver. He folded the worn leather carefully and laid the weapon down.

At ten paces Pony let out a whoop and bull-rushed Baker, who raised his fists. Pony felt the pop of two left jabs, straightened up, wiped a sudden gout of blood from his right nostril.

Yessir, he whispered.

He feinted left and attacked with a looping right that found only air. Pony swung again and again, Baker slipping the blows.

You son of a bitch, Pony said. The right side of his face took on a crimson glow, swollen around the closing eye.

Let me know when you’ve had your fill, said Baker.

Pony made ready to launch himself again, but stopped when he saw Catcher stand. He followed the Indian’s gaze to a rise in the main trail leading to the fort.

Four riders appeared in the distance, emerging from the glow of early morning light. Two carried lances upright, feathers twirling. Behind them a pall of dust hung like a curtain; the village of Little Wound approached.

Eighty lodges on the move: 120 men of fighting age, 300 women, children and old ones. These came in a long line, outriders flanking. Pony herd too, dotted with mules and big American stock, a few blooded sprinters.

     A half mile away the women, children and elderly broke out of formation and began to set lodges; many of the warriors rode forward, singing, an impromptu show of strength for the living and deceased, spirits yet residing. Loved ones. Enemies. So many lives.